Ten Years: A Letter to My Past Self

Dear sweet, innocent, past self, 

You will not believe where life has taken us and what life has taken from us. If I stood in front of you today, my most innocent self that doesn’t know that healthy babies can die for no reason at all, and told you our story of child loss and grief, you would probably cower in fear of the pain we are about to experience, and you would be so right to do so.

You will not think it possible for us to have endured all that we have suffered from.

But, we have. When it happened, we couldn’t see how we could survive ten days, and now here we are, writing you from ten years away. 

If I could tell myself anything during the early days, it would be to look after yourself. When your child dies the very fundamental foundation of your being shifts. Nothing will ever be as it was, and it will seem like you have been swallowed into a bottomless pit where your body is in a constant dark free fall. You’re just trying to survive when the world has been taken from under you.  It is difficult to focus on much.

We won’t remember much from those early days. I think it’s a survival instinct so that our post-traumatic riddled brain can’t bring us back there at will. Those first few weeks will be wrought with chaos. We won’t know up from down. The skin under our eyes will be raw from crying. Our cheeks will literally scab over from the assault of the salty tears constantly flowing over them. Our body will be exhausted from the physical toll of childbirth. We will bleed for weeks. Our breasts will ache from the milk our body mistakenly made for a baby that has died. Each drop will be a painful reminder of all that we’ve lost. We will experience loss and heartbreak and will encounter them over and over again. We will wonder why becoming a mother is so hard for us when it seems to be so easy for others. We will learn to hate our body all over again for its betrayal. We will look in the mirror and see the weapon that killed our baby, and we will struggle with that for the rest of our life because of what that awful doctor will tell us. We will question whether a living child will ever be our reality.  

The days, weeks, and months that follow should be about us: discovering who we are, and what we’ll become. A lot will change in the years ahead. We will become a mother to two more children. It will take a lot of patience and understanding to bring them into the world. But they will be everything we ever dreamed of. Our marriage will end. We are not the same person we were before. We will learn to honour our feelings and in turn, will learn to accept ourselves better.

In the early days, there will be people who walked this path before us that reach out, who will try to tell us about our future selves and how we will never get over the pain but we will grow around it until it becomes a steady part of who we are. We won’t believe them. We’ll feel angry that they dare think we won’t exist in despair for eternity over the loss of our dear baby girl. We will think there is no way they could have loved their baby as much as we loved ours. They couldn’t possibly come back from this level of grief if they did.  It will be years before we can see that happening in ourselves, and we will morph into the one reaching out to other mothers just beginning this journey. We will try to tell them about their future selves. We will remember those women before us and how they tried to give us hope that we could endure, and try to be that for the ones coming after us. 

We will find ways to honour our sweet Everlee every day. She will be woven into the fabric of our being. She will be the lens through which we see the world. We will become our own strength. 

There may be others to help us, but we will lose many friends along the way who just can’t deal with us settling into our grief. People we thought would support us in our time of need will disappear. Some will betray us. Others still will run from our battered soul in fear and horror. The ones that matter stay, but we will learn that we are our only guarantee in life.

There are days when this will feel incredibly isolating, and there are days when this will empower us.

And then when we are ten years away from her loss, we will sit in front of our computer screen and write a letter to that dear sweet innocent version of ourself. We will reflect on where we have been. Where we have come from. Where we are going. And for the first time since the world fell from beneath our feet, we will truly know that we have survived.

We will not be the same. Ever. We will be better, in a tragic kind of way. Our daughter’s life will make us love more deeply, understand pain more fully, and embrace life because of its impermanence.

We survive.

Your future self.



There’s going to be an empty desk in a classroom full of new pupils today. Amongst the excited faces, and the quivering lips clung to a parent’s leg

At St Peter’s Primary there’s one little girl who isn’t having her very first day of school. There’s no fresh scent of wax crayons, no tight pig tails, no chalkboard sign clutched tightly on the front step. There’s just a broken heart and a mother clinging to the hope that someone, anyone, realizes that she’s missing from that classroom.

