Whenever I hear about a public event for child loss, I jump on the opportunity to attend. These events give me a chance to do something for Reed. They give our family a chance to connect with others who understand us in a way no one else can. Someday, they will give Sage a chance to process his feelings with other kids who are growing up without their siblings. As a loss mom, I love these events for all those reasons.
My favorite of all these events is the annual Angel Walk, hosted by an organization that has been immeasurably meaningful to our family - Angel Eyes. This year we were invited to be the honorary family, which meant Reed got to lead the walk. It felt very special, and a beautiful opportunity to gather our friends and family who have supported us through all the ache and confusion that comes with grief, and who continue to celebrate and remember Reed with us.
The walk is a festive atmosphere, designed to celebrate life rather than mourn loss. It is a place for new loss families to come together with more seasoned parents and see that the pain never goes away, but life does become bearable again someday. It offers reassurance that your baby will not ever be forgotten. Mostly, it gives us a space where our whole family can exist and be seen without explanation or effort. There is music and children’s games, food and face painting. It is filled with a joy and hope not generally associated with deep grief.
And then the name reading and balloon release begins, and the mood shifts. The reality of why we are all there hits as each family gets a moment to say their child’s name, release their balloons, and breathe. A heart wrenching poem is read, the music turns solemn, and people begin to cry. It is heavy, heavy, heavy, and it is so important. No one has to pretend they aren’t sad. No one awkwardly shifts away as they are reminded of the painful truth that sometimes babies die, because after all, that’s the reason we are all here.
This year, as we cried and listened to each name being read, I was struck by what it truly means to hold space for someone’s grief. The heaviness hanging in the air at that moment is something I carry with me all the time - I have learned how to manage it, how to tame it, and how to let it breathe when it comes clawing at my chest. But this group of people standing by our side? This isn’t their reality every day. And yet…they chose to come out on a beautiful Sunday morning and stand in that heaviness with us. They were willing to let the weight of grief into their hearts for a moment, and in doing so, they showed us that it is okay to be who we are now. It is okay to celebrate and laugh and smile at an event for babies who have died, and it is okay to cry and ache and wish things were different. With these people, we don’t have to pick and choose what emotions we show - all are welcome.
This is a tremendous thing, because not all relationships can withstand this. Not all of our relationships have withstood this. Many people simply cannot make space for the heavy moments that will always be present in our family. So to be standing there today, with a group of people who really see us and say they still love us, that they can still make space for us, and for Reed, after all this time…it means so much.
This event, and others like it, are a good metaphor for grief. As we began walking around the lake, the silence slowly dispersed into chatter and happy talk about Reed and the other babies, and the ways they showed themselves. We are still carrying the heaviness as we walk, and when we reach a name we recognize, there is a pause. A silence. An ache. Then we smile for a photo, and genuinely feel joy that our children have been given a moment to be recognized, in a world where they are so often invisible. The whole event is a series of these highs and lows, and it can be confusing and exhausting to feel all that in one day, sometimes in the very same moment. That’s grief. That is this life after loss. To have people walking through that with us, willing to learn alongside us and help us carry all that we feel, is a beautiful thing.