About Me

Classic schools of thought teach that in order to be effective and ethical, helpers must show up as blank slates and refrain from self-disclosing. While I have the skills to foster an ethical therapeutic relationship that serves those who find their way to me, I do not believe stripping myself of my individuality or positionality is beneficial to my work. Clients deserve to know who is sitting with them in their hardest moments. Especially when systemic inequities such as race and education level impact the relationship. So if you’re interested, let me tell you a little about me and where I come from.

Originally from the Midwest USA, I immigrated to Quebec in 2012 and began to plant my roots. In addition to my professional competencies, my own experiences with deep grief, unhealthy intergenerational patterns, and various forms of trauma have given me a foundation that fuels my empathy, presence, and ability to hold people’s stories with the respect and attention they deserve.

As an ex-evangelical, queer, neurodivergent woman, I know firsthand that the impact of systems on our suffering is not simply theoretical. As a bereaved parent and daughter, I have an intimate understanding of the scope and depth of grief and the many emotions it can evoke. My experiences are not separate from my skills. They are what brought me here. Together, they allow me to show up as a human to support other humans in their most vulnerable moments.

In addition to being a Social Worker, I am a parent, writer, partner, oldest sister, devoted friend with a chosen family, and lover of rambunctious dogs. If you feel my approach and experiences resonate with you, I would be honored to walk alongside you in your healing journey. Together, we can create a supportive, grounded space for you to explore your story, your strengths, and where to go from here. The first step is to email me with some basic information to schedule a free 15 minute consultation.

Education

Master of Social Work

University Wilfrid Laurier

ongoing

Bachelor of Social Work

McGill University

obtained 2022

Licensure

Permit# KIRH2209300TS

Additionally certified in Évaluation psychosociale de la personne majeure dans le contexte des mesures de représentation et des autres mesures de protection

Certifications

Giwiidabindimin Certificate
Responding to Trauma & Grief
With Decolonized Practices

Giwiidosendamin Certificate
Responding to Addiction & Suicide With Decolonized Practices

Two eyed seeing is a way of approaching helping that blends respect for Indigenous ways of thinking with the strengths of western approaches to helping. Created by respected Mi’kmaq Elder Albert Marshall, it provides a framework to blend both frameworks together.

click here to for information on "Two Eyed Seeing"?

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Better Interventions through Learning Certificate

Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Certificate

Dialectical Behavioral Therapy Level 2

I wish we talked more about rituals when we talk about approaches to grief. Rituals, no matter how big or small, can provide us with some solace from the painful realities we face with each changing season. They can help ground us, and cab carve out a space for our grief, even during times where we feel it has no place (like the holidays).

The hardest part of losing someone is learning how to reconcile your capacity for sorrow with your capacity for joy. Rituals can be that container.

What sort of grief rituals do you engage in? Intentional or not, they count!

I'm a social worker who uses rituals as a part of my practice. If you'd like to learn more, click the link in my bio ♥️.

#griefsupport #infantloss #grievingdaughter #grieftherapy

While I believe the majority of people who use platitudes mean well, what I wish more people understood is that platitudes, even when they come from a well-meaning place, rarely help. For many people they do the opposite. They can shift the burden of support away from the griever and redirect it to the person who is trying to support them.

Grievers often feel pressure to accept someone’s platitudes in an effort to be polite, or out of fear of rejection or alienation if they express a level of suffering or difficulty that cannot be soothed with pleasantries.

Oftentimes, the phrases we typically resort to imply painful or inaccurate realities that further alienate and ostracize people who are experiencing deep mourning in our grief-averse society.

Part of becoming grief literate means learning how to express empathy outside of the scripts that are deemed “safe” by dominant culture. For family and friends, the best way to signal we care is by showing them we feel with them, not just for them – while we might not be able to know exactly how they feel, we are not afraid to be with them & their pain.

I’m here to tell you that supporting people in grief is not about being “good” or “bad”, “right” or “wrong”. It is about getting comfortable with the adverse - the other - the unknown - the unfathomable. Unfortunately, there is no perfect recipe to show empathy and care.

Such gestures are built on connection and intimacy that is specific to each relationship.

What I can say is that being able to witness someone’s pain, suffering, and bereavwhile staying regulated and present is a great start. With exposure, education, and intention I believe we can collectively grow such a capacity.
For every person who refuses to grieve in silence, we become more comfortable with supporting all parts of death & dying – including reaching beyond our own fear of being “incorrect” in favor of offering genuine, heartfelt support.

#griefsupport #griefeducation #perinatalloss #grieftherapy

No but for real these insurance companies really be telling me I'm a high risk of repeating the cycle 😭😭#griefsupportmontreal #perinatallosssupport #griefiscomplicated #parentdeath

Pain is real. So real. I have felt like it has been sitting on my back porch watching me sleep for these past months. Like it has been sliding into my home through the micro cracks in my windows whenever I notice the silence or something sparks a memory so redundant it doesn't even seem possible to recall it in such detail. It shows itself on my husband's tired, sometimes anxious face. I hear it in my loved ones' voices when I am honest about how I feel. It penetrates my dreams and disrupts my daily thoughts. When it comes it is all consuming and overpowering, it engulfs me and demands my full attention.

But hope is real too. Just as real. It can be hidden behind friends' laughter, disguised by the moments you feel some distant version of okay, no matter how fleeting and insignificant they may seem. Hope is more subtle but not any less significant. In my experience hope feeds me just enough to sustain me, leaving me clinging to the desire to feel happy things again without letting me surpass the pain which has a right to be felt, which must be felt. Hope can manifest like fear, wrapping itself in the excitement you experience when you look something that scares you in the face and say "I won't let you stop me."

Sometimes hope and pain are experienced in unison. They can support and feed off of each other, allowing their counterpart to be focus with the expectation that whatever the current experience is, it will help support the next. Sometimes they coexist in the most confusing, complex manners, taking turns washing over you throughout the day.

Being pregnant after loss, loving after loss, living after loss, being this new version of happy after loss, it's such a vivid experience of two of the most powerful emotions we can experience. It's as exhausting and stimulating as you'd imagine and so much more.

#grieftherapy #griefiscomplicated #infantloss #perinatallosssupport #griefsupportmontreal

Losing my child unlocked my rage.

It was always there, lurking below the surface, feeding an inner critic that has so much to say about what I do (and how I shouldn’t do it). But when I held my daughter’s decaying body, when my first experience as a mother was reconciling the most precious face I’ve ever seen belonging to a corpse, an unfolding began.

When my psych and nervous system was inundated with demands only grief bestows, I could no longer keep the boiling fury inside of me. How could I when every ounce of energy I had was spent trying to convince my body not to collapse in on itself as my soul searched for Senna?

The parts of me that were not engulfed in rage were engraved with devotion to live the life she was never allowed to. To walk in the humility I inherited from her when her blood pooled into mine.

What a bizarre thought, right? How can a parent inherit from their child?

But as the thin veil that separated her from me failed, and my veins absorbed her life, every ounce of who she was pumped through me. The rage I etched into her DNA mixed with what was already mine, refreshed and demanding its place. Some call it blood memory, but it is only ever thought of as flowing one way. We defied that.