I’ve tried everything I can to reconcile this milestone, but I’ve been so sheltered from the stinging hot lashes of firsts against my face that this one has hit me like a freight train. Part of me has tried to shelter myself from the all consuming pain that this milestone has brought, other parts of me have run into it like it was a burning building with everything I love inside. I donated a back pack of kindergarten supplies to what would have been her classroom. But I can’t bear to comment on any of the first day of school pictures. It’s taken everything in me not to scold people who lament on social media that their children have grown too fast, because at least they had the opportunity to grow at all. They’re creating memories while I’m stuck re-living the only 45 minutes I ever got to hold my baby over and over and over. And I feel like I’m right back where I started. I don’t know how to do this without her.

A special thank you to Mme Boland at St Peter’s who helped me in being able donate supplied directly to St Peter’s this week ❤️


There are not many people who don’t know that I have an obsession with radio. I love listening to the witty banter of the morning show hosts, as they talk about the hot topics of the day with a local flare. On my morning commute to work I often find my mind engulfed in everything they have to say, and I’m mesmerized by the personal sagas of the guests they interview. 

This morning while stopped at a red light on my way to work I was enjoying my morning ritual when a light blue Cadillac hearse crossed the intersection in front of me. There was nothing remarkable about the series of events that led the car to be in my path, but suddenly, I wasn’t in my car anymore, I was sitting in the back seat of the hearse. I was wearing a thick black cotton maternity/nursing dress that had gone slightly knobby from wear, and it was a little loose on my 4 day post partum body. And on the seat next to me was a small white box. My arm clutched around it. It was  holding the dead body of my daughter. The last time I would ever hold her close. In a small white box, in the middle of the back seat of a pale blue hearse. Wearing a knobby black cotton dress. And my throat burned. And my eyes ached. And I could feel the texture of the box as I dug my fingernails in and held on like my life was in that box, because it was. 

And then I blinked and my light turned green, the local hosts threw to their roving traffic reporter and I cleared my throat and kept on driving to work. 


I feel like for the last number of months I’ve been disappointing everyone around me. I’ve been socially withdrawn, sleepless, irritable, and emotional. I’ve been generally unwell, getting sick more often than normal and fighting to stay connected to friends that I used to be able to rely on. I’ve probably been subconsciously pushing them away. 

I’m standing in the ashes of who I used to be, and I’m afraid, because I can’t keep fighting these demons in my mind and in my dreams forever. I’ve been struggling silently, for longer than I care to admit. Maybe I’m weak, but when I struggle to connect, that’s when Im fighting the hardest.

I have two of the most amazing boys. They’re the joys of my life. My every ounce of life is in them – but in the quiet hours of the morning when sleep evades me and the nightmares taunt every corner of my mind, that’s when I’m Everlee’s mom. And I’m thinking about picking out the 64 box of crayola crayons with the sharpener in the back, and Barbie backpacks, and Sophia the First lunch boxes. Because she should be starting kindergarten. And I should be anxious about all of the upcoming milestones that children her age – the age she should be – are preparing for that she’ll never get to have. I’m thinking of the life she’s been robbed of, and the hurt that I still carry in my heart every single day because I am the mother of three but the parent to two. And am I punishing myself and withdrawing again because I feel like it’s my fault that she’s not here? Because even after all these years I still feel like people look at me as the girl with the dead baby? Or is it because my mind keeps racing and I keep playing out the life she never got to have in my head over and over and over and I don’t want to burden people with the constant ache that exists in every move I make? 

And I miss her. God dammit, I miss her.

I’m sorry to everyone I’ve been letting down.  But I just have these cobwebs and skeletons in my head that need clearing. I’ll be ok, but right now I’m just not.

Half a Decade.

I sometimes write about “Where I am right now” to centre myself. When life seems overwhelming and the grief starts to seem insurmountable again, I find solace in stepping back and re-evaluating how far I have come in my journey.

Everlee’s 5th birthday is creeping close. In those early days I couldn’t picture what life would be like in 5 hours, now here I am, half a decade from her. Half a decade away from kissing her sweet, perfect face. We should be excited about kinderstart and practicing French words at home. She should be holding up a little chalkboard sign describing her favorite things and wearing a sweet dress with bows in her hair.

My life will always have a movie running in the background of my mind, showing how things should be different. I always try to be stoic in my grief, giving no spoilers to my secret film. There’s a certain peace in being able to mention her name without biting back the tears. But every now and then I break. These last few weeks I have been broken. But time will move on. The hot pain will recede, the dull ache will take over and I’ll return to a place of being at peace with the hurt I live with. But for right now, I am broken, and I am consumed by how unfair it is that babies die and there is absolutely no justice in the loss.

