We planned this trip with you, Maddie. We planned this trip to the beach, thinking that you would be here with us. I bought you swimsuits and sun hats. I wanted to dip your toes in the ocean, and see your reaction when you felt the water and the sand.

Instead I wear your ashes around my neck in a small vial with your name, and I feel a stinging pain each time I see a little girl or infant on the beach by us. It is so hard to see the little girl in the watermelon swimsuit laughing as she runs into the ocean, because I know you never will.

A butterfly has been hanging out with us almost every day on the beach. I know it’s you. I find comfort in knowing that you’re with us, even though it’s not in the way that I originally planned.

These days are painful, and they are still very raw. But I’m trying. I’m trying to find comfort and peace in the happy little girls on the beach. They’re not you. Nobody will ever be you. But there are so many happy, beautiful babies that I can be happy for in a very different way.

Your spirit is here. Even though you were only 5 weeks old, I know your spirit. Because I am your mom, I know your heart and your soul so well. You’re in the beautiful butterflies, in the waves, in the ocean breeze, in the pink flowers and the pink sunsets. You’re in your brother, and I’ll think of you as you live on through him too, as he smiles and laughs as the waves knock him over.

I will be happy for the babies on the beach. I will think of you and be sad, but at the same time I will be happy. I know you are safe, and you are loved, and you are always with me.

Two. I have two kids.

This question hurts so much, but I also can’t wait for it to be asked whenever I meet someone new. This is very often right now as we’ve recently moved, and each time I meet a new neighbor I can barely pay attention to the conversation because I’m waiting. Waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for them to ask, “So, is Greyson your only one?” I’m planning my response. Because I can’t wait to tell them that I actually have two kids. I can’t wait to tell them about Greyson and Maddie.

As soon as I share that I in fact have two kids, and that my daughter Madeleine passed away after 5 weeks, their face falls. And this is the part that I hate. I don’t want you to feel sorry for us when I say this, or feel bad for asking. I genuinely don’t want to put a damper on our conversation or darken the mood. I just want to tell you about my babies, just like you want to tell me about yours. I’m so proud of both of my two children, even though one of them isn’t here for me to show you face to face.

This conversation isn’t incredibly difficult for me when it’s a neighbor or someone I may have a future relationship with, but what about the waiter, or the bank teller, or the store associate that I’ll never see again? How do I approach these conversations? Recently, a waiter asked if we planned to have any more kids. Tyler and I both stumbled over our words and said “Oh yeah, maybe…” not knowing how to tell him that we do have another kid without making him feel awful for asking. His intent was not to cause pain. As soon as he left the table I started crying. I don’t know how to handle this yet, but I’m working on it.

Since this encounter, I have had this strange urge in public places to yell out that I have a daughter. I haven’t actually done this, of course, and I don’t know why I feel this urge. I think it’s because I want the world to know about Maddie. I want to tell every stranger. I want to scream from the rooftops that my daughter was here, and is always a part of me, and that she mattered so much. Even though her life was short, she will always be my baby. And I am so proud.

I’ve said this before, but don’t be afraid to ask about her when I tell you that I have a daughter, and that she died. I know you’re sorry; I am too. But ask me about her, just like you would ask me about Greyson. I know you think there isn’t much to say because her life was so short and you don’t want me to feel pain by talking about her — and sometimes it does cause me pain, but talking about her also brings me so much joy.

I have two kids. I have a son, and a daughter. One is here with us on Earth, and one is our guardian angel forever. I feel a hole in my heart, a void that can never be filled, but I have two kids.

Our culture is absolutely terrible with grief — in case you haven’t noticed.

I truly hope you haven’t noticed, because I hope you haven’t endured a loss like ours — but unfortunately you may have, or you may know someone who has. The loss of a child is far more common than I previously knew before losing my own. Sadly, it’s taken this enormous loss for me to see how awful our culture is with grief, and how the general lack of understanding of the grief journey, and what those on it want and need, leads to more pain than healing. This is why I’m here writing this today.

I want to invite you into our family, for as open and honest a look I can offer into our life. I want to provide a transparent view of what life is like after losing Maddie, in hopes that it may provide some form of relief or support to someone else. If my honesty in the form of writing helps someone to support a friend or family member on their grief journey, or to console someone undergoing this hell themselves, it’s a success in my opinion.

