For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness, Support Resources
Last year, my husband told me that he didn’t feel the need to be celebrated on Father’s Day since he didn’t have a living child. His announcement didn’t come from a place of anger or even apathy–he was simply stating a fact. He truly did not see any reason to be recognized and was okay with that. While I knew he was satisfied with this arrangement, I couldn’t help but think of just how worthy he was to be recognized for the incredible dad he is–despite how different his day-to-day life may appear when compared with other parents. Bereaved dads are top-notch fathers, often giving their all with little to no recognition from the outside world.
But we see you, dads. As partners, we see you and we celebrate you even when the world forgets.
We saw the way your heart overflowed with love and pride the first time you heard your baby’s heartbeat. We saw the way you supported us through morning sickness, discomforts, and a wide spectrum of emotions. We saw the way you faithfully stood by our side, as friends, family, doctors, nurses, and even strangers showered endless attention on the mom-to-be.
We saw the way your heart broke when that precious heartbeat stopped. We saw the way you asked the doctors questions and selfishly advocated for our needs, as our world stopped spinning and we crumbled beneath the weight of grief. We saw the way you strongly held us up when we felt so weak–and we know you were hurting just as deeply.
As friends, family, doctors and nurses continued to shower us with endless support and attention, it was you who remained our biggest cheerleader. For months, you selflessly responded as buddies and coworkers continued to ask “How’s your wife?” Though you were equally affected, even if in different ways, you never made it about you.
We see the way you protect and provide for us each day. We see the way you move through your day, often unrecognized as the incredible partner and father that you are. There are few men more admirable nor more selfless than you. While you may not crave the recognition, we cannot imagine anyone else more deserving than you. To all of the bereaved dads parenting babies they can no longer hold, we celebrate you not just today but every day. Happy Father’s Day–we appreciate you more than words can say.
Forever Footprints invites you to attend the annual OC Golf to Remember Tournament, July 12, 2018 at 11am at Oak Creek Golf Course in Irvine. To register or receive more information visit https://foreverfootprints.org/remembrance/events/oc-golf-to-remember/.
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
*Header photo by Benedicto de Jesus on Unsplash
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness
Mother’s Day changes when you’ve lost a baby. A day that was once filled with so much celebration and hope has been shadowed with grief, pain, and perhaps feelings of isolation. It’s not that you dislike the holiday or all that it signifies–it’s simply that someone very special is missing and motherhood has suddenly taken on a whole new meaning.
Brave mama, please hear me when I say this. Though it may not always seem true, this is your day too. Whether the sentimental greeting cards and commercials featuring smiling women and cooing babies fill your heart with hope, despair, or a combination of both, this day is for you.
To the mamas who have said goodbye to a baby of any age or gestation: You are an incredible mother. You have been handed the sacred and immensely extraordinary task of mothering a child you can no longer hold. You are among the those who have been chosen to experience a love stronger than death. You have the privilege of having known someone so small, yet so important. You keep moving forward day by day, all the while keeping your baby’s memory and legacy alive. Even when no one says your baby’s name, this is your day too.
To the mamas whose arms feel empty: you matter. While the world may not see your motherhood, I do. I see the way motherhood has seeped into every corner of your heart and mind. While your home or the backseat of your vehicle may not show any evidence of children, I see the ways your baby has changed every part of your daily life and has made you into a beautiful mother. You matter and this is your day too.
To the mamas who hold children in their arms, all while feeling the absence of the baby they lost: you are doing an amazing job. While you may feel inadequate, you are a shining example of love and strength to your living children. Your love for them does not diminish the love for the baby you lost, nor does your grief for the baby you lost diminish the joy you have over those in your arms. You are brave and this is your day too.
Rather than seeing Mother’s Day merely as a day of despair, I hope you and I will be able to celebrate our title of bereaved mothers (even if there are plenty of tears–crying is still brave). This year, let’s link arms and take time to honor the women who have had a positive, nurturing influence–our own amazing mothers, grandmothers, sisters, and mentors. And may we stand in amazement when we recognize that we, too, stand among that influential bunch.
This is your day too.
