One Year Later

A letter to my daughter.

Happy birthday sweet baby girl, Harper.





It's been exactly one year since I got to hold your tiny and perfect body. Three hundred and sixty-five days since I felt each of your ribs. I marveled at your fingernails and toenails. And your tongue. No doubt, the cutest little tongue anyone has ever seen.





Harper 10.17.17

It both comforts and pains me to know that as I rocked your body in that delivery room, your Heavenly Father welcomed you home with open arms. While I know that you'll never have to experience any of the evil in this world, I would have (selfishly) loved the opportunity to help you navigate your way through life on earth.





Even though losing you, along with the shattering of all the hopes and dreams I had for you, is one of the most difficult things I've had to face, I have learned lessons I'm not sure I would have otherwise acquired. You taught me so much.



Take each thought captive.

You taught me what it means to take my thoughts captive. Sometimes I feel my imagination start to run away, into a downward spiral. Thoughts of what it would be like to watch your big brother play with you. Images of your daddy parenting his little girl. Then the self-pity starts to set in.





While these thoughts might be valid, maybe even okay to visit sometimes, they've never been productive for me. They cultivate feelings of jealousy, sadness, and self-pity.









You taught me that I have the power to take control over my thoughts. For example, when my mind turns to the memory of the warmth leaving your small body and your skin becoming cold, my heart hurts. Like, it physically hurts in my chest. Or when I begin to relive the moment that I had to leave you at the hospital; walk out of the room and get into my car without you. Or the cruel reminder of my milk coming in, but you weren't there to nurse. That's when I can decide that these thoughts, while true, bear no fruit for me.





I can make the choice to acknowledge that memory or thought, and let it go. Before you, I didn't know how to capture those thoughts and release them. I've learned to focus on my breathing when my thoughts start to bring me down a path I don't want to go. Deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. It's hard to maintain focus on those thoughts while concentrating on my breathing. I once heard someone say, "Visualize inhaling strength and exhaling the pain."





As Rachel Hollis urges, interrupt anxiety with gratitude. "It's impossible to feel anxiety and gratitude simultaneously." Can I quickly transition between the two feelings? Sure. But when I start to panic about the chances of this happening with another baby, I can shift my focus to the unending list of things for which I am grateful. Or when I am transported back to the moments I lost you, I can interrupt those thoughts to focus on what I am thankful for. In order to return to those feelings of anxiety, I would have to stop praising God for all the blessings I do have.



You changed me, baby girl. I miss you desperately and my heart aches for you, but you taught me so much. I no longer subscribe to a western approach to grief and mourning (but that is for another post). I am more willing to step into someone else's pain, even when I don't have the perfectly articulated questions or words of comfort. I'm moving toward a growth mindset where mistakes are opportunities for growth and I am more forgiving of myself.



My time with you was far too short, but your impact on me has been incredible. Thank you. You are loved, Harper.



Forever,

Your mama