Amongst the fury and the intergenerational mess, I also believe I gained a softness that was a stranger to me and was meant for her. Along with it came the steadiness - the resolve - the peace that was meant for her.

In a way, grief was also the catalyst of me melting into being softer. The process of uncovering my boiling rage was a messy one, and still can be, but it also uncovered a tenderheart I am still getting to know. This part of me can feel the depths of my awe, and love, and warmth. It is the part of me that thinks back to that sweet baby face and sees my daughter. Not a corpse. Not a dead baby. Not the object of the worst pain I have known. My child. My sweet. My love.

My bones know who she was even though she never laid eyes on my face.

I am forever changed by being her mother.

… and so I rage. I melt. I soften. I let it all be.

Hi - it's been awhile. I hope your heart has found some glimmers.

There was a time where I was bursting, and in so many ways I still am. This page and these postings provided an outlet that fueled a passion in me. That very passion has led me down the path of growing my skills as a helper. I am lucky enough to begin providing counselling and therapeutic support in a way that allows me to do grief work on a deeper level and share the wisdom I have gained through my lived experience & education.

I am posting today to remind everyone that I'm still here, and this story still matters. Your story matters. Your grief matters.

I am also happy to announce that I am accepting new counselling clients in Quebec.

While I focus on providing these supports, which includes furthering my education and credentials, I dream of a day I can regularly write it all out again.

If you're curious about my services, my link is in my bio.

All my love and care,

Hannah

7th year burning this candle for Infant Loss Awareness day's Wave of Light. It's almost gone. I don't know if I'll have the strength to replace it. These rituals are getting harder.

I don't need today to be aware, I am aware every day that my child is not here. But I need today to help me feel the love that can sometimes be too painful & scary to acknowledge. It would be so much easier to lean into the ruthless nature of time and let myself be carried away from my grief. Sometimes, I don't want to remember and I just want to live. But I know that's a haunted luxury, and I know that approach won't serve me because it would demand I shut down the parts of me that have grown and nurtured my spirit.

I need today to normalize the loss, and create a space in society for me and her to exist so that I can remember. I need it to remind me to take a moment and revel in her sweetness and pay homage to the parts of myself that died with her.

The majority of people in my day to day life nowadays didn't know me before. They don't know that my eyes look different and my face has been swollen ever since. They don't know that I used to love harder & easier. They don't know how goofy & energetic I once was, and never got to see my unbridled joy. It's such a bizarre thought to me.

I need today to be reminded of the weight of what I carry every day with so much grace and love that people can't imagine where I come from, and to be reminded to remember because god damnit she is worth remembering.

It's been awhile. While this page sits, I deeply struggle. Here is my attempt at trying to get my power back, my words back.
-----------------------------------------

I remember when the words burst from me. They traveled from the depths of my heart, rich in raw emotion and survival. My hands would ache to write, their access between the deepest corners of my soul was unbridled. I was tapped into my passion, my wants, my fears and so was everyone who glimpsed over a sentence of what I would write. It fueled me and guided me. It taught me things about myself that would have taken decades to learn.

But now there is a disconnect between my heart, my head, and my hands. What was once a dynamic trio that sparked inspiration and relief feels like just another casualty of every travesty I've lived through. The losses have compounded and the pain has come so close to consuming me that I had to sever my connections to it. To survive I felt I had to shut myself off from the very corners of my soul that once nurtured me.

I crave to write about love, to write about how annoyance dances on my skin and curate the poems I see in the ending and beginning of relationships. I miss the joy it would connect me to, and the passion for life and loving in the face of it all.

But my journals stay empty sauf a few scribbles that never make it past the surface of everything I've avoided feeling. The triggers start coming. My world sinks deeper. There is no flow, there is only struggle. Every cell in my existence feels like it has been plagued by PTSD.

But I cannot write, because in the process of severing ties to feelings I could not live through, I lost my ties to myself & my range of emotional capacity, and do not know how to get them back. In the fatigue of it all, I’ve emotionally stunted myself.

This is me trying.

Everyone is thinking of me

But who among these well wishers can pierce my chest cavity and wrap their fingers around my faible heart to make me feel like something other than dead weight -- old news -- existential angst -- that girl who makes grief her best friend to survive

It's like I blinked and suddenly I am an orphan before 30 with my child's ashes sitting next to my parent's urns on the dining room mantle. I walk past them multiple times a day like it's the most normal thing in the world. They're glorified nicknacks.

How did I get here??
Who let this happen??

I try to soothe the aches grief creates with love. I normalize through my nicknacks and rituals. I write. I am drowning in soulmates and appreciation beyond my wildest dreams. I have a network full of people who embrace both life & death with me.

Yet, when everyone I pour myself into is no longer in need of me, everything I've been trying to distract myself from comes rushing toward me with a cosmic force I do not experience any other time.

It isn't until the stillness of a well-deserved peaceful night that my nervous system dips into a depth of distraught so powerful that it threatens to shatter me. It hits all at once, hindering my sleep and threatening my dreams. The pain can grow so unbearable that I cannot speak. Even if I wanted to, I simply cannot will myself to write a word or speak to a friend even though it is probably exactly what my soul needs. All I can manage to do is lay lifelessly sobbing while every fiber of me calls out for the somebodies who won't ever come.

Eventually, sleep does come but these nights are never restful. I try to go about my life and day, but as I listen to the people around me share their own experiences of grief, I am learning that this is more than my own grief for my parents or my child.

This is grief that I carry in my blood. This is a grief that came long before I did. This is a grief that is twisted into my DNA.

While my grief is understandable, and my sleepless nights make contextual sense, the truth is that none of this is normal.

The mourning that sits on my shoulders, the mourning that I will carry for the rest of my days, the mourning that I was born with that has only grown, goes beyond what most will ever experience. It is intergenerational. It is foundational. It is awe-inspiring -- scary -- heavy.

If I am not careful, it will be all-consuming.

*cont in comments*

Whenever someone asks me how I am doing, what I want to say and what I actually say are very different. It's easily my least favorite question. I always find some way to save grace and say I'm doing fine with still encompassing the fact that most things feel like shit right now, but it barely scratches the surface of what first comes to my mind when they ask.

What I say: "I'm fine all things considered"

What I think: "If I could, I would crawl out of my skin and leave the feeling of missing someone behind. I want to escape the worry that riddles my bones and extract the guilt that is embedded in my pores. I can’t breathe. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to breathe. Nothing is okay yet the world keeps turning and somehow I keep performing."

I look for signs

I beg for signs…

Anything to tell me that the loneliness that has overcome me since you died is unfounded

I hang by an existential thread until I see the next bird or hear the next song

I make something out of nothing just to be able to breathe a single breath like I used to when you were here with me…

like I only could when I knew someone was out there who knew me in ways only you can

Sorrow is an old friend who has chewed me up and spit me out before

Loneliness is no stranger to me

But missing you is a new beast I cannot give a name to

It has changed me in ways I have yet to fully understand.

So, I look for signs

I beg for signs

I still need you here with me

I spent so much energy reparenting myself after being parentified during my formative years, and then just as much energy if not more learning how to allow my mother to mother me in adulthood after she recovered, only to have her die mere months into feeling ease with our relationship.