Brave Mamas–as we approach Mother’s Day, Forever Footprints would like to honor you at the annual Nurture to Remember event, Tuesday, May 8. Come join other loss moms for a day of connection and healing. For more information or to register, visit https://foreverfootprints.org/remembrance/events/oc-nurture-to-remember/.
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
Top photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash,
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness
After my newborn son died, I grieved more than his passing. Of course, the grief I felt over losing Ethan was the loudest, the most painful, and demanded the most attention, but there were other losses I experienced in the wake of his death. I grieved the girl I was before being forced to say goodbye.
I missed the optimist who assumed that a positive pregnancy test promised a healthy baby in nine months. I missed the joy I once felt attending baby showers. I missed being able to walk past the baby section at Target without my eyes filling with tears.
I grieved for the extrovert who enjoyed smalltalk and crowded social gatherings. I grieved for the girl who didn’t struggle with anxiety and didn’t feel everything so deeply.
I missed the girl who had incredible focus and could keep track of deadlines, assignments, birthdays, and daily tasks with ease. I missed the girl who didn’t feel so foggy headed and forgetful.
I grieved for the girl who smiled far more than she cried. I grieved for the girl who was once so innocent.
Part of me died along with my son and I yearned for all I had lost. Though most of my tears were shed over the loss of my son, I cried over the loss of the pieces of myself. Pre-loss Kristin was gone and I missed her.
It took some time for me to become acquainted with my post-loss self. As time passed, I began to see that I was still the same girl at the core. Yes, parts of me had changed–some for the worse and some for the better. Despite the intense pain that had come with this transformation, I slowly began to embrace the stronger, better version of myself.
I liked the realist who understood that life is full of both joy and grief. I liked the girl who could truly empathize with fellow broken hearts and who truly treasured each day. I liked the girl who felt everything so deeply.
I celebrated the girl who craved deep, meaningful connection with others. I celebrated her ability to establish genuine connections with like-minded people, despite the many awkward social interactions along the way.
I liked the girl who didn’t simply check things off a list, but was propelled by passion and emotion. I liked the girl who wasn’t afraid to cry, laugh, or embrace a combination of both. I welcomed my newfound ability to embrace my emotions without shame and to celebrate the ways these feelings had made me more compassionate, more patient, and more wise than I had been before.
The more I embraced this new broken yet beautiful version of myself, the more I grew to like her. I choose to embrace this girl. The one whose broken heart has expanded to make way for more love. The one who doesn’t sweat the small stuff as much, who isn’t afraid to question and seek answers, and who is comfortable in her own skin. This girl has been given the incredible gift of experiencing a love for a child that is stronger than death, and though I had hoped a thousand times that my circumstances had been different, I am grateful for the new me that has come with being Ethan’s mom.
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
Top photo by Artem Kovalev on Unsplash.
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness, Support Resources
It was difficult for me to ask for help after our newborn son died. The struggle partially stemmed from my pride and my desire to continue to be the friend who provided support to others, not the other way around. Even more so, I barely had the ability to articulate or even identify what I needed in the first place. At times, it seemed easier to go it alone. Surely I could do this.
Deep down I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t do any of this on my own. My heart, mind, and body were weary from months of high risk doctor appointments, processing bad news on bad news, saying goodbye to our firstborn child, and trying to recover from the physical and emotional impacts of childbirth mixed with grief. My husband and I needed community. Sure, we did our very best to support one another–yet it was difficult to fully support the other when each of us felt so weak. As daunting as it sounded, we both knew we needed support.
We took the initially terrifying step of tearing down our walls and saying yes to others–yes to support in the form of warm meals, yard work, funeral assistance, and company. Day by day, we began to see that we were never meant to do life alone. We were never meant to have it all together. We were meant to enter into each other’s messes and support one another. This beautifully messy community is one of the greatest gifts we’ve been given.
