Life After Loss

Today is Jack’s birthday. It’s gut-wrenching and almost impossible to believe that it has been a year without Jack.

This year was supposed to look so different. We should be planning his first birthday party—picking out a cake, wrapping presents, and watching him smash frosting with tiny hands. Instead, we are walking through the awkward and painful question of how to celebrate and mourn a life that was supposed to be here with us.

This has been the hardest year of my life, and life has not always been easy. But I can say without hesitation that I would take every challenge life has ever brought if it meant holding him just a little longer—spending one more day together.

After losing a child, it feels impossible to imagine getting through even a single day—let alone an entire year. This year has moved in ways I can’t quite explain, both painfully slow and impossibly fast. I’ve blinked, hoping to wake from a nightmare, and found myself walking through some of the darkest valleys. 

And yet, each morning I rise, whisper a prayer of thanks to God for the day I’ve been given, clinging to the promise that His mercies are new every morning and His faithfulness continues even here. I look at my family and hold onto the quiet reassurance that somehow, it’s going to be okay.

My heart aches for Jack every single day. Learning how to carry both happiness and grief has been overwhelming.

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were talking in the car about Jack, about grief, and about our IVF journey. For the first time since losing him, I said out loud that I felt happy—that I was happy. The words felt unfamiliar, almost wrong, as they left my mouth.

Losing a child doesn’t just break your heart; it reshapes it. You begin to wonder if you’re even allowed to feel joy. What does happiness mean without Jack here?

Another loss mom I follow shared something that has stayed with me: grief doesn’t stop your heart—it stretches it. It stretches your heart wide enough to hold both sorrow and joy at the same time. It’s the quiet tension of living in a moment you can enjoy, while still wishing someone was there to share it. Family pictures, dinners, vacations, birthday parties—all of it carries that ache.

But I choose to believe that Jack is full of life and joy in Heaven. And I believe he would want us to live fully here on earth until the day we are together again.

Jack’s birthday is March 28th, and deciding how to honor it has been incredibly hard. It feels wrong to celebrate, but it also feels wrong to mourn.

I find myself wondering what color his eyes would be. Would his hair be blonde like his sister’s or brown like mine? What would his laugh sound like? Would he be just as obsessed with his dad as his sister is, or would he have been a mama’s boy?

Those thoughts take my breath away, because I know I won’t get to find out.

But what I do know is this: Jack will forever be celebrated, forever loved, and forever missed—every single day.

Happy first birthday in Heaven, sweet boy. Today we celebrate, honor, and remember you. Your life was brief, but your light will shine forever.