I’ve always wanted to start a blog. But never like this. I’ve thought about it and even tried it once over the last 10+ years. I just didn’t feel like I had enough to say about something or that there was room for me. However, this is different. Much different.
In the summer of 2025, my life changed in a way I still don’t fully have words for. I became a mama to my precious baby boy, Wilson, who lived for just 54 minutes.
My son was born, and for those moments, he was here, alive and loved. Then he was gone and I never got to hold him in his 54 minutes of life.
There are details I may share one day, and parts I may never be able to fully put into words. But what I do know is this: he mattered. His life mattered. Those 54 minutes mattered. He is still my son.
Since then, everything feels split into before and after.
Before, life felt more predictable, more carefree, more hopeful. After, everything carries a weight I didn’t know existed.
And yet, life didn’t stop.
I still wake up every morning to my two little girls who need me—my 4-year-old, who I homeschool, and my 2-year-old, who keeps me moving even on the hardest days. There are meals to make, laundry to fold, lessons to teach, messes to clean. There are moments of laughter that catch me off guard, and moments of grief that come just as suddenly.
My everyday life didn’t change like it was supposed to, but emotionally everything changed.
It’s a strange place to live in where deep sorrow and everyday life exist side by side.
Some days it feels like another ordinary day. Other days, the weight of missing him feels almost unbearable. And most days, it’s a quiet, steady ache that never fully leaves. I’ve learned that grief isn’t something you “get over.” It’s a journey and something you learn to carry and I’m still learning.
I’ve been a Christian my entire life. I grew up in the church. Faith has always been part of who I am, but if I’m honest, losing my son has shaken that foundation in ways I didn’t expect. I haven’t been back to church since and I don’t know when I’ll be able to step foot back in church again.
I still believe in God. But I also have questions I don’t have answers to and probably never will. I wrestle, I wonder why, I’m angry with Him, and I sit in silence more than I used to. My faith doesn’t feel neat or certain anymore. It feels fragile and distant. But I’m still here, still holding on even if it’s only by the foundational thread of my faith.
In the middle of all of this, life has brought something else: I’m pregnant again, which comes with its own mix of emotions I don’t fully know how to name. There is gratitude I was able to conceive and anxiety that something may go wrong, joy and grief of how my son should be here but this baby wouldn’t exist if he had lived, and there is hope that I try not to tap into because of the fear of tragically losing this baby too. I’ve learned in the worst way possible that there is no safe time in pregnancy or birth.
Nothing feels simple anymore.
Somewhere in all of this, I felt the need to start writing. Not because I have answers. Not because I’ve “healed.” But because I needed a place to put all of this: the love I still have and always will have for my son, the grief I carry, the questions I hold, and the life I’m still living.
This space is for him.
It’s for remembering him, speaking his life out loud, and making sure he is never reduced to just a moment in time.
It’s also for me as I try to process, heal, and keep going.
And maybe, it’s for you too.
If you’ve lost a child, if you’re grieving, if your faith feels different than it used to, or if you’re just trying to make it through the day while carrying something heavy, you’re not alone here.
I don’t know exactly what this blog will become, but I know this:
My son’s life matters and my story didn’t end with his, and I’m still learning how to live in the after and carry on.