I don’t find meaning in my son’s death. I find meaning in how I honor him after his death.
April 17, 2023
My son’s death will always be meaningless. I find meaning instead in how I love and honor him afterwards.
Writing as a means of reflection and processing in grief
- Writing has been my comfort for longer than I remember. It’s also been a means of processing—venting, exploring, and often sharing. This is especially true for my experience of grief. Writing is how I understand what it means to be “me” in this new world of life after loss.
STILL a Mama Bear, and STILL Pissed
May 20, 2021
These are MY words. These are MY innermost thoughts and feelings. These are things I poured my soul into creating. These are things I create in honor of my deceased son, Adrian. And if you can’t respect me, then please respect him. This all came out of my love for him.
4 April 2021 – Memories Part 2
April 4, 2021
I wrote about this not that long ago. Memories are funny, and a particular memory I had been holding onto turned out to be different than what I remembered. How do we reconcile these things? For me, I think sometimes this is why I write.
17 March 2021 – Who I Used to Be
March 17, 2021
Partly through effort, partly through ability, I climbed my way out. I built a new world. And yet, I think I must have subconsciously felt I still had to earn it. Did the old Miranda understand that this too was a legacy?
Imperfect Memories; the Second Blue Line
February 22, 2021
I came across this pregnancy test, and I looked at it again. And I realized, despite so many VIVID memories, the line on the test was PINK, and not blue. What else am I misremembering? What else is lost to the imperfection of the human mind?
It Doesn’t Always Have to be a NEW Beginning
December 31, 2020
Sometimes I think we can get caught up in the idea of a new year being a fresh start. We look forward to everything being different on 1 January. But will it be? Are we leaving this pandemic and the rest of our lives behind us? Or do we carry these things with us into each new day?
Go, Go, Pause
October 31, 2020
Do you ever find yourself in a “go go go!” pattern, and then suddenly realize you need a break? This is definitely true for me. It’s been a great month, and some days I have felt overwhelmed. I’ve also felt pretty darn thankful. You guys are an amazing community. I feel thankful for all of you.
Introducing the Sea Glass Parenting Community
September 30, 2020
It’s been commonly noted that the English language doesn’t currently have a word to describe a parent whose child is deceased. I choose the term, “Sea Glass Parent.” It acknowledges both the Broken and the Beauty in my life. It’s a metaphor, and also a piece of unique beauty on it’s own.
Blogs & Instagram Accounts about Child Loss & Grief
September 29, 2020
Reading other people’s experiences made me feel less alone after my son’s death. The 95 blogs listed here all have at least five blog posts, with at least one written in the past year. The Instagram accounts all have at least 2000 followers or a unique perspective on child loss or grief.
These are MY Words—Plagiarism in the Child Loss Community
September 23, 2020
I was scrolling through Instagram yesterday, and I came across a quote that really resonated. And then I realized—It was mine. Plagiarism is the one of the last things you think will happen in a mostly caring community like ours, but it happened to me.
129 – Tue, Jun 25, 2019, 9:11 PM
January 1, 2020
The lead up is different this time. It’s quieter. I’m not sobbing. I sit here with your sister and most parts of the day I feel fine. It’s only in those random moments, those echoes of memory — and I still wish I could feel more of you.
120 – Thu, Jul 19, 2018, 12:47 PM
July 1, 2019
I remember the feel of those early days. I remember when tears were always on call. I remember when I didn’t have to close my eyes to think of you.
111 – Sun, Jun 10, 2018, 9:31 PM
June 1, 2019
When I first started writing about you, I felt guilty to feel excitement. I felt guilty in that brief joy and how easily the words flew. The one bright spot in my life was in finding the right words to talk about how much I missed you.
099 – Wed, May 2, 2018, 7:46 PM
May 1, 2019
I see her when I close my eyes. I see her as a child and all grown up, and I think about the ways that I didn’t see you. When I dreamt of you, you were always an adult looking out of a child’s body.
093 – Wed, Mar 21, 2018, 4:18 PM
March 1, 2019
It’s strange how we perceive change. Today, I can walk 20,000 steps with something like ease. It’s hard to remember the challenge. The change kind of snuck up on me.
091 – Sun, Mar 11, 2018, 1:10 PM
March 1, 2019
I have often examined the symptoms of my grief. It still feels so weird to me. The simplest things now make me cry. I examine those tears under a microscope. I examine everything, all while I’m feeling it.
085 – Fri, Feb 2, 2018, 10:09 PM
February 1, 2019
If grief were a gesture, it would be hands on my heart, one flat on the other like bad CPR. My heart is still beating, I don’t need this rescue. My soul needs it though. Every part of me needs you. Sometimes, when I’m very still, I still feel you kicking.
083 – Mon, Jan 29, 2018, 5:09 AM
January 1, 2019
It feels funny to say that: I miss you. It feels like there should be another word, something that acknowledges that part of what is missing is this unrealized idea.
078 – Mon, Jan 15, 2018, 11:32 AM
January 1, 2019
I think it would be so much easier if I believed as other people believed. It would be so much easier if I could close my eyes and know with certainty that you were listening when I said your name. It would be so nice. But it’s not real.
018 – Sun, Jul 9, 2017 at 1:32 PM
July 1, 2018
I think your Aunt Alexis worries about me. I worry about me. I am going through the motions, but inside I feel helpless. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Second Eulogy
June 30, 2018
My son, Adrian James Hernandez, was stillborn exactly one year ago today. And his loss was the first time in my life where there was nothing I could fight and nothing I could do or say. These are my reflections on the past year since his death.
26 Feb 2018 – Nuclear Bomb Part 2
February 26, 2018
I call it a nuclear bomb. It’s a conversation ender. You meet someone, you’re making good small talk, and then they ask about your family. I will never deny my son. He is a permanent part of me. And so it happens — I tell them, “Yes, I have a child. He died shortly before he was born.” And everything stops. It’s no longer a casual conversation.
18 Feb 2018 – Memories
February 18, 2018
I remember every moment of my pregnancy. I remember every moment of my son’s short life. I remember conception and ultrasounds and morning sickness. I remember every tiny kick and movement. I treasure these things. I treasure these memories.
13 Feb 2018 – The Condition of My Heart
February 13, 2018
I write a lot about this concept of numbness. I think that before, I would have described it as a lack of feeling. “I am empty, I am numb.” I realize today it’s something quite different.
12 Feb 2018 – Hard Things
February 12, 2018
Because I think love includes talking about hard things. Because I think love includes telling someone, “When you fall on hard times, I am here for you. When things go terribly wrong, I won’t run away.”
9 Feb 2018 – No
February 9, 2018
Nobody tells you that stillbirth is a possibility. I still remember, even while screaming, that I was thinking about the three other women in that testing room, and how I must have been their shocking introduction to the fact that babies die.
