Grief doesn’t end; it changes shape. Eight months after losing our toddler, we open the door to where love and ache meet—and to a surprise that softens the edges: a scan that shows us what we are having. The moment lands like thunder and rain, making room for healing and hard questions all at once.
We talk candidly about sharing loss online, the backlash that comes with visibility, and the quiet messages that keep us going—like a dad who wrote, “I lost my son. I need help.” That tension between criticism and connection informs how we show up, why we sometimes use the algorithm to expand reach, and when we step back to protect our energy. We name grief as unspent love, explore how storytelling becomes medicine, and reflect on the power of being the gatekeepers of our son’s memory. Along the way, we revisit a hard medical puzzle—why we think our son’s rare heart condition wasn’t genetic, and how an early high fever might have shaped his development—while choosing humility about what we can’t know.
Pregnancy after loss is its own terrain. We explain why we chose a scan this time and why we decided to find out the sex, especially for our kids who needed a bright thread to hold. We share what the sex is and that truth carries both joy and tenderness: imagining the day we tell the baby about their brother, wondering which features will echo, and preparing for the flood of emotion that birth will bring. We keep returning to presence—breakfast dates with a struggling child, gratitude rounds at the table, letting photos spark stories—because attention is the only control we really have. If you’re navigating grief, parenting, or the complicated hope of new beginnings, this conversation offers honesty, companionship, and a reminder that your story matters.
