Grief changed her, love keeps her moving, and every step still says his name, Drew. A year has passed since she had to say goodbye to her son, and that single date, October 10, 2021, split her life into a before and after. She and her husband learned they were expecting their fourth child on their tenth anniversary, but complications shadowed the pregnancy.
Their baby, Drew, grew well, yet her body struggled. When labor started too early, fear became real. At the hospital, she felt brushed off instead of cared for. Drew was born in a triage room, and soon after, he died. She went home with empty arms to tell her children their brother wouldn’t be coming home, that he was safe with Jesus. She listed the things he’d never do: first steps, words, and little hands tugging at “mommy.” Life didn’t pause for her grief. She still had to cook meals, change diapers, and read bedtime stories. People said, “Be strong for the kids,” but loss had melted her strength.
Her children’s hugs helped, even though it’s not a burden any child should carry. She wanted them to learn that grieving was allowed, that tears can be honest and kind. The first months after Drew’s death were hazy. Holidays arrived as if nothing had changed, but everything had. On Christmas, she finally spoke with her grandmother, who had been isolated by illness and the pandemic. They shared love and tears, and a little over a month later, her grandmother died too. The one person who had always steadied her was gone.
Two losses layered over each other, and some nights she sobbed in the dark with no one to call. She felt unseen, even by people who wished they understood. It was one of the loneliest feelings she’d ever known. In the spring, she decided to speak up. She started a blog and then went on Instagram live with an organization that advocates for tiny preemies. Telling Drew’s story out loud cracked something open. She noticed how much of herself she’d lost trying to meet others’ expectations. After Drew died, people’s opinions mattered less; telling the truth mattered more.
Some friendships loosened, and some new ones formed. That’s common after loss. When a baby dies, many people fall silent or say the wrong thing. The quiet could be louder than words. She chose to keep close only those who made room for her grief and recognized Drew as a person, not just a sad chapter. As his first birthday approached, the anniversary of his death, her body remembered him. She needed a way to honor him, so she planned cupcakes with her family, a small decoration at his grave, and the color blue, like the hydrangeas she’d picked for his flowers, because she wanted joy linked to his name.
She gently asked her online community to wear blue that day. At 5:45 a.m., she lit a candle. Before coffee, photos began arriving: strangers and friends-of-friends in blue for Drew. She cried through the day, overwhelmed that so many cared. In her daily life, though, only a few relatives and one friend reached out.
She shares this not to shame anyone, but to help two groups: parents in grief who feel alone, and friends who wonder what to do. Check in, she says. Anniversaries matter. Doing life does not equal “all better.” She believes grief should be easier to talk about. If we can discuss complex topics openly, we can do the same with the loss. She leans on God and the unexpected kindness of an online community. For anyone grieving, she suggests finding people who could walk beside you, nearby or online. Grief is not a quick fix; it’s a long-term process. Your grief is yours alone, but your path doesn’t have to be lonely. A year on, she was doing the best she could.
She thinks of her son and her grandmother every day. She was learning to grow around the ache, to let hope in again. She even ran a 5k in Drew’s memory. She believes her loved ones are close, just in the next room, and she wants to live in a way that would make them proud.
