In 2021 At 25 weeks pregnant I thought that I may have been leaking some fluid. I went to the emergency room they checked me and said everything was fine and to take it easy, as I was leaving the hospital my water broke and my entire life changed. My son was born prematurely and upon delivering my placenta they did not notice my placenta had grown through my uterus. They pulled it out which ripped my uterus open and caused me to hemoradge. I underwent several major surgeries and multiple blood transfusions and upon awakening was informed my son had passed away! I quickly became depressed and thanks to counseling and a good support network was able to reclaim my life one day at a time

Losing my firstborn son to stillbirth was the most devastating experience of my life. It shattered everything I thought I knew about grief, motherhood, and myself. There’s no way to prepare for the silence where a heartbeat should be, or the way time seems to stop while the world keeps moving forward without your child in it. In the aftermath, I was overwhelmed by a grief that felt impossible to carry. People often don’t know what to say, and sometimes say nothing at all—leaving you to navigate a heartbreak that few truly understand. I know the pain of baby showers, birthdays, and milestones that never come. I know the isolation, the guilt, the anger, and the desperate need for someone who just gets it. Over time, and with a lot of emotional work, I’ve learned to live alongside the loss. I still carry it—but I also carry love, memory, and meaning. I’m here to hold space for you in your grief, whether you’re deep in the early days or years into processing the ache that never fully goes away.

I’ve lived a full life—with all the ups, downs, sharp turns, and potholes that come with it. I'm a mother of two sons of retirement age: the younger, I'm total estranged from, and it's the same as losing a child; the elder, a practicing alcoholic, is tricky. As a former marriage and family therapist, a caregiver for my dad during his final years, and someone who has fought my own battles with addiction and recovery, I deeply understand being in hard places. My struggles were relationship acceptance and guilt and shame. I was an inadequate parent and it brought great pain to us all. But I finally sought help. I no longer accept the unrealistic perfect mother model. Once I understood my boundaries, our relationship improved. I stopped listening to abusive complaints. Now we can tell when things are "going south" and we can gracefully withdraw from conflict. Acceptance and boundaries are game changers. They can be for you, too. Let me support and help guide you in this process.

I have experienced many situations that left me living in what I call "crisis mode," including growing up with an abusive parent, losing a parent suddenly as a teenager, marrying a man who became violent and abusive, and later caring for him through seven years of illness until he passed away. I have faced fertility challenges and, after eight years of trying, was finally successful with IVF and had twins, including seven months on bedrest. Tragically, one of my twins became seriously ill at 16 and battled numerous health issues until she passed away at 24 after a year in the ICU. Throughout all of this, I have navigated my own health challenges and am now disabled.

I just assumed I'd be a parent. It was as automatic and natural an assumption as the sun would rise and set. When I married, my husband had the same assumption: we'd be parents. But it didn't happen. At first, we didn't try -- but we didn't NOT try either. Then, as time went on, we were more...deliberate. It still didn't happen. It happened for friends and other family. But not us. We watched as others went through their childrearing joys and challenges, with only one another to hold onto. We decided not to get medical fertility intervention, but fully understand the pull towards it. We wanted a kid. We did not get one. Though my husband and I have built a life in which we are happy (most of the time) and fulfilled (as much as we can be), there's always the grief for the child that never was. The answers you give others when they ask if you have children. The comments you overhear. The pang you get. The worry about aging alone. I'm here to see you in and through it. Let's talk.

Grief has touched every corner of my life. I was involved in a tragic accident that took someone’s life and changed me forever. Not long after, I lost my soulmate to suicide. Then I lost a close friend. And just when I thought my heart couldn’t break any more, I lost my son to fentanyl a loss no parent should ever have to survive. Each of these moments shattered a piece of me. The kind of silence that grief creates is heavy, isolating, and sometimes unbearable. There’s no roadmap, no “right” way to move through it. But somehow, I’ve learned to carry it. I’ve learned that we don’t move on we move with it. If you’re living with heartbreak, trauma, or the kind of loss that changed everything, you don’t have to face it alone.

I have experienced two types of miscarriage; both of a child conceived in love and a child conceived by force. Both areas are dark and confusing. Both areas are difficult too move past both physically and emotionally.

There is no grief like watching your child be turned against you — while you’re still alive, still loving them, still fighting to be in their life. Parental alienation is a form of emotional abuse, and it leaves deep scars — not just on the targeted parent, but on the child who is caught in the middle. I never imagined I’d experience the pain of being erased, rejected, or falsely portrayed — especially after surviving so much and just wanting to give my child the love and safety they deserved. But through manipulation, lies, and control, I found myself grieving a child who was still alive… but emotionally unreachable. The grief of parental alienation is complicated. It’s ongoing. It’s not recognized or validated the way other kinds of loss are. But I want you to know: you’re not alone. I’m still in that place — and I’ve learned how to keep showing up with love, patience, and dignity, even when it hurts. If you’re living through this, I’m here to hold space with you. To grieve with you. To remind you that your love still matters — even if you can’t see the results yet.

When I became a mom just after turning 18, I had no idea what I was in for. I loved my daughter deeply, but I was still growing up myself—and trying to do it all alone. A few years later, I was in nursing school, pregnant again, and just barely holding it together when I found out my son had a serious heart condition. The next chapter was full of hospital visits, sleepless nights, and moments where I honestly didn’t know how I’d make it through. He eventually passed away. That loss cracked me open in a way I didn’t know was possible. There were days I felt numb, or angry, or like I was just pretending to be okay for the sake of my daughter. Postpartum depression hit hard, and for a while, I didn’t have the words to explain what I was feeling. But slowly, I started asking for help. Therapy helped. So did letting people in. Now, years later, I’ve learned how to carry both grief and joy—and I try to be someone others can lean on when things feel impossible.

Four years ago my 44 year old son died as a result of his addictions. What had been my greatest fear concerning him since his late teens actually happened. When he died I began a journey of great pain yet eventual acceptance and gratitude. I continue on my way of learning to live with this loss.

12 years ago, my wife and I lost our daughter Margerrit. She died seconds after she was born, with there being nothing doctors could do. Since then, I have dealt with all sorts of triggers and other struggles, such as anxiety when my other children get sick, feeling a sense that a negative situation means doom, or just being unable to regulate my emotions well under stress.