I am so angry about it.

I bitterly use the skills some general therapist I saw for six sessions taught me to soothe myself when six months ago I would normally call her. I try to manifest what her hugs gave me last summer in my body intrinsically, and I can get so close it scares me. I became detached to survive but in trying to thrive I learned how to lean into my mother and become a daughter and now I don’t want to go back to being my own parent.

The coping mechanisms I am recalling in order to simply get through the day remind me of a time in my life I stood on my own. The pain of revisiting them is excruciating because not only am I being reminded of where they come from and what I had to do to foster them, I now know what it's like to not need them and feel their weight like never before. I miss the sweetness and ease of knowing & trusting she was there.

My mother and I built what we had with bare bloody hands, and now I don’t know what to do with mine without her here. Or rather I do know, I just don’t want to do it.

I think the heaviest grief lives in the happiest moments

It is in the excitement of your grandchild losing his first tooth
the breath after laughing with those who love you
the glances siblings share across the room after someone at the party does something ridiculous
the newest blooms in the garden
the first taste of an old family recipe I finally perfected
the drive home after a good day at work
the slowness of sunday mornings
the anticipation of making christmas plans in July
the delusional millisecond between picking up my phone to call you and remembering you’re not here to answer anymore

It is in those sweet, mundane, fleetings moments that the best of life is lived
It is also where what once was is the most evident, and what is to be feels impossibly daunting & lonely

I sit at a table full of loved ones and count their heads.

I memorize their faces, the way their hands move, the tone of their voice, and the magic of being in their presence and knowing our love. I try to hold on to the moment but the legacy of my mother and my mother’s mother settles into the space between us. It is as heavy as lead.

I wonder who is next.

I can so easily picture what it would feel like to get the call. To heave over in agony and scramble in the moments that follow. It seems written in stone as I get whisked away into a daydream made of nightmares and my saddest moments. This is why I flinch every time my phone rings.

I hope it’s me -- my god, I hope it’s me.

I know my body cannot handle another loss. Everyone knows. My spine is already cracked and twisty from contorting around absences. They watch how laborious every movement is. My heart is so battered it won’t withstand the shock.

I wish I knew how to break this curse I’ve come to know as a sister.

I was born into a shadow of grief that will not leave me. No matter how good I am or how strong I rise from the cremated ashes of those whom I was supposed to see grow old, it follows me, daring me to stop loving. Stop living. Stop trying.

I will only know peace from it once I am gone.

You should be starting school today and I wish the whole world would stop to remember with me. By now I should know better, but I can’t help it. Life goes on, but life isn’t fair, so I sit in this beige nightmare of a bathroom stall and swallow my sobs as I frantically type words into a google doc desperate for some relief from the mourning that is consuming me without regard for the things that need to be done -- without consideration of the job I just started two weeks ago that demands I show up for people in the ways I wish I could show up for you.

I wonder what you would be like this morning. Would it be hard to pull you out of bed? Would you be singing your favorite theme song as you brushed your teeth? What backpack would you choose? What kind of lunch would I pack, catered to your likes, dislikes, and school policy? Would you give your Dad and I a big hug and skip away with confidence, or hold onto our waists and ask us to bring you back home? Would you have dark brown curls like me, or fine dusty blond waves like your dad & Cyan? Would your eyes be sparkling green? Would my mind race with anxiety at everything that could go wrong even without tangible knowledge of what it is like to lose a child?

I don't write much about grief anymore, but today the thoughts and feelings flow with an unexpected vengeance. I feel robbed and bereft in a way I haven't experienced in so long. It is more than your birthday and feels so fresh. For this moment, I feel like I've crumbled and cannot bear to pull myself together to finish my day. So I do what I have always done -- I find a spot and I put the ache into words. *cont in comments*

Written originally in 2019....

It was a few days before Senna's first birthday. I posted about how hard it was to make cupcakes for your dead baby, attaching a picture I had already openly shared with the group before. So many people sent me encouraging words and showed me love. Then, I got the message.

I cannot make a direct quote, but it went along the lines of: we know this is sensitive, but photos of Senna "upset" new/pregnant moms and we have had complaints, so we need to ask you to put trigger warnings on them.

In a group I used to turn to for support, in a group that I trusted to help me through so much, I was being asked to turn my trauma inward. Instead of the priority being the fact I needed help to survive today, it was the "uncomfortable" feelings someone else experienced. I was being asked to support other people instead of receiving the life saving support I needed. It was the only place where I felt like I was really recognised as a parent, and it was ripped away from me.

I balled on my kitchen floor while frosting whipped to perfection in my kitchen aid.

I decided to leave the group. Even though it pained me, I didn't want Senna or my experiences to bare the burden of a trigger warning. I wanted people to see my baby, not just all the implications and biases that come with stillbirth. I didn't want to constantly be reminded that what I went through was so terrible, so horrendous, that other people are so uncomfortable they only think of themselves and not my needs. I felt alienated.
** cont in comments**

I want to challenge the sentiment that you have to keep your children alive in order to be a good/sufficient parent. I know, I know. Just hear me out: •

We have all seen a meme circulating around that essentially says "even if all you do is keep your kids alive, that is enough" (swipe right to see a modified version). Even before the pandemic, I have seen similar messages circulating around the internet. •

I know they're meant to be supportive, but they sting. •

I can appreciate the attempt to encourage frazzled and burnt out parents. It's true in the sense that as long as you're present and trying when you can be, that is enough. But, I know many exemplary parents who couldn't keep their children alive, no matter how hard they tried. When those parents read things like this, it hurts. It pushes them deeper into their seclusion and further reminds them that in the "real world", children don't die. Not if the parent tries hard enough, anyway. •

It reignites blame, guilt, and alienation. •

Our children's mortality is not completely in our hands. We can influence their development and meet their basic needs to survive, but aside from gross negligence, our actions do not determine if they live or die. •

I know it's hard for people who haven't lost a child to grasp. I know that many people will read this and roll their eyes because "the world can't cater to everyone". But, if just one more person begins to unlearn their death adversity, it is worth it.
We can inspire & reassure struggling parents without inadvertently telling loss parents they aren't enough. •

We just got to love them, guys. That's it. That's enough. And it doesn't mean they will stay alive, but it does mean they'll know the best part of being alive. Breathe. •

To the perinatal loss parents, to the Dad who was driving the car when it wrecked, to the Mom who looked away for a second, to the parent who trusted their partner, to the Dad who thought they brought them inside, to the parent who held their hand as they took their last breath after medical teams did all they could, to anyone else who knows this pain: you are still be an amazing parent even if you couldn't keep them alive. •

Death. Die. Dying. Died. •

These are the words that choke us. They sit like a dead weight in our gut, slicing through our lungs before settling as a lump in our throat. •

As a society, we are so uncomfortable with death we create countless euphemisms to express that someone died. Sometimes, we use them to comfort ourselves because we have yet to fully accept our new reality. Other times it is because we lack more specific vocabulary and want to take a heavy experience and make it poetic. But most of time we use them because we don't know how to reconcile life with death. We don't want to be harsh or crued. These words are just too hard in a culture that neglects to provide us with a framework for death & grief. •

