The Thread That Never Leave

Grief is often misunderstood. It’s not a moment, a season, or a stage to pass through—it’s a thread that weaves itself into our very being.

For me, that thread began to unravel the moment I heard the words no mother should ever hear:

“There’s nothing more we can do.”

Losing my firstborn son, Oatley Vernon, changed everything. While I’ve since welcomed three beautiful children, grief has never left. It has simply evolved.

I once believed time would ease the ache—that the joy of holding new life would soften the blow of loss. I hoped I’d someday breathe without heaviness, laugh without guilt, and feel peace unaccompanied by sorrow.

But grief isn’t something we outgrow.
It’s something we learn to carry.

This is my truth. If you’re reading this, I hope it helps you feel less alone, more understood, and fully seen.

---

---

Joy and Sorrow Can Coexist

As a rainbow mama, I’ve learned that joy and grief are not opposites—they often exist side by side.

Even my children are learning this, thanks to Inside Out 2, which beautifully illustrates that no emotion is “bad.” Every feeling holds value. Every tear and every laugh are threads of the same intricate tapestry.

Grief is unpredictable. It softens, then sharpens. It lingers quietly or returns loudly. Sometimes it sneaks up on me during bedtime snuggles or bursts forth during family celebrations. One of the most surprising moments came while caring for my nephew—who would’ve been just four weeks younger than Oatley.

At first, I feared the constant reminder would break me. But instead, his presence brought light. He unknowingly helped heal my heart. I’ll always hold a special place for him because of it.

I’ve often thought of grief like a wave—raw and powerful. Sometimes it laps gently, predictable, and repetitive; other times, it arrives like a tsunami: unexpected, devastating, and life-altering. Grief isn’t linear. Some days I feel grounded; other days, it feels like I’m drowning all over again. Recently, after losing a close friend unexpectedly, the weight of grief returned like a tidal wave—raw, paralyzing, and consuming.

---

“Some reminders break us. Others begin to help us heal.”

---

Grief in the Everyday

In the weeks and months after losing Oatley, I stayed in motion. I gave my heart to my niece and nephew and threw myself into work. And then—our miracle arrived. No we have three more beautiful rainbow babies.

But every pregnancy that followed was cloaked in fear. I didn’t decorate nurseries early. We waited to share the news, often times until just a few weeks before our due date. Every day for nine months, I braced for heartbreak. And not just mine—I feared once again hurting our families and loved ones.

Even now, with children ages 7, 4, and 3, that anxiety lingers. It shows up in the middle of the night panic attacks, when I get up to check if they are breathing. It shows in the way my heart skips a beat every time they cough, and in the mental spirals that follow a fall, or a scrape, or an illness.

Some call it overprotective.
I call it what it truly is….trauma.
In fact, at this point of my life its classified as PTSD.

Grief doesn’t just live in the heart—it rewires the brain and reshapes the body. Neuroscience tells us that our brain, in particular the amygdala (fear), hippocampus (memory), and prefrontal cortex (emotion regulation) all change after trauma. We become hyper-aware. Our bodies remember even when our minds try to move forward and forget.

After the recent death of a close friend—a woman who felt like family—I completely unraveled. My loved ones were concerned. They had never seen me break like that. I’ve always been the one who holds it together. But this time, I couldn’t.

And what I’ve come to understand is this:
When new grief arrives, it often reawakens the old.

Her death reopened the wounds of losing Oatley. I realized I’ve never fully grieved him. I moved, I mothered, I survived—but I never truly allowed myself to fall apart. I was too afraid of not getting back up.

But pain doesn’t vanish. It waits.
And when it returns, it asks to be felt.

Learning how to hold space for grief, and being brave enough to feel it…that takes strength.

---

---

The Myth of Moving On

We’ve all heard of the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But I’ve learned they’re not mile markers to healing. They’re a ever turning carousel—one we circle again and again.

For me, acceptance isn’t an endpoint. In fact, for me it feels impossible. I will always wonder who Oatley would’ve been. I will always ache for the sound of all four of my children playing in the backyard. A piece of my family—and a piece of me—is missing.

That same emptiness exists with the loss of my friend. I’ll never again get her thoughtful texts or find a surprise meatloaf in my car after work. I’ll never again hear her advice or send her silly pet pictures to make her laugh.

They were here one moment and gone the next.
That kind of loss is nothing short of traumatic.

---

What Grief Has Taught Me

I’ve always tried to be the person who finds beauty in the broken. For the past eight years, I’ve searched for purpose within this pain.

My aunt, who also lost a child, was a lifeline during those early days. I remember asking her, “Why us? Why this?” She didn’t have answers, but she said something I’ll never forget:

“I don’t know why. But I’m grateful that my loss allowed me to be here for you in yours.”

That changed everything for me.

It reminded me that maybe, just maybe, my pain could help someone else feel less alone. Maybe my story could be a bridge between two hearts who need each other.

That’s why I speak out.
That’s why I share Oatley’s story.
That’s why I write, and create, and hug those who know this pain.

I’m not an expert.
I’m a mother who buried her baby at 23 years old.
I’m a woman who’s lost again and again—and still wakes up, still reaches out, still chooses love.

Grief has taught me to notice the way the early morning sun shines in a golden glow off my daughter’s curls.
To stop and memorize the sound of my son’s giggles.
To pause, breathe, and be thankful for what I thought I would never have.

But none of it is easy.

Grief is still hard.
Still heavy.
Still tangled with overstimulation and anxiety—especially while raising young kids.

Healing is not about forgetting.
It’s about learning to remember with softness.
It’s about honoring the ache and letting it shape us.

I’m not the same person I was before loss.

I will never again be who I was before this grief.
And I’m learning to believe… that’s okay.

---

---

I created these graphics as gentle, visual reminders for the days when grief feels heavy or healing feels far away. You can print them out, save them to your device, or set them as your phone background—whatever brings you the most comfort. Personally, having one on my phone has helped me pause, and feel grounded in the middle of an otherwise overwhelming season. This is my gift to you—something small, but meaningful, to carry with you. A reminder that you are not alone in this.

---

Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

Grief doesn’t fade—it folds itself into new seasons of life. It’s not something to fix. It’s something to honor and hold space for.

If this post resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. Share it with a friend who needs to hear it. Leave a note in the comments, send me a message, or reach out privately.

We were never meant to carry this alone.

I see you.
I honor you.
And I’m holding space for your story.

With all my heart,