Everdearest Aurora,

I’ve had you in my heart for just under two months. (In my belly, a little bit more). It’ll be never be long enough, but then again…is it ever? Our time together has been well spent, and we are lucky to have known you at all.

It was a small miracle that I discovered your presence in my belly so early in the pregnancy. Because of that, we got to see images of your growth. Your little heartbeat, at a delicate 6 weeks.

You brought tremendous happiness in such a short period of time. We cautiously shared the news, and everyone responded with joy and celebration. We all loved you before we ever saw you.

It makes me sad that we’ll never get the chance to meet you. That your tiny heart stopped beating, and that you had to leave us so soon.

Thank you for coming into our world when you did. Thank you for giving all of yourself, so that we could find even deeper appreciation for the wonderful things life has to offer. In your presence and lack thereof, we have been showered with love and support. Relationships have been deepened. Feelings have been felt.

You have taught me lessons in patience, compassion, and forgiveness. For others, but also for myself. You’ve made me stronger, and more kind. You’ve reminded me to follow my intuition, and given me the power to trust it again. You’ve allowed me to take time, to take care of myself. It is everything I knew I needed. I needed you.

I’ll never be ready to let you go. But today, I’m ready to say goodbye to your physical body. I promise not remember you as my miscarriage, but as my baby love. You’ve made as deep of an impact as anyone else, and I can already feel the shift in my life – for the better. It’s all for a reason, and my new reason is you. 

With closure and gratitude,

Your loving mamma, always.

Love and Loss

Motherhood has exposed my heart for the world to see.  My boys are a constant reminder of what a beautiful mess life can be.  In between them, I’ve had two miscarriages, each making my heart more raw and more open.

We all have different ways of coping. If an “Everdearest” can be your tool, this space is for you.  For your heart. For your baby love.



This space is a combination of things.  In a selfish way, I want everyone to know my baby without ever having met her.  I wish to share the joy of her, instead of her being remembered as a miscarriage.  But beyond that, and more importantly, I want parents to know that they are not alone.  I want them to grieve, and know that it’s ok not to be ok.  But also, that it’s ok to be ok.  It’s ok to let yourself heal, because it doesn’t mean you’ll forget.  


It was too early to tell the gender, but I feel like she would have been a girl.  We named her Aurora. (Not necessarily after the main character of my favourite Disney Movie.)  An aurora in nature is also referred to as polar lights.  It seems fitting. And I love the idea of her being a beautiful light show in the sky.  If you ever have the chance to see one, I hope you think of her.  My true hope is that we all think of her, so that she won’t be forgotten.  I know that she’ll be in my heart forever. I thank you, specifically, for taking the time to meet her today.


The pee test was a family activity. My son was hanging out in the bathroom with me, as toddlers often do. He was really interested in my science project, and I let him dip the test strip. We counted to 10 a few times, in a few languages. Then he ran out to the bed and said “Papa, look what I made!” My husband got the pee stick directly in his face, just in case he couldn’t see the line clearly. The pregnancy test was positive.

We were thrilled and immediately shared the news. Knowing that most people wait until after the first trimester, I justified it by saying that if anything did happen, I would want the support of those around me. Yup, I acknowledged the possibility of a miscarriage. Said it out loud, even. Did I jinx it? Was it my fault? (A question that sporadically pops up despite my attempt at logical and objective reasoning. In a dark place, I even made a list called “Ways I killed my baby”.)

I spent a lot of time worrying about making the right medical decision. (i.e. The one that would allow me to have more babies.). Once I accepted that I had very little control over that part, I was suddenly faced with the more emotional task of…everything else. I grew desperate to find ways to remember. I took pictures of my barely there belly. I framed our one healthy ultrasound. Even requested a copy of the unhealthy one. It all made me realize: I wasn’t ready.

As I struggled with all the thoughts floating in my head, I turned to my most trusted form of therapy: letter writing. Letters have always provided such comfort. In this case, it helped me find acceptance. The day after I wrote my letter, my body let go of our physical attachment. I started bleeding three weeks after I learned of my miscarriage. My body knew that my heart was ready. It hadn’t failed me, after all. I consider myself lucky to have been able to prepare for it.