She has two little brothers now. Two gorgeous boys who adore each other and are the best of friends. How would they interact? What would they like? Would Finnegan’s love of dolls be amplified by having his older sister with us? Would Seamus try to steal food from her plate and pull her hair? Little lives can’t be replaced. I always feel the sting when people call me a boy mom. I’m not. Not even close.

I feel like my grief makes people a lot more uncomfortable now, five years out. Like my sadness should have subsided and I should have made peace with her loss like it was just an event that happened and not an entire life that was lost. When I feel myself sliding backward into despair, I almost feel guilty like that isn’t supposed to happen anymore. And people aren’t really sure what to do with me. Handle with care? Tough love? Ignorance is bliss? I’m not really sure where to reach out when I need someone to fall into.  I’ve long since abandoned the friendships that couldn’t withstand who I am now that I’m Everlee’s Mom, but I live in fear of exhausting those that have cared enough to love me in spite of the gaping hole in my existence. Sometimes I just feel so lost.

My heart may be healing, I may not be the same shattered person I was during those early days, but sweet girl I still miss you every single day and your little life, no matter how brief, still dictates every move I make. I miss you.

Existing in her Absence

There are few questions people ask me that cause more stress than “so is he your only baby?”. They look at my youngest son adoringly, listening to him coo and giggle. They’re completely oblivious to the the fact that their simple small talk has driven a hot dagger into my chest. How do you answer that question when you have three children, but one is dead. I’m left to agonize: do I suck the air out of this conversation and tell them about my daughter? Or do I simply say “I have another boy at home”, and rely on double speak to avoid denying my daughter’s existence?

Everlee has become a part of the walls of my brain. She is woven into the fabric of my being. All thoughts are infused with her loss. Not in a horribly sad way, as they once were, but more like a lens through which I see things. I think a lot about my reaction to matters, in the grande scale of life, and especially in how I react to my boys and how life would be different with her here. I think about how her absence puts things into perspective.  After you lose a baby, nothing is the same, is it?  Not your everyday, ordinary existence.  Not holidays or celebrations.  Being alive is different in every single way.

I still live with a crushing sense of guilt about her loss.  I can’t explain the guilt.   I didn’t kill her.   I didn’t do anything so that she would die.  And yet still I feel guilt about her not being here.   And I know that this is irrational.

When it comes to healing, so far, blogging has been a wonderful tool to work through my grief.  Not just because of adding a complexity to my role as a parent, but because it is creative and it has allowed me to connect with others through technology. It has allowed me to realize that while talking about my dead child is still very much taboo in every day life, there are many more mothers just like me, clinging to the hope that some day someone will mention their baby’s name without being prompted to do so. And someone will ask how we are and really want to know. Because no matter how good of a day I’m having, I never will be ok. I will merely be existing in her absence.





October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Every year during the week leading up to October 15th, I make an effort in my social media circles to shine a light on the statistics surrounding stillbirth – it continues to shock me that 1 in 200 pregnancies in North America end in stillbirth. And there have been no statistically significant reduction in stillbirth rates in the western world in 50 years. But I also want to take this week to reach out to my fellow baby lost mothers that have connected with me in the last 4 and a half years since I joined this sad club. Your stories have become a part of mine. There isn’t a day that goes by that you don’t cross my mind, for even the briefest of moments. I know that no matter how sad and lonely this path in life may seem, we all have each other. Caleb, Rose, Michael, Kara, Haven, Olivia, Oliver, Benjamin, Janet.. and the countless others, too many to name. These babies are precious. You are in my heart. Be gentle with yourselves.


I’ve become one of those mother’s I wrote about loathing.

Seamus is now 7.5 months old, and for the most part he’s the most lovable little boy.

Except at night.

He doesn’t sleep. I haven’t slept longer than a 45 minute stretch in a week. About 4 days ago I found myself complaining about my lack of sleep and how exhausting it is being his mother and how I just wanted a few hours rest. And I did so without much thought of consequence.