We are more likely to hear "they are dead to me" when talking about someone we estranged ourselves from than "they are dead" when someone dies. •

When the doctor told me she looked at me with terrified eyes and said "I'm sorry, there is no heart beat".What does that even mean? Many peoples heart stop beating, but they reanimate and keep living. Surely, there has to be some other explanation for a stagnant heart than death, right? Right?! •

I don't blame my doctor for her words. However, I believe Senna's life deserved a brief moment of acknowledgement in that moment. •

Why is it less crass to say "he kicked the bucket" than to be direct and say "he died last week"? •

Why do we put forth such tremendous effort to avoid the "D word"? We beat around the bush to what end? So we can further avoid the confusing and alienating emotions that acompagnie grief? Even if we ignore it with our words, it is still there. Denying this reality is such a disservice. •

The heaviness we feel when we are confront with the words death, die, dying and died are an honest representation of the sorrow and mourning we feel in the wake of loss. Yet, we continue to collectively deny ourselves the validation that accompanies honest representation. Instead, we keep dancing around death, refusing to accept its rightful place in life. • It's time we stop looking at grief & death through rose colored glasses. We will die because we live. Life and death are one and the same. •

Messages and photos full of love and tenderness haunt me. Proof that there is something worth missing lingers in an undisclosed server room. Evidence of a love I am trying to forget is carefully nestled into databases, chopped up into binary code. Words that make my heartache tangible are always a click, a swipe, a webpage away. They taunt me, but I dare not look. To look would be to ignite a fire that risks to consume me. To look would be to pry open parts of myself I've shut off out of fear that I will get lost in their too big, too vivacious, too commanding nature.

I know they're there, and I ache for them. I ache to read the words we shared and refresh the spark your light once gave me. The ache is just enough to remind me to shut myself off from what I feel but cannot entertain. Still, I dare not delete them. Because what if, one day, it's different? I hold onto them, but from a distance. Just far enough that I can forget the details that make it real, but close enough I know they're there. I keep the proof from being tangible without destroying it because although acknowledging your existence makes me feel like I might implode, the thought of never being able to remember beyond my own fable memory hurts more.

The good news is I am two weeks from graduating with the Bachelor’s of Social Work! The bad news, or rather and heavy news, is that I have spent the last few days struggling to string sentences together for my last papers as I am inundated with flashbacks of finishing my last degree heavily pregnant with Senna over five years ago.

I am always so surprised by how intricate and detailed my flashbacks are. My heart races as my body remembers the relief I would feel bouncing on a yoga ball in front of my computer while I typed out what turned out to be an A+ research paper. I can almost hear the sounds of laughter escaping from me husband and a dear friend as sat behind me on the couch, cracking jokes about how ridiculous I looked while they played video games. I don’t remember the topic I was writing about, but I do remember how excited I was to finally finish my college degree. I was so proud of everything I had built up to that moment: the support, the friendships, the academic skills, the family. As I sit here writing these words today, it feels like I can tangibly touch the hope I felt back then. All of the anxiety and fear that comes in those last moments of pregnancy was hindered by the vivaciousness of those evenings and the overwhelming happiness that came from feeling like I was finally arriving at everything I had wanted & worked for my whole life. When I took this photo and sent it to my older sister to prove to her that I was in fact still pregnant, I had no idea what was to come. I had no idea what I was about to live. I had no idea that when I finally reached the point I am today, Senna wouldn’t be here. My body responds so viscerally to my flashbacks it drains me in every day. My brain spins, body tenses, and I shut down. Unlike the Hannah who was able to write an entire paper 40 weeks pregnant, current Hannah can barely put together a coherent thought as I’m thrust back and forth in my memories of who I was before Senna died, what life looked like, and how she smelled like freshly baked bread.

That is all. Solidarity and love to my fellow grievers.

(More below)

In my years of being a part of the loss communities, I rarely see us talk about what loss does to couples, marriages, and intimate relationships. Not just in the immediate aftermath, but in the long-term.

Sometimes, someone tries to touch on the unease, the strain, or the resentment that settles into the bond you shared with the person you once found solace in but words always fall short. We can see in our community how some couples blame, some couples drift apart, some fall apart, and some manage to prevail. All of us our relationships are forever changed, regardless of the course they take in the aftermath of our children dying.

But what I have never seen mentioned is how losing a child bonds us to our partners through trauma.

Infant loss can create a trauma bond between partners that is all consuming. While it might help you and your partner withstand or create a unique intimacy, it can also be insidious. Trauma bonds this strong can blind us to shortcomings and issues we would normally confront. It can create reluctance to be honest about how we think or feel out of fear that we will lose the connection with the one person who can ever come close to truly understanding the harrowing grief we carry. It can inspire us to foster tolerance that enables behaviors that lead to resentments and fuel mistreatment. It can make us feel like we are dying or losing our child all over again when we realize our relationship with their other parent is deteriorating.

Unfortunately, I do not have any answers or solutions. I am aware of how incomplete these words are. But the urge to put them out there, so people who are suffering in the dark or struggling to understand why their hearts and bodies are responding the way that they do might find some ease. When we find the words, we find our power. No matter how imperfect or incomplete they are.

Sometimes, I ask myself if I wallow in grief and allow it to suffocate the present. I question if I sit with it so that I don’t have to engage with the hope it requires to think about a future. I wonder if I have become so comfortable with suffering that I diminish my capacity for growth or “better”. I interrogate my intentions and the validity of my thoughts. Am I keeping myself in survival mode? Do I reduce everything I experience to a singular lens? Should I be doing this differently?

And I just let those thoughts be. They come, and they go. They eb and they flow.

It is okay to wonder. It is okay to question. I am living this without a blueprint. The reality is that we all have experiences that inform our worldview and thought processes. My choice to be honest about my grief and continue to engage with the real feelings I have are an act of resistance in a world Ill equipped for the truths about life & death. Of course I question. Of course I wonder. I give myself that space without judgement.

31 December 2021:

Despite all of the hurt, fear and discomfort that strangled my smile and choked my ability to be present, despite the efforts I made to safeguard old habits, despite the mistakes & angst & suffering & fear, this year has been the year that has felt the most true. It was the year where no became a full sentence, not because I grew jaded but because unveiling secrets I had hidden from myself allowed me to move with an integrity I have never known before. The year where I saw the worst of me while uncovering the best of me. The year where I decided I had proven enough, because I had proven it to myself. The year where triumph also felt like defeat & giving up was the real win.

It was the year where I decided I matter too, no matter what stories I had created in my head. No matter what lies I accepted as doctrine from people who were trying to gaurd their own hurt, this year I knew who I was.

This year was the year for a new depth of authenticity.

God it hurt. But fuck it felt like living after years of barely getting by. Life with grief can look like this, too.

It hurts. I know it hurts. I wish they were here. I wish you could send that happy new year text or joke with them about the clusterfuck that is the world right now. I wish you could look back on more memories with them and look forward to future plans.

But more than anything, I wish you comfort rooted in the truth that you are carrying them with you into the new year. I hold space for all of the confusing feelings and discontent sentiments. I acknowledge them with you, and hope you find moments that are easier to breathe than others tonight and tomorrow.