I understand why people keep it to themselves. It was hard to reverse the happy news, and face the disappointment and sadness in everyone’s eyes. It was especially hard to explain to my 2.5 year old son that the baby in my tummy had stopped growing; that we have to say goodbye and wait for another baby. (He says he wants two.) At times, it was difficult to face the myriad of opinions and comments. It made things hard, but it never made me regret my decision. I could not imagine having to go through this alone, in silence.

Some of the most comforting moments have come from those who have been through the experience. It’s not to take away from everyone who was amazing and supportive in their own way. It’s just to note that sometimes, it’s nice to be understood without having to exchange too many words. I hope to provide that same comfort, moving forward. It is the good that I will carry from this situation.



Everdearest Aurora,

It’s been a little over one month since we lost your little heart. One month of pain, grief, and healing – inside and out.  On most days, I’m surprisingly ok.  I feel almost guilty saying it, when people ask how I am.  I’m ok. I’ll be ok.   Then sometimes, it hits me like a ton of bricks.  That’s when I feel weak, helpless, and to blame.  On some days, I’m going through the motions. I’m smiling when I think I should be happy, snapping pictures of moments I know to be great.  (I know, but I don’t feel it).  I force myself to reach out, while retreating inside my head.  Even in the midst of loving family and friends, I sometimes have to remind myself to feel happy.  But also, there are fleeting moments when my heart feels 100% joy.  In those moments, I really know: I’m going to be ok.

In the first month of my pregnancy, I began experiencing many symptoms of depression and/or anxiety. I would have checked all the red flag answers  in those postpartum depression surveys.  It was difficult for me to overcome, because I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling so terrible when such a wonderful thing was happening.  Again, that guilt.  I learned about perinatal depression, and almost made an appointment to see a therapist.  That week, we found out, and then I had other things to be anxious about.  I never got around to making that appointment, though I probably should.  Coincidentally, the feelings of extreme imbalance have subsided.  In some twisted way, I’m reassured, knowing that there’s a reason for me to be feeling down and out.  Possible you’ve saved me from myself.

Your father misses you.  He misses the idea of you, and it hasn’t been easy for him.  He says the wrong thing sometimes, but I can see past it because of love.  He has been extra loving, and thoughtful, and patient towards me.  It hasn’t gone unnoticed, though I don’t think he knows how much I actually appreciate it.  I’ve been keeping my distance – up to this point, subconsciously.  I’m afraid to be close, both emotionally and physically.  I’m not ready to try again, and a simple kiss sends my mind on a fast-forward journey of reliving the uncertainty.  And, because he loves me so, he also gets the worse of me.  When I’m home, my guards are down.  At the end of the day, I’ve usually exhausted all my energy in trying to function and be ok.  When I’m with him, I can just be.  That version of me isn’t always so pleasant.  Even worse, it’s sometimes nothing at all.  He does all these things for me, and all I can muster is: nothing.  It’s not really fair, but I hope I can continue to trust my heart in his hands. 

Your brother has been a saving grace through all of this.  His whole-hearted happiness is contagious, and his love envelops us all.  There are times when I’m afraid to be sad.  I’m scared that the negative energy will affect his innocent heart.  But he’s strong, and he understands.  When I’m down, he holds me tighter.  When I let myself cry at night, he wimpers beside me, and then hugs me to sleep.  I wish that you could have experienced all the love he had for you.  He’s really good with his heart, and I know he would have protected you in the most special way.

Tonight is a tough one, as you can probably tell.  Thank you for being here, as a source of comfort.  I’ll try to make the next one more uplifting, okay?


Your mamma, still. 



Everdearest Aurora,


You’re going to be a big sister! About 7 tests have confirmed that I’ve been pregnant since August, and maybe sooner.   We’ve been excited, but cautiously so.  I guess it’s a defense mechanism.  I think the doctor could tell, because she assured me that there was nothing I could do to hurt the baby at this stage. It’s well protected, she said.  I wish I believed her.