Later that night when I awoke for the third time before midnight from a quick slumber I was greeted by that crushing feeling that I am all too familiar with. I was swallowed by a swell of fresh grief. My daughter is dead. She’s gone. She isn’t coming back. Ever.

How dare I complain? How dare I become one of those mother’s that I cursed and swore on? I cried until there were scabs under my eyes wishing for nights like these, and now, here I am, wishing them away.

Being Seamus’s mother is difficult right now, but he will grow, and he will sleep eventually. Everlee won’t. These sleepless nights are hard  but it will never compare how to how hard it is to be Everlee’s mom. It will never compare to those sleepless nights where my heart lurched in my chest, aching for the sound of a crying baby begging to be soothed.

The guilt over losing her makes me love every moment with my boys so fiercely that I don’t want to spare one second of my time with them. I have to cherish those ticks on the clock, even when they’re late at night.

No matter how tired I am, the next moment isn’t promised.  rhonda01.jpg


Time Bomb

I feel like I’m living in limbo. Part of my life is normal. I’m Finnegan’s mom. I go to work, I do day care drop offs, I work the birthday party circuit on the weekends, and life is everything I could hope for.
Then reality sets in. And someone asks me about my pregnancy, or admires my glow, or reaches out to touch my swollen belly. No one feels the absolute kick to the guts I feel when they say “wouldn’t it be nice if you had a girl?”. Because they don’t get it. They don’t know pregnancy like I do. They don’t even see it as the ticking time bomb it is. The one that that so meticulously needs to be diffused. One wrong move, one slip and life blows up and I’m left tattered and broken again. No one sees the scars, or the hesitation marks, no one knows all of the rebuilding that had to take place so I could stand here holding this new life inside of me, again. A storm of a pregnancy so I can see that rainbow once more.
And I feel so guilty that this is how I feel about my child. I love this baby more than anything but I’m so scared to acknowledge it and give it the excitement and the joy it deserves. I hate that I’m scared to death to buy anything for them, because all I can picture is another bedroom in my house being made into a living tomb like Everlee’s was.
And what if something does happen and I have nothing? No memories, or hopes of memories to hold on to, what if I’m left with less than nothing? Then what?
It’s exhausting trying to react to people in a way that doesn’t make them feel awkward around me me, but at the same time honours Everlee and what I have gone through to get Finnegan. What if I’m asking too much of the universe to have two living babies? What if I’ve tempted fate?
I’m not sure how to handle the anxiety and the fear and still be the best mother I can be.

Here We Go Again

4 years ago this week I knew that Everlee was safely snugged in my belly. It would be weeks, of course, before the world knew she was there. But she was. She was my perfect little secret. Everything I had hoped and dreamed of my entire life. I remember the feeling that I had to protect that wee little life with everything I had.
And four years, the loss of my daughter, and the birth of my rainbow boy later here I am again. 16 and a half weeks pregnant for the third time in four years. My baby boy just turned two last week (where does the time go?!) and I’m expecting (and hoping for)  his little brother or sister to arrive in December.
Pregnancy will never come without risk or worry. It won’t come without anxiety. It won’t come without the complete mistrust of my body and everything it’s supposed to do or not supposed to do. Emotionally paralyzed by fear. But I have the important job now again, one that I failed at once before and one that I was successful with once before – to keep this wee baby safe in my belly. I’m scared. No. I’m terrified. But seeing my son, and now knowing more than ever everything I missed with my daughter, I know it’s the most important job I will ever have. Being Everlee’s mom, and Finnegan’s mom is the hardest and most rewarding job I have ever had in my life – so here we go again.



The sadness in my eyes here will always haunt me. I’ve never shared this Picture publicly before. But this is the face of still birth. I am a completely different person than I had been 24 hours before. Your precious little life has taught so many people about families like ours, seeing pictures of you important.

Three years ago you made me a mother. I held my breath and hoped that against all odds I would hear your cry and prove them wrong. But the room was silent, and you took my breath away. Three long years learning to be a mother without you. I wonder every day who you would be, what you would look like, the things you would love… Questions never answered, dreams never realized and a lifetime of what ifs. But I do know this, in three years your short little life has touched more people than some people could ever hope for. You have changed my world Everlee. Thank you for making me a mother, and for making me proud every single day that despite the sadness and the heartache that you will forever be my baby. Happy third birthday sweet baby girl.image