Whether you’re curious about what grief and loss look like, want to know how we’re doing because you know us personally, or you’re going through a similar loss yourself — welcome. I’m not glad you’re here, but I’m glad you’re here — I think you know what I mean by that.

With that said, let’s dive in. Let me tell you a little bit about Maddie.

I always thought I’d have all boys. After a very scary and difficult birth with our now 5 year old, Greyson, it took us another 5 years to come around to the idea of having another baby. Finally, we were in the right place emotionally to grow our family and I quickly became pregnant. Because I thought I was destined to be a #boymom for life, I couldn’t believe when the OB/GYN office told me it was a girl. I felt so lucky. I would have a boy and a girl — we’d be the perfect family of 4.

Originally, I had planned to have the doctor’s office write the gender on a piece of paper that we would then take to a nice dinner and open together, but I was so excited I had them tell me over the phone while on a business trip, as soon as the genetic test results came back. I called my husband, Tyler, immediately and we were literally over the moon. I spent the following months buying all the bows, clothes and shoes for my sweet girl. I could barely contain my excitement about finally being able to shop on the girls’ side of the store — every boy mom knows how the boys’ side never seems to measure up!

After a relatively uncomplicated pregnancy and planned Caesarean delivery, we had our baby girl — born March 28, 2019 at 7 lbs, 4 oz. She spent a few short hours in the NICU after swallowing some fluid and low blood sugar, but she was able to come to our room that morning and she was absolutely perfect.

We had 5 weeks with our sweet Maddie, and they were the best and most full 5 weeks of my life. I was finally getting the swing of life with two kids, we were very close to establishing breastfeeding and dropping all formula supplementation, and I was so looking forward to her growing up and building a relationship with her older brother. I couldn’t wait to take her to her first pedicure, to watch her dance or cheer or even wrestle like her brother — whatever she would want to do. I couldn’t wait to give her my American Girl dolls and my Nancy Drew books, to read to her and brush her hair when it grew longer. But these plans came to a screeching halt when after 5 weeks, on May 5, 2019, Maddie stopped breathing in her sleep.

Now, instead of holding her in my arms, her ashes lie across from me in a beautiful urn with the words “forever loved” engraved. Instead of breastfeeding her in the hours after she died, I sobbed while I expressed milk and tried to dry up my supply with a variety of creams and OTC remedies. Instead of decorating her nursery at our new home, her things are all carefully boxed in our basement. Instead of enjoying the rest of my maternity leave with my baby, I am now on bereavement leave. These are the ugly parts, but they are also very real. This is my family’s reality. There is no way around it. There is no solution or quick fix. There is nothing that will replace our child in our lives. What I am finding is that many people are very uncomfortable with this. People are very uncomfortable with the details, with the unknown, with loss, and sometimes avoid speaking about it altogether — as if it could be contagious. I do have to say that we are generally very fortunate with our rock solid support system. We have so many wonderful friends and relatives who have been by our side in the darkest days, who actually carried us through, and who have sat with us in the most uncomfortable moments. However, not everyone has the support system we do.

Outside of our circle of friends, as we re-enter the world, I’ve started to experience painful moments and situations that have thrown me for a loop. People who normally would have jumped into a conversation with me, have literally avoided eye contact and talking to me altogether. I’ve experienced the awkward head-tilt, and the hush as I enter a room. These things are incredibly painful, and are counterintuitive to our healing and journey forward, and I want to be as honest as I can about this. I do believe that most have the best of intentions — but intent is different than impact, as I’m learning in grief counseling.

I recently found a quote that said, “When a baby is born, it’s a mother’s instinct to protect the baby. When a baby dies, it’s the mother’s instinct to protect their memory.” At Maddie’s celebration of life, I told our friends and family to continue to say her name. To not be afraid to talk about her or ask us open and honest questions about her life and death. Talking about her keeps her spirit alive for us, and keeping her spirit alive is my job, as Maddie’s mom.

I have to move forward with life, and be the best wife and mom I can be — because my boys still need me. I have to be present in my moments of grief, and I have to experience this loss rather than avoid it. I have to live, and be strong and courageous for Maddie, even when I don’t feel like it. I have to protect her memory, because she mattered so much — and I feel a burning necessity deep in my soul to do so.

So, this is me, and this is my life — missing Maddie. Thank you for walking with me.