Our first ultrasound was last week, and showed that the baby wasn’t quite as developed as they expected. It’s inconclusive…we just have to wait two weeks for a second ultrasound.  And then we’ll know, either way.  It’s very early in the pregnancy, and I wouldn’t be so worried if we hadn’t gone through a similar situation with you.  There’s really nothing I can do now but to be positive and hope for the best.  I know it’s beyond my control, no matter how my mind tries to trick me.


Your brother is super excited and that can get contagious.  He says it’s his baby sister, and talks to her through my belly button.  He asks her to come out “just for a little” so that he can share his dinosaurs.  He also sings to her, and lifts his shirt for her to meet his “Xavi baby”.  He’s so loving, and already protective.  When I stub my toe or cry out for any reason, he’s quick to ask “is the baby ok, mamma?” – it breaks my heart and fills it with love, all at the same time.


We intended on keeping it a secret, at least for a little while.  But circumstances made it difficult to hide, and it’s pretty impossible to keep a secret in our family.  We compromised and have been sharing the news discretely, as it comes up.  I’ve been ok with that, because I don’t feel quite ready to put it out there, what with the uncertainty.  In a small, and self imposing way, I feel a bit guilty about robbing her of all the love and affection that you received so early in life.  I feel selfish for wanting to protect my heart, when it means that she may not get the total happiness of a hopeful and unencumbered announcement.


In any case, Aurora, you’ve been a guiding force for me these past few months.  Life got a bit hectic, and I found myself distracted at times.  My mind always came back to you, which reminded me to take care of myself.  You’ve made it a bit easier to find my center, to be balanced and focused. But most of all, to be forgiving of myself.  


It’s not been a an easy healing process.  With your due date just around the corner, I’ve been faced with a new set of thoughts and feelings.  I’m super grateful to be surrounded by so many loving and supportive people.  I only wish I was able to spend more time with each of them. I often wish the same for you.


Well, this was meant to be a happy letter, but I’m feeling somewhere in between.  You have my heart, baby girl.  It’s not always pretty, but I hope it’s always true.


With all my love and emotions,

Your mamma, always.


Everdearest Aurora,

Please take good care of your baby sister. We named her Amelia.

As we told Xavi, she is coming to keep you company.

With a heavy heart, but filled with love…

Your mamma.


Everdearest Amelia,

I hope you like your name.  Xavi smiles every time he says it, and that makes me super happy.  He’s loved you so much already.  He was really sad when we knew you wouldn’t make it, and kept saying “but I don’t want to her to go away”.  We all miss you tremendously.  Xavi often senses my feelings, and comes to ask “why are you sad, mamma?”.  He tells me he wants to keep me safe.  He captures all of my feelings, in just one loving hug.

I found out your papa had a talk with Xavi, and told him it was their job to keep me happy and safe.  I don’t think I could ask for anything more.  Your papa and I have been faced with many of the delicate issues that come into a marriage, miscarriages included.  It hasn’t been easy, but it hasn’t been dramatic, and we’ve survived to be a stronger couple.  We’re kinder, and more patient with each other, and are building this family from a place of love.  You would have been a lovely addition to our home.

The second time is easier and also more difficult.  There’s much less self doubt, and questioning.  Aurora built that armour for me. On the other hand, there’s nothing that can take away the emptiness.  You’re still with me, technically.  I’m cherishing every moment we have together, even in sadness.  When it’s time, I’ll say goodbye.  I’ll never be ready, but I’ll be prepared.

There’s a different weight this time, I think from not having announced our pregnancy to everyone.  I don’t even remember now, who we’ve told, and what.  In some ways, it’s nice to face an unknowing world, and get caught up in their happiness and normalcy.  I wonder if people will look back and say “I had no idea. She’s so strong to push forward on her own.” But that’s my ego talking.  In reality, I’ve been a broken mess, and not very good at pretending. It exhausts me, and I’d much rather be honest.  The truth is, I’m really sad.  (But I’ll be ok.)

I know I’m not alone, and that makes it a little bit easier every step of the way. I’m surrounded by incredible people, generous with their time, their stories and their hearts.  I’ve been blessed with Lloyd, Xavi, Aurora and Neji.  And now we have you.

Forever in my heart,

Your hopeful mamma. 


Everdearest Amelia,

I guess this is it.  The bleeding started a few days ago, but last night it was gushing and my body seemed ready to let you go.  It’s probably not a coincidence that it happened right after I wrote your letter.  It also happened that way with Aurora. 