They might not be physically here with you anymore, but your attachment and relationship to them still matters. It is still real. It still counts. It will still be there in 2022.

Some of the best people I know are riddled with trauma. They store memories of their parents throwing dishes at one another in their toes, are able to recall the sensation of pushing their already-gone infant through their birth canal on queue, jump whenever the phone rings because it brings by the memory of that moment when everything changed, and hesitate when someone asks them how they are because they never know how much is too much.

Some of them are the people you first think of when you need someone to call, and others struggle to show up on time or go anywhere at all. Some of them thrive under the grace of a psychotherapist while others were misunderstood or ostracised by medical professionals.

They have lost babies, watched their baby's heart fail as they were wheeled into the operating room, watched their siblings cower in a closet during one of their fathers’ rampages, held their children in their arms until they turned white and cold.

They come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and backgrounds but all have one thing in common: they were worthy, capable and smart before trauma scarred them.

You might look at them in awe of what they have managed to overcome. They themselves might recognize the good they salvaged in the aftermath of the moments that changed them forever. But the statement stands: no one NEEDS trauma to build character. You do not need adverse events to find character or purpose.

Trauma wrecks. It steals. It ruins lives. Anyone who is able to come out of their warzone flourishing (or even surviving) is able to do so because of WHO THEY ARE, not because of what they have been forced to face.

So the next time you respond to someone’s story with “well, that brought you here…” think of what you’re insinuating and recognize that for some of us, we WOULD change it if we could or struggle to grapple with whatever happiness we have carved out of the ruins on a daily basis. Just let things be what they are without establishing some sort of moral significance. Trauma is what we aim to prevent and heal, not a tool for character building.

*Continued in comments*

Even with a vibrant, loud, smart living child running around, Christmas night is feeling very quiet and small. I can't shake the thought that there should be twice as many presents, twice as much joy, and much more excitement. Would Senna have fought sleep until the last minute? Would she silently escape downstairs in the morning before anyone else woke up? Would they fight over whatever gadget or toy they decided was the best? Would it be annoying and exhausting, or would I be able to stay present and enjoy it anyway? •

I'll never know what a world with both of my kids looks like, and really, thats the only gift I want. •

I am so thankful for what we have, but so aware of what is missing. It feels so much smaller than it should be, yet I am so proud we have even managed to make it what it is. Once upon a time, I thought Christmas and all things good on life were ruined. But they weren't. They're just different. •

Have a holiday. Happy, haunted, somber, joyous, chaotic, all of the above... Have a holiday. 💕

Five years ago I sat in a hospital room with my decomposing infant in my arms begging someone, anyone to tell me how I was going to manage to be a person again. As her skin turned cold and her cheeks blushed purple, my reality crumbled around me. With all of the fury and anguish of a parent wallowing through the world without their child, I rebuilt. Through sheer will and stubbornness, I survived. My grit kept me here, but it was the gentleness and love I received from those who surrounded me and stuck by my side through the years that helped me thrive. Through connection, my fortitude was given substance. For every person who wished I would stop talking about it behind my back or mistook my brokenness for fragility, the relationships forged out of genuine care allowed me to shed myself of the guilt, shame, and burden of things that no longer served me.

As my heart, mind, and life shift away from a state of urgency & survival into a phase of maintenance, remembrance, and ritual I find myself anxious over connecting. I find myself searching for the next trauma, the next hurt, the next ending. I find myself craving softness and care, but completely afraid to lean into them even though it is where I find solace. The anxiety of accepting that I am reaching a level of ease and normalcy I was once convinced would never occur has my old, fear-based coping mechanisms rearing their head in full force. Because I know the overcoming power reciprocal relationships can provide, there is a part of me that is fighting them. There is a part of me that isn’t ready to let go yet. Just as many have done for me over the years, I will sit with her and let her be where she is at. The struggle feels self-imposed, but yet valid and real.

While I navigate these new waters with curiosity, recognition, and some hesitancy many of the same points of contact who fueled the sweetest parts of my life a half-decade ago are still present today, holding my hand and listening to my nonsense. They continue to remind me that there are good things in life outside of pain and trauma and that I am allowed to find beauty and success without suffering. *continued in comments*

We assume anger looks like protruding veins, unblinking eyes, and holes in walls. We think it sounds like venom and disdain, loud and direct in the form of insults or harsh truths. But my anger looks like walking away and averting my gaze. It sounds like unspoken needs and assuming the worst. Through subtle sighs and silent resentment, my anger swells inside of me and consumes my kindred thoughts. It chokes my empathy & rids me of my best intentions. With all of the fury of instances of broken trust and disappointment, anger turns me into someone I barely recognize. It escapes in between the lines I speak, oozing through micro behaviors in misdirected and maladaptive eats.

It feels like it gets the best of me and only sees the worst in you. Just like my old pal grief, the tighter I hold it in an effort to keep in in check, the louder is becomes, demanding it's place in my heart at all costs.

I give up living a lifestyle of urgency, suffocating anything I cling to with my anxieties and pathological need to prove that good things can still exist in the wake of tremendous suffering. I shift my focus to the needs I have long left unmet within myself, even if it means having to examine my own coping skills and sitting with the discomfort that comes with realizing you’ve lost the ability to find solace within yourself – or maybe you never really had the ability in the first place.

Death has taught me that nothing is permanent, and everything can change in an instant. It has shown me what I am made of and how powerful love can be. Through my grief, I have learned to live authentically and with backbone. The urgency that sprung from survival has served me well and provided me with a means to forge a life I am proud of, but it has also caused me to cave in on myself. It has compelled me to cling to everything around me at all costs because it could be gone tomorrow. It is holding me in its powerful grasp, wreaking havoc on things I have worked so hard to build.

Urgency is suffocating. Urgency is jarring and overpowering. Urgency robs me of the moment. Urgency strips me of softness and ease. Urgency keeps me in a place of scarcity, telling me if I don’t get *it* now, I never will. I no longer want to live like this. Urgency is no longer serving me. With intention and purpose, I am letting it go.

I wish it was as easy as writing these words and moving forward. But letting go of the desperation and stubbornness that has carried me through these years feels like healing. And healing, though necessary and overdue, feels like letting her go. It feels like a giant contradiction to the message and platform I have built. It means embracing an acceptance that felt foreign and impossible for so long. And it hurts. It scares me. I don’t know who I am without the burden of urgency.