We found support within the pregnancy and infant loss community. I immediately found myself connected with a support group, where I met women who have now become some of my closest friends. That first October, just two months after our son died, my husband and I were invited to attend Forever Footprint’s Annual Walk to Remember. As we stood beside hundreds of parents who had walked similar journeys as us, we felt surrounded by love and support. We didn’t have to explain. We didn’t have to pretend. Within the pregnancy and infant loss community I found my people–ones that simply knew what I needed, always remembered important milestone dates, and I could always count on to talk me through the multiple baby aisle meltdowns I had at Target.
We also found support outside of the pregnancy and infant loss community. At first, it was difficult for me to tear down the walls around my heart to people that I assumed wouldn’t understand. With time, I realized that I was missing out by shutting others out. Within our families, our friend groups, our jobs, and our church were many people who simply wanted to support us. They didn’t fully understand (and we would never want them to), yet they were willing to step into the mess of deep grief and simply be there for us. Within this community I found gentle-hearted people who did their best to understand and meet me wherever I was at, while offering a fresh perspective.
In my experience, the hardest thing about finding and accepting support after baby loss was the initial step. It can be scary to bare your heart to someone, knowing they may not understand or unintentionally say the wrong thing. Vulnerability may have felt terrifying at first, but once I took that first step I quickly realized that it was the road that led to community and true support. I am incredibly grateful to the people who have loved me at my weakest and have encouraged me when I felt so alone. I am thankful for the deeper friendships, comfort, and family that have come from two-way support and community. Needing one another doesn’t make us weak–it’s a natural part of who we are as people. We were never meant to do this life alone. We were always meant to lift one another up in our times of need. If we must walk down this difficult road, let’s do it together.
If you are feeling alone right now, please accept this virtual hug and know that we are in this together. I encourage you to find and connect with someone who “gets it”. I encourage you to speak your child’s name to a friend. I encourage you to join one of Forever Footprints’ support groups and/or attend a Forever Footprints event, such as the Walk to Remember. It’s okay to not be okay, and it’s okay reach out. You are not alone.
*Photo by Lexi Behrndt
Kristin Hernandez lives in Southern California with her husband Chris and their Queensland Heeler mix, Dakota. After struggling with unexplained infertility for several years, Kristin was thrilled when she became pregnant with Ethan. The celebration quickly turned to concern when doctors discovered Ethan had a serious heart defect and was missing a piece of his brain–likely indicative of a chromosome abnormality. Ethan was born on August 16, 2015 and spent his 93-minute life in his parents’ arms. Kristin is now a mother to five babies in heaven, including four of Ethan’s younger siblings who she has never met. Despite these struggles, Kristin has resolved to embrace the life she has been given and to leave a legacy for her family. Kristin works in communications by day, but can also be found running, camping, writing or having a conversation over a cup of coffee. She writes at www.sunlightindecember.com and is the cohost of the Through the Lens Podcast.
For Mothers and Fathers, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness, Support Resources
-Kristin Hernandez
Gold confetti, champagne bubbles, and excited grins pierced my aching heart like knives as I scrolled through social media. The entire world welcomed 2016 with open arms–not just welcomed, but celebrated it–and I wasn’t ready to move forward. My son was born and had died in 2015. There was no dash between years on his headstone as there should have been. My entire pregnancy and his short little life had all been crammed into that year and I didn’t want to step forward, let alone throw a party over it.
New Year’s Day can be blindsiding when you’ve lost a baby. In December, many of us brace ourselves for the social gatherings, the unfulfilled traditions, and the constant reminders of the empty seat at our holiday tables. We breathe a sigh of relief as the holiday season draws to a close, only to be faced with the unexpectedly difficult transition of leaving another year behind without our children.
So how do we step into a new year and into this “new normal” when a piece of our heart is missing? What resolutions can we set for ourselves when we may not even know which way is forward?
Make a list of things you are thankful for in the previous year. As we transitioned into 2016, I resolved to write down the blessings that had come in 2015. At first, I could hardly come up with one thing, but as I began to write my teary eyes began to shine with pride and gratitude. Perhaps the previous year made you a mother, even if it came with struggle and sorrow. Perhaps you learned something about yourself, gained deeper relationships, or witnessed personal growth in your own life. Let’s take some time to be thankful for these changes and to acknowledge that the best gifts are not always the most comfortable.