The emotional part is difficult, but I forgot how messy the physical process can be.  Again, I count my blessings for knowing in advance, and being able to prepare for it.  Unexpected bleeding or cramping like that would have been pretty scary.  I happened to be at the office yesterday, and had to leave abruptly.  I drove home while sitting on a paper bag, to protect the car seat.

I peeled off my pants in the tub, and literally stood in a pool of blood.  I was sort of glad none else was home to see any of it. I was by myself, but not alone.  After I washed up, I found my trusty pack of disposable underwear.  As a professional organizer, I would have encouraged my clients to dispose of that bag a long time ago.  It’s from when I had Xavi, 3 years ago.  But I’m so glad I decided against it, because that one pack has seen me through one pregnancy and two miscarriages.

So I spent the entire evening lying down, watching tv, wearing the robe your great grandma gave me.  I even let myself eat dinner (and dessert) in bed! It would have been a different vibe, had I not been wearing Depends the whole time.

I’m not sure why I felt inclined to write about all the gory details. (And still, I’ve left stuff out.)  I guess for the same reason I wanted to share the news at all.  There can be an implication of shame, in secrecy.  And I don’t feel ashamed at all.  Not of you, of my body or of the process.  I trust in nature, and believe that there’s a time and reason for everything.

I thank you for coming into our lives when you did.  I already feel more enriched from it, and confident of a wonderful future.  

Still ever so hopeful,

Your mamma.


Everdearest Amelia,

I’ve gotten my first period, and I’m finding myself feeling pretty awful.

​Physically, I’ve experienced more “symptoms” than I did during my last two pregnancies.  Cramps, headaches, constipation, increased appetite – the works.  And then I’m bleeding pretty heavily, which has drained me of all the energy.  It almost feels like I’m re-living the miscarriage.  Pretty awful.

Emotionally, it’s starting to break me.  I was sitting in the dark with Xavi today, looking at his star lights, when I suddenly burst into tears..  He just came closer to me, his hand on my knee.  He asked me why I was crying, and I told him that it must be because I miss his baby sisters.  We talk about you often, and he seems to understand.

I wish I could be stronger right now, but I’m not   I’ll let it pass and wait for a new day, tomorrow.

Until then,
Your mama.


Everdearest Amelia,

I’ve gotten my first period, and I’m finding myself feeling pretty awful.

​Physically, I’ve experienced more “symptoms” than I did during my last two pregnancies.  Cramps, headaches, constipation, increased appetite – the works.  And then I’m bleeding pretty heavily, which has drained me of all the energy.  It almost feels like I’m re-living the miscarriage.  Pretty awful.

Emotionally, it’s starting to break me.  I was sitting in the dark with Xavi today, looking at his star lights, when I suddenly burst into tears..  He just came closer to me, his hand on my knee.  He asked me why I was crying, and I told him that it must be because I miss his baby sisters.  We talk about you often, and he seems to understand.

I wish I could be stronger right now, but I’m not   I’ll let it pass and wait for a new day, tomorrow.

Until then,
Your mama.


Everdearest Amelia & Aurora,

Sadness sneak attacked me yesterday.  I was cleaning out some bins and came across a small collection of baby clothes that I had purchased in hopes of you.  My professional organizer mind knows that I should let most, if not all, of them go.   My heart was not quite ready.  

My mood shifted in a subtle way, but I could tell that I had less patience with myself and Xavi.  That’s how I usually know that something is off.  So I took a breath, and acknowledged the root of it.  It didn’t make it easier, and I carried the sadness with me all day.  But it always helps me to know Why.

Today is not as sad, but just as full of love.  Thank you both for carrying my heart in your wings.



Everdearest Aurora and Amelia,

Your Tita Meese once told me that grief is love without an outlet.  I had all this love for you, that we never really got to experience in a physical way.  It makes so much sense, and explains a lot of what I’ve been feeling lately.  I’ve cried many happy tears in the past few weeks, overwhelmed by love and acts of kindness.  I’ve also reconnected with a lot of people – in my heart and in real life.  I’m in search of an outlet, for all the love.