I have been an advocate for accepting the gruesome and painful nature that comes with losing a child. I have spent the past five years sitting with the pain, nurturing my grief, and making space for the abject & horrible. But now, it's time for something different. *continued in comments*

I am happy there is a day & month dedicated to raising awareness about child loss. I am grateful to see the support and witness people feeling comfortable sharing their stories. I do not want it to stop. Please reach out to the people on your mind today and let them know you're thinking of their child(ren). •

But I am exhausted and taking a break this year because I am a walking, talking, breathing posterboard for Child Loss Awareness in my day to day life. •

I raise awareness when I tell someone I have two children and brace myself for their reaction when they ask me how old they are. I raise awareness when I call off work on the days surrounding Senna’s birthday. I raise awareness when someone asks me about the handprint necklace I wear around my neck. I raise awareness when I share my story with thousands of people. I raise awareness through the little seeds I plant and the conversations I have with acquaintances & strangers about how to talk to their loved one or coworker who just lost a child. I raise awareness when I raise my hand in class and challenge the way we conceptualize death & dying. I raise awareness when I remind the daycare that Cyan does have a sibling for the sixth time this year. •

Between finishing my degree, managing my life, and entering my hardest season for grief, I don’t have it in me to do anything this year. All I can think about is the fact that no matter how much I advocate or how much awareness I spread, Senna is dead and will never come back. I cannot fix this, I can only carry it, and it is fucking heavy. •

❄️

When your body feels like a morgue, how do begin to feel the desire you once did? When you are ripped down to the studs, how does that change the way you experience desire as you build yourself back up? When being in your body feels wrong, how do you even begin to reconnect with your sexual self? What if you were never that connected to begin with? When everything else in their life is falling apart, how do couples withstand losing such a paramount part of their connection? •

The process of reconciling the site of your worst nightmare also being central to experiencing sacred pleasure is something even the most eloquent and brave of us struggle to talk about. When I try to think back to those first sexual experiences after Senna died, I am blocked. An eery anxiety creeps into my lungs and my brain strong arms my nervous system and makes me change my course of thought. It’s a place I just cannot seem to go no matter how much I want to unpack and heal from it. As I sit here and write I feel like I have so many things to say but no words to put on paper. I hate this. •

We are so far from being able to talk about sex after stillbirth. We are so far from being able to live in the juxtaposition between the abject nature of infant loss and the blissful ecstasy that sex can be. Five years later and sometimes the explosive joy and euphoria that sexual acts can bring can still trigger me in ways I dont know how to explain or cope with. Having moments where I am so in my body can feel like a betrayal when my body is also where my baby died. It can be heart breaking and confusing for both myself and my partner. The anger and resentment that can breed from this struggle can eat away at whatever love people are able to salvage and contribute to the end of marriages and families. I dream of a world we were are able to support and prepare individuals in navigating this intimate hellscape, which is why I’m happy to know that places like @cashlab and Dalhousie are doing the research necessary to demystify something that feels so big and scary. I can say with confidence that with time and acceptance, you can find yourself in a better place with your sexuality. Stay courageous. •

There are moments where life is just carrying me and I am a person merely because the world keeps spinning. •

Then there are days where I plant my feet firm to the ground and declare that I have found a piece of myself and will not be subdued by grief or fear. •

Note: we used they/them pronouns for our living child. •

As we get closer to the season of life where we told ourselves we would try conceiving again we have started talking to our three year old about how they feel about potentially having a living sibling around. During our last conversation Cyan explained to me that a new baby would keep growing bigger and bigger in my tummy and be born "alive". They told me they would share their toys but would sometimes want to shut their door for privacy. At one point they looked at me with big, honest, open eyes and said "not like my sister Senna. She stopped growing and I don't have to share with her." •

The way they immediately continued eating and talking about how okay they are with sharing their parents stunned me. I was astonished and stunned. It was the first time Cyan demonstrated truly grasping who Senna was and where her place in our family is. The way they described her death and absence was so true and simple. I was so proud by how their statement was so matter of fact, lacking any heaviness or stigma we typically associate with grief. •

I always wonder if Cyan would be able to grasp that Senna was their sibling and a whole person. I wanted them to grasp that she is a part of our family even though she died before Cyan existed. I have carefully tried to explain death, dying, and the importance of remembering in age appropriate but honest and death literate ways. For our family, death is a integral part of how we live, but I was never sure if I was doing it right. •

And then they reminded me that death and grief are not as complicated as we make it and that their capacity to integrate these concepts, and Senna, into their understanding of the world surpasses most adults. •

While I worry about robbing Cyan of their innocence, I now understand that such innocence can only be robbed from someone if they are not taught that death is a normal part of life that deserves acknowledgement and integration. One day Cyan will know deep grief but maybe they will be able to embrace it without being blind sided. Cyan might not be able to share toys with their sibling, but they are learning from her afterall.

About three years ago I wrote an article titled "Dear Rainbow Baby: It's not your job to repair my broken heart" for @undefiningmotherhood . You can read the full article there by going to the link in my bio (it's one of my best pieces honestly), but I want to share this quote from it for #nationalrainbowbabyday :

"You are not a resolution to hard times, nor the means to the end of my grief . You are not here simply for the purpose of making me whole again. Listen to me when I tell you, your purpose in inherently your own and is not tied to repairing me. You were not born with a job. We do not desire you to be a replacement. When you came, so did so many of the good things we felt were lost, but that didn't stop the sadness we felt.

Throughout your life, I will cry and grieve. You will find me sitting alone with my thoughts, trying to find new details in old pictures in an effort to reconnect with your sibling who came before you. As I raise you, nurture you and love you, I will be longing for your sibling. Every new experience I share with you will be shadowed by the realization of just what we have lost, a reminder of the void in my heart. It will be marvelous, brilliant, and painful.

When the time comes that you recognize this pain, you might want to fix it. You might feel like it's your job. But you can't, and it's not.

You cannot take away my grief because I do not grieve for you. You are YOU, not them. You are inherently worthy of your place on this earth and in my heart because of who you are as an individual, not because of the thing your breath has done for me."

Busy is protection. Busy is a coping mechanism. Busy provides relief from the chronic ache that nestles into the pit of my stomach. Busy lets me breathe. Busy lets me distance myself and distracts me enough that I start to believe I've arrived at the allusive, non existent "better" every loss parents always wishes for. •

Busy is sometimes necessary, but busy is temporary. Busy is exhausting. Busy is fake.•

It's been four years since my baby died and I find myself trapped in a cycle of business followed by the inevitable crash where I realize all of the discontent I've been feeling is simply her absence. After months of running I'll find myself frozen during a much deserve moment of reprieve. I'll grow frustrated and confused, unable to understand why I can't just *be*. I'll start trying to uncover the culprit, pulling apart myself, my marriage, my decisions, my friendships.... though the pressure building in my heart feels familiar, I am never able to identify it until it engulfs me. I'll be laying on my couch, in my new house, about to start the last year of my dream degree, and the ability to breath will escape me. My chores will be done and I'll be eagerly waiting for my husband and living child to burst through the door when I remember: she's not here. She will never be here. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I work. She is gone. It is final. There is no "better". Coping just becomes easier. •

And it hurts. •

We hear it all the time that grief is the price we pay for love. The love I have for my child is forever. No matter how busy I get or how distracted I am keeping myself, it is always there. Waiting patiently for a moment of ease to sneak back in and remind me. •

Motherhood has many forms and begins at different moments for different people. When I think back, the first time I truly felt like a mother was when the doctor glanced at me with thay desperate, despair filled look. The ultrasound wand was still on my fully pregnant belly and she had yet to opened her mouth, but I knew. I learned what being a mother meant to me when I was told my baby died. The part of my heart I didn't know existed broke before I ever opened it. •

And then she came, and it felt like everything in my life made sense and was worth it. My first moments as a mother were filled with despair and ruin, but they were also filled with a tenderness and love only a mother can understand. •

