It’s the eve of the one year anniversary of the day I found out your heart no longer beat. I want you to know today and every day just how much I love you. I can’t believe you’re gone, and I can’t believe it’s been a year. My pain is still immeasurable and I still miss you so very much. I know you’ve been watching over us and protecting us. I hope you’d be proud of how far we’ve come despite living the loneliest year a person could ever imagine. I think that’s the word I’d use to describe the experience of grieving you. Loneliness. Isolation. Nobody can understand, except that we (me and your dad) still have each other and our love for each other is stronger than ever and for that I am so grateful. You know, the pain is not less. It still pierces my heart the same, but we’ve had to find ways to make it worthwhile to go on. We’ve had no choice.

I think about how I did so many things wrong with you and I wonder if my insanity was the reason why you died. I was not mentally healthy when I was pregnant with you and I know you must have felt that. I will live with that guilt for the rest of my life. I hope you can forgive me one day. I feel as though your death was, at least partially, my fault. I was completely out of control and I know it affected you. A small part of me knows it is ridiculous to blame myself for what was a complete accident, but a very big part of me still does blame myself and I wonder how things may have been different if my mental anguish didn’t create such a hostile environment for you to grow in. I loved you, and  I hated myself, and you were a part of me, and I fear that you felt my hate inside and it ultimately led to your demise. The mentally insane have healthy babies, and the most loving of parents create monsters. So it’s not a perfect science, but I have thought often about how I may have contributed to your death and whether things could have turned out differently. Maybe this was always how it was meant to turn out, but for what reason I have no idea. Why would anyone be made to suffer to the extreme that I did this past year? I still don’t understand.

We visited your grave about a month ago, on Memorial Day, for the first time since we buried you. I relived the whole funeral day- driving up to the graveyard. Seeing my family. The car stopping. Seeing them all there, with looks of pity and sorrow like I’ve never seen. I remember all of it so clearly. I remember Lindsay opening the door and just holding me and wailing with me and daring to feel my pain with me. Some people who I never expected to show up, did. Most, didn’t. I’ll still always be grateful for those who did.

Noa, you have a sister now. I’ll be 30 weeks pregnant, tomorrow. I already know you’ve been watching over us and protecting us and I thank you for that. She is not to replace you, because we never could. You are and always will be our first borne child and when we die and make it to Heaven, I think about how we can all be a family together again, and maybe your sister can meet you. She kicks a lot and she is very active inside of me, always giving me reassurance that she is very much alive and well! I am so grateful and excited for her, we both are,  but I will still always feel like a part of me is missing until I can be reunited with you again. She hasn’t, and never could, replace you. She’s a different person and a different soul, and she will be lucky to meet you some day… Just please make sure that day is not too soon. I can’t bear the loss of another child, not now, not ever. Please keep her here, safe with us, guard our fragile hearts, like you have been. I already love her so much! Just as I still, and walks will love you! It’s nearly impossible to describe the void I felt after losing you. Nobody, nothing, can ever fill it completely. Being pregnant with her, it’s different, she is not you, and knowing you has forever altered who I am to the core. Maybe for the better in some ways, for the worse in other ways. But I chose to focus on what we have, what is to come, and to remain hopeful and grateful. I’ve wanted to tell you about her for such a long time, but I don’t let myself go deep into my grief as much lately. It’s a survival mechanism partially, because I try to remain positive and healthy for this pregnancy. But here we are, today, on the eve of your anniversary, and now I am going there. It feel so good to connect with you again. And I don’t feel like it’s bad or detrimental to this new pregnancy in any way. I actually think it’s healthy. Because you are a part of who I am.

I do hope I can bring this baby inside of me into the world with a strong heartbeat, crying, breathing, thriving. I know you want that for me, I know you want me to live life, love deeply, and find meaning in the day to day. I’m healthy enough now, mentally, that I want to do that, and I think that makes you happy. You’re still always with me, and that gives me peace. I love you and I miss you, Noa. I celebrate you just as much as I grieve you, you are so special to me and to your dad.

With all my love, heart, soul, tears,

your mommy