We just got back from Montreal, and it was a visit that fed my soul.  All that leftoever love found new places to be, and I felt the kind of happiness that makes you look back and realize that maybe you haven’t been totally ok..  I come back to equally supportive and important relationships, and am feeling a little more complete.  Locally and long distance, I am surrounded by the best kind of love, and they welcome my heart with open arms. 

This doesn’t mean I love you any less.  I think about you both, every single day.  Xavi and I speak about you often.  We’ve been reading a book called “Just You and Me”, about two polar bear friends.  There’s a page towards the end, that shows the northern lights.  Xavi sometimes pauses, asking if it’s Aurora, and if that’s where Amelia is, too.  You’re no longer with us, but you’ll always be with us.  If losing you means gaining deeper and more loving relationships, I will do everything to honour that.  

With happiness in my healing heart,,


Everdearest Amelia, and Aurora…

Every time I have my period, I also have flashbacks of losing you.  Physical reminders of what we went through together.

You’re always on my mind, part of my body and soul.

​Your mama..


Everdearest Amelia,

About this time last year, we were mourning the loss of you.  It made me sad, gave me strength, and continues to teach me lessons.  

Today, you are allowing me to appreciate that balance is still possible.  As I celebrate Logan’s birth, I also miss the possibility of you.  I do both wholeheartedly, which is the blessing of a parent – being able to expand your heart for each child, independently and as a family.  No individual feeling takes away from another, in the same way each child becomes a piece of you.  There is room for all of it.

I’m sure that a part of your spirit will make its way into Logan’s heart in the same way Xavi carries you in his.  When your brother was born, Xavi said  “Logan came out because he wanted to se the world.  But my sisters didn’t…why, mama?”
Heartbreaking.  At the same time, it heals me to know that he remembers and talks about you often.  I couldn’t have asked for a more loving big brother for the three of you.

You are remembered, baby girl.



Everdearest Aurora and Amelia,

If you ask Xavi who is in his family, he always makes a list: Mama, Papa, Xavi, Neji, Aurora, Amelia, Logan.  

The other day, we had a conversation that has just stuck to my heart.

Xavi: Mama, I wish I could see my sisters.  Who are their other parents?
Me: Me too.  Why do you think they have other parents?
Xavi: Because they didn’t come out of your belly.  Maybe there’s another mama and papa taking care of them, wherever they are.

This idea hit me is so many ways.  I cried, because I miss you both.  I smiled, because Xavi has made you a part of of his heart, even though you never got to meet.  And I was comforted at the thought of other people having the chance to take care of you, in another world.

Please know that you’re always in our hearts, and our conversations.  We keep on loving you, wherever you are.



Everdearest Aurora and Amelia,

There are days that go by that I don’t miss you. That’s a truth that I’ve learned to express without guilt.  It doesn’t mean I love you any less. I love you more and more every day, just as much as if you’d been born.  Even in spirit, you’ve both grown in the spaces of our hearts.  I feel it every time Xavi and I talk about you, every time I think about planning a vacation (since we canceled so many with your pregnancies), every time I see a mama interact with her daughter.  

We just celebrated Logan’s first birthday, and I think about how lucky I was to have been blessed with three babies in a period of one year.  Three times the love, even if it came with more heartache.  I think the pain of it has subsided.  So it’s not that I miss you less. It’s that I accept it more.  I accept the brief time you came into our lives, along with the beautiful moments you’ve allowed us to appreciate.  I accept that we lost you, and appreciate that we found ourselves.  I accept that it was out of my control, and appreciate that I can still choose happiness.  I accept that I went through it twice, and appreciate the different lessons that came each time.  And still today.

And though there are days when it’s easier to deal with your loss, it still creeps up on me sometimes.  I still miss you, with every fiber of my mama being.  I wish I could hold you, and hug you, and whisper in your ear like I do with your brothers.  I wish I could see you all be with each other, building friendships.  (Yes, I know the timeline wouldn’t work out quite that way.)  

I wish a lot of things, but mostly that we all continue to be united as a family.  Know that you are two important puzzle pieces that complete the picture, and forever a part of us.

Always and every day.
Your mama, missed.


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