Happy mother's day to all the mother's out there, no matter when or how they began to form their stories and identities as mother's. No matter where they're at now. You are sacred. You deserve gentleness and warmth. •

Here is what I wrote the first time I recognised I wasn't focused on mourning or remembering Senna: "I didn’t think about you for five whole minutes today. For the past 8+ weeks, you’ve dominated my thoughts. Every breath was heavy as I constantly felt your absence. Like I was bathing in it. •

When I realized my mind had wondered from you, there was a sharp sting. Such a big part of your existence has been the grief that followed when you never cried, and I can slowly feel that sliding away from me as I find comfort in learning the source of your demise and learn to navigate my days without you physically with me. •

I won’t ever forget you, you are such a part of me, but there will be moments – brief moments – where you will not be my focus, happy or sad. And that… well, it hurts. Its scary. It is what I was afraid of when I handed you to your Dad, and told you I loved you for the last time. It what made me wimper “I don’t know how to be a person” as I breathed in your sweet yeasty scent, and marveled at your perfect mouth that I had stuck my finger in to feel your warm tongue just moments before. I didn’t want to be any farther from you than I was in that moment, and yet I knew that one day, I would be. •

The grief has been so profound, so consuming, so present, and so welcome. I’ve learned so much about you, and about myself, through mourning you. •

I’m moving forward. Somehow, like everyone told me I would, I am planning for a future, for other children, for better good things to come, and yet I find myself still lacking the relief I’ve been searching for for these past two months. •

I know I will always mourn you, and I will always wonder, but I will not always be debilitated by your absence. And that, for some reason I can’t really put my finger on, petrifies me to no end. It is like I’m losing a part of you. •

I’ve only been able to parent you through grief, and realizing I will have moments without grief makes me feel like less of your parent. •

This is so complicated, so hard, so sad. •

I wish you were here. •"

I don't have a lot it say about bereaved Mother's Day. Well, actually, I do... •

I don't like it, and here is why: •

It feels like it's more about people trying to wrap up my every day in a little bow to make it more palatable for the general public. It's a reminder that my reality is so painful that those fortunate enough to not experience it first hand need a special day -- only one day -- to think about it, because if they really thought about it, they would collapse in on themselves. They can post memes and send me a message and feel like it's a job well done when in reality what loss parents need is an undoing of the death adversity that alienates us from "normal" Mothers day in the first place. •

It's just another way we are subliminally told our experience as a parent is abnormal, and "other than" the experience Hallmark has made mothers day into. •

It's giving us a little piece of something so that next week, when the world wants to celebrate and rejoice in all the wonder mothers out there, we will be satisfied enough to swallow our agony and just let it be. It's another example of how we try to compartmentalize death and life as independent from one another when they aren't. •

The justification we feel for posting about the children we lost should exist every day, not just on a day set aside for "those posts". Every ordinary damn day. •

I know it's about awareness. I know that this is a slow trickle that will eventually feed an ocean of acceptance. I know some people find great comfort in it. I know I'm being difficult. But I'm a bereaved mother, and this is my experience in this day that is supposedly meant for me. •

I don't do bereaved mother's day. Next week, on Sunday, I will celebrate my experience as a mother with the rest of the mothers of the world. I will acknowledge and reflect on my experience as a mother of a living child and a dead one. I will do it simultaneously, as I do every day, because life and death are not opposite of one another. My experience of motherhood is valid and deserves to be recognised along with every other mother. •

Grieving your child and experiencing Post Partum Depression are NOT the same thing. I know, because I have lived both. •

Grief is constant and integrated. It is an expression of love, even if it is painful sometkmes. •

On the other hand PPD is a hazy, insidious voice in the back of you head that robs you of memories, love, joy, sleep, and connection. It told me I was not good enough, despite the fight that I fought to finally bring a baby home. It told me that my husband and living child deserved better. It told me that my wildest dreams were a mistake. It made me angry. It made me diatant. It stripped me of me ability to bond. •

And even after completing a year and a half long successful treatment plan with an amazing family doctor and psychologist, I am still recovering four years later. •

Recovering Memories. Recovering bonds. Recovering sense of sense. Recovering my confidence. Recovering my ability to trust myself. Recovering from feel like every day was life or death. •

Some relationships are permanently altered because of choices I had to make to survive. As we make plans for the future and discuss having another child, the fear of experiencing PPD again clouds my judgement.•

The scary thing is: I am one of the lucky ones. Being a young, white, middle class woman who has access to both socialized and private forms of healthcare stacks the odds in my favor. No one took my child, my support system embraces me, and I am pulling through. Our Black and Indigenous neighbors cannot safely assume the same treatment if they were to reach out. •

If you wonder if you're experiencing PPD and need help accessing advocates and services, my inbox is open. Today and every day. Recovery is possible. I feel hope, love, and excitement again. I am living dreams I didn't dare entertain before. I am thriving, not just surviving. •

But without raising awareness and improving supports such as culturally relevant screening tools and better education among maternity care providers, I will remain one of the lucky ones instead of just being the norm. •

Maternal Mental Health Awareness Day is May 5th. What are you going to do for it this year? #maternalmhmatters

Written the spring after Senna died (April 2017): •

Today, Scott went back to work. Today, I slept in until 10. Just like old times. Just like pre-Senna times. •

I spent months adjusting to the idea that I wasn't necessarily going to be able to do that anymore. That my mornings weren't going to be spent alone, that my time was going to be dictated by an irrational (but adorable) infant. It was overwhelming at times, and something I tried not to think about. •

When I was pregnant, I'de spend these mornings tossing and turning, trying to squeeze an extra 20 minutes of rest in between my trips to empty my bladder. She'd kick against the bed, or the dog, or whatever else was against my stomach, and I'de grunt and groan and ask her to stop but eventually give in and play a game of 'poke the baby' until I had to pee again. •

But now that I AM alone again and I CAN do whatever I please, I'de give anything to have that curly haired, green-eyed carbon copy of Scott in bed with me, chewing on her feet and babbling nonsense. Hell, I'de give anything to be tossing and turning or playing poke the baby. Because no matter how much I complained, I loved it. And as daunting as the future felt, I was excited for it. And now, those are some of the memories I'm going to never let go of and cherish. •

Every new normal thing we do, such as returning to work or taking Hanzo for a walk by ourselves, reminds us of a time when she was still okay, when we were scared and excited about how our lives were about to change. Every normal thing feels wrong, because she's not here. •

But when she was, goodness, was it great. And man, I'm glad she was because those were some of the best times of my life. •

I still don't understand how we got here, or how we lost her. I still hate that there is are "before Senna" and "after Senna" markers on my life. But, here we are. And I'de rather have that than nothing. •

It was a few days before Senna's first birthday. I posted about how hard it was to make cupcakes for your dead baby, attaching a picture I had already openly shared with the group before. So many people sent me encouraging words and showed me love. Then, I got the message. •

I cannot make a direct quote, but it went along the lines of: we know this is sensitive, but photos of Senna "upset" new/pregnant moms and we have had complaints, so we need to ask you to put trigger warnings on them. •