Acknowledge that it is hard. Take time to mourn what you are leaving behind in 2017, whether it’s a loved one, a dream, or a part of yourself. Give yourself permission to feel, to grieve, to care for your heart and to set healthy boundaries. Give yourself some grace.
Don’t be afraid to make resolutions for 2018. It was especially difficult to make plans the following year after Ethan died, but I found it helpful to have something positive to look forward to. Start a blog, join a 5K (Forever Footprints hosts an annual memorial Walk To Remember every October), join a support group (Forever Footprints hosts groups in Long Beach, Orange and Chino,) finally try those recipes you’ve been pinning for years, or take the first step toward a personal dream.
Remember that moving forward isn’t the same as “moving on”. Embracing the new year does not mean that we are “forgetting” or “moving on”. It does not mean that we love our babies any less. Moving forward happens when we take all of the love and the pain we’ve faced and allow it to refine us and make us better. It happens when we open our hearts to more love (and potentially more heartache), free of guilt. It doesn’t simply slap on a smile, but rather it acknowledges both the joy and grief we’ve experienced as we step forward to live authentically and leave a positive legacy.
Whether 2018 fills your heart with excitement, sadness, or a little of both, we’re all in this together. Wishing you and your family a wonderful new year.
Forever Footprints Programs, OC Walk to Remember, Parent Stories, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness, Support Resources, Uncategorized
I will never forget the first time I felt it. I was sitting in a room full of women, who were all laughing, talking, complaining about their husbands, bragging about their children. It was five months after my son Joseph had died, and I thought I could do it. I thought I could join the world again. I wanted to feel normal. But sitting in that room—with a newly formed women’s group—I never felt so alone in my entire life. The sounds all became one, like a constant buzzing. My hands started to sweat. My heart started to pound. And I ran for the door.
I ran from new friendships and I ran from my old friendships. I isolated myself from those who had children and babies. I couldn’t face my pregnant friends, because I was a reminder to them of what could go wrong. My friends’ worlds were moving forward, and my life felt as if it was standing still. I didn’t know how to be anyone’s friend.
I was different. I had held my son and watched him take his last breaths. I watched his casket being put in the ground. I had gone home to leaking breasts full of his milk, an empty nursery, and a broken heart. And my friends would never understand that.
As the months after Joseph’s death turned into years, and I sought the help of support groups and private therapy to deal with my grief, I tried to repair old friendships and begin new ones. I started to accept this was the new me. And I began to see, I didn’t have to run.
And I wasn’t alone after all. Through Forever Footprints I’ve met thousands of other women just like me. Women who have lost their child or children. Many of them have become my friends. We may not talk every day. We may not see each other for months. But I know they are there for me, and I am there for them. We are forever connected by the love of our babies.
I’m so fortunate to have women like Taite and Liz in my life. We share the pain of our losses but have formed beautiful friendships. Forever Footprints brought us together. To join a support group and sit beside others who know your pain, Click Here for more information.
I found I could become a friend to others that struggled with pain or loss. It doesn’t just come in the form of losing a child, but also through things like divorce or illness. I’m not always the friend people call to go out for a movie or to go on a girl’s trip, but I’m often the one they call when they are going through a difficult time.
Our friends have been a wonderful support and attended the OC Walk to Remember with us each year. I’m especially grateful to my friend Sandi who has walked beside me for 12 years at every OC Walk to Remember since it began. To create your own team or to walk in honor of a friend’s baby at the 2017 OC Walk to Remember on October 14, Click Here
There are still times I sit in a room and feel so different than anyone else. But I don’t run. I embrace that being a mom who has lost a child has formed me into a person who is strong, brave, resilient, and compassionate. And I tell my story, because more often than not, there someone else in that room that needs a friend.
Kristyn von Rotz is the Founder and Chair of the Board of Directors for Forever Footprints, a nonprofit organization that gives support, education and remembrance to families who have experienced pregnancy loss or infant death. In honor of her son Joseph, who died at birth in July 2005, she has worked for twelve years to improve the care families receive after the loss of their child or children. She’s the mom to three living children and works as a freelance writer and editor.
Click Here to follow her Facebook page.