In a group I used to turn to for support, in a group that I trusted to help me through so much, I was being asked to turn my trauma inward. Instead of the priority being the fact I needed help to survive today, it was the "uncomfortable" feelings someone else experienced. I was being asked to support other people instead of receiving the life saving support I needed. It was the only place where I felt like I was really recognises as a parent, and it was ripped away from me. •

I balled on my kitchen floor while frosting whipped to perfection in my kitchen aid. •

I decided to leave the group. Even though it pained me, I didn't want Senna or my experiences to bare the burden of a trigger warning. I wanted people to see my baby, not just all the implications and biases that come with stillbirth. I didn't want to constantly be reminded that what I went through was so terrible, so horrendous, that other people are so uncomfortable they only think of themselves and not my needs. I felt alienated•

When it was pointed out that pictures of live babies might be triggering to me, the admins responded with something along the lines of "this is a parenting group, that should be expected". •

This story doesn't end badly. The day after, I woke up to a new group. 60 or so women, just as outraged as me, followed me onto this new platform where vulnerability are valued over all else. Trigger warnings are almost nowhere to be found, and courage is abundant. •

Screw your appropriation of trigger warnings. Fuck your "safe spaces". I want brave spaces. •

Continued in comments

I've always treated this page like a personal diary, but never wanted it to be about me. When @michelle.wirth encouraged me to make a public account I hesitated. I didn't want the pressure of writing for someone else other than myself. I claimed my words as being a part of me and didn't want to equate them to likes or follows from others. I wrote for me. I wrote to cope. I didn't want to lose my authenticity in favor of popularity. At the end of the day, I think I have respected those boundaries. But considering that my inbox is full of some of you exposing the most intimate, sacred details of yourself, I feel like it's time to introduce myself as more that just a person who likes brunch and writes about grief. •

I'm Hannah. I'm a 27 year old American turned Quebecois. I currently work as a frontline worker in a community organisation for women and I will graduate with my Bachelor's of Social Work next year (hopefully). My dreams consist of wishing I could be a homemaker and hoping that one day I can open a sanctuary for loss parents where they would find community, counselling, and support no matter where they are on the grief spectrum. As you can imagine, those dreams are duking it out in my head. •

My dearest friends would tell you that I love Bailey's and am a passionate advocate. They would say that I have grown a lot these past years, and caution you that I am unapologetic in most things I do. They would also tell you that I make the best banana bread and am always there to listen. They would tell you I love ferociously. •

I've always written throughout my life, but nothing ignited the fire in me like my own grief. To stop myself from imploding, I croaked out whatever words I could manage and posted them on my FB. I was just trying to take the edge of my misery off and stifle the shame that accompanies being a loss parent in a death illiterate society. I never expected that those desperate musings would lead me to forging myself as a writer. •

I believe in the power of telling your story, and find strength in vulnerability. I fight shame and stigma through connection and authenticity. Thank you for being here and gifting me the space to live my truth.

"If I lost my child, I would just die."
"I don't know how you do it, I couldn't." •

Two phrases we have heard countless times. Each time someone says some variation of this in an effort to explain how unfathomable it is to them I refrain from telling them about how we felt the same way three years ago or how we definitely felt dead, and that the feeling of "I can't" still lingers... especially in the morning or right before bed. •

I still don't know how we did or do life. I don't know how we manage to find happiness or laughter. When people have asked me, I have struggled to articulate anything other than "I just did, we just do". There seems to be some idea that I have some secret within me that others don't have but the truth is that I did feel dead, but my body just kept going. I didn't feel alive anymore, but my heart kept pumping. Even though didn't consent to this life and made every choice I could to prevent it, it keeps moving, dragging me along with it kicking and screaming. The world as I knew it stopped spinning just as you think yours would, but the actual world kept rotating on its axis no matter how pissed off it made me. •

It's true that Scott and I have navigated this hell hole with a lot of grace and strength. We know it not only because we are told, but because we feel it. A lot of our wellbeing has to do with who we are as people and the network of support that we have around us, but really no matter who you are you figure it out in some capacity. This just happens to be my capacity for a multitude of reasons I don't have a grasp on. •

We have done and are doing this well, but we don't want to be anymore than you do and even though we are in it, we can't imagine it either. Don't mistake us still being here with you as meaning that we didn't feel like we shouldn't be. You can feel those things and still keep going, even when you don't know how. •

When I was heavily pregnant with our second child not even a year after losing Senna, I was messy. I was hormonal, I was sensitive, I was overwhelmed, and I was mourning. I know it was a shock and difficult to witness for my loved ones. •

In an effort to cope, I was analyzed. People whispered their opinions about who I was, why I was the way I was, and what I should do differently when the thought I was out of earshot. •

None of it really hurt though. Untill I was called weird. •

I crumbled. I blubbered. I felt so, so alone and extremely misunderstood. •

And ya know what? To someone who wasn't living what I was living, I probably seemed really weird. I was fragile, and I was trying to protect myself at all costs. Deep down, I know that I was "weird" and that a death-adverse society didn't have a place for someone that felt like grief with legs. Having that fear that I was too much for someone I loved wrecked me, but it didn't ruin me. I turned towards others who were able to meet me where I was, and those friendships still blossom today. And together, we agree that if being normals means grief adverse and riddled with shame, we would rather be weird. •

When your baby dies from something that only occurs in .05% of pregnancies that has no identified risk factors or cause, people cope by making things up. They distance themselves from the hard truth that bad things happen for no reason by putting you under a microscope. If they can find someone or something to blame, it means they can continue living in ignorance because they can believe it will never happens to them, because they will make different/better choices. Some people are so desperate to do this they will completely fabricate things about your most sacred moments •

And it fucking hurts. •

In my case, people I barley knew just made stuff up. And when I politely went to someone and offered to explain what happened and what a fetomaternal hemorrhage is just to make sure there was no misunderstanding, they were insulted. Even with proof, others denied it. They would act offended when word got back to me and I would remove myself from their peripheral. •

Just know that it is okay to leave the room, walk away, block them, and never look back. It is also okay to keep trying to explain or to hold space for when they're ready to discuss. However you manage(d) this sort of scenario in your own life, just know you're not alone. Whether their blame is rooted in truth or not, it isn't about you. Its about an inability to face the reality you wake up to every day. It has no reflection on the injustice of losing your baby, or validity of your mourning. •

When I first lost Senna, I was in survival mode. It wasn't just the first few months, it was the first few years. I stashed away many goods things about myself, but I also stopped being able to keep the perfect support person facade I had built up. I was no longer the person the people closets to me knew, and they made sure J knew it. •

People had their needs, desires, or expectations, and I simply could not meet them anymore. In response, I was called a hypocrite. I don't remember the exact context it was said in, but I do remember I was fighting for myself. For my right to be fucked up. For my right to hurt. For my right to do what I needed to survive at my worst. For the right to be the one who was in need instead of the one who was giving. •

Maybe this person still feels this way about me, but for me, I look back and know that I was not a hypocrite. I was morphing into the person I am now. I was learning new boundaries. I was finding hope. I was carving out a life for myself that included the memories of my dead baby. And if that means people's perception of me changed? So be it. •

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