I Have Two Toddlers

Ever since Jackson died, I have longed to hear the sweet pitter patter of toddler feet in our home again. I can remember a conversation, distinctly, that I had with Bryan around Christmastime in 2017. I was tearfully explaining how torturous it felt to be at least three years away from regaining what we lost, because it would probably take at least a year to get pregnant/give birth, and then two whole years to raise our next child to be as old as Jackson was. Of course, there was no regaining Jackson himself, but there was the hope in my heart that maybe, just maybe, our pain would feel an ounce less unbearable if we could bring ourselves to become parents again. 

Time was my enemy. It was simultaneously moving too quickly and too slowly. Every day, time was taking me farther away from my last physical memories of Jackson. But time was also painfully slow; 1095 days was the bare minimum waiting period until meeting our next 2 year old child and each day of that countdown felt like an eternity. 

I felt the urge to manipulate time and I’ve since found myself rushing through life to get closer to the that jumping point, so we could pick up where we left off. I was desperate to find the portal back to our old lives. I felt like the part of me that died had a shot of being resuscitated if I could just find that moment in time to make that jump.

Owen did eventually arrive, a little more than a year after that conversation in the kitchen. Fortunately, I learned pretty quickly that Owen was his very own separate, beautiful person. He didn’t bring Jackson back, and that was OK. What he did bring back was joy, and the very welcome texture of parenthood back into our day-to-day lives. Our grief didn’t disappear, it just evolved into something new, something slightly less unbearable.

But I still found myself racing through time. I loved my new baby and I was ready for Owen to become a toddler, stat! I remember scrolling through social media posts of other mothers ‘mourning’ the end of babyhood on their child’s first birthdays. Meanwhile, I was still mourning the actual death of my child and so very eager to get this toddler show on the road. I had to remind myself, over and over again, to settle into the present moment. I had to practice what I preach in my mindfulness therapy groups, to stop trying to manipulate time: “Don’t rush the moment; don’t hang on to the moment. Be in the moment, right here, right now.”

Owen did eventually become a toddler. Here we are, 2.5 years after that conversation in the kitchen, with a 20 month old who runs around, plays, and chases his dog sister Stella all over the house. The pitter patter is back. And you know what? It’s beautiful. The pitter patter doesn’t fix our grief but it has helped us love our lives again, and love a brand new child again. Getting to know Owen has also helped us to remember Jackson. Learning that Owen loves bell peppers and avocado reminds me how much Jackson hated them (and much preferred some foods that Owen won’t eat, like melon and rice and beans!). Watching Owen play peek-a-boo in the closet reminds me of that-time-we-played-the-same-game-with-Jackson. Hearing Owen speak his first few words reminds me of how verbal Jackson was and how much I will always cherish conversations we got to have while he was here. Owen isn’t just a vehicle for helping us remember his brother, he is also uniquely himself, with his own preferences and ideas and cherished memories.  

Now I find myself experiencing a different urge to manipulate time. As we approach Owen’s second birthday, I am for the first time wanting to hit the brakes. It’s like I’ve been speeding down this road and am afraid of driving right past my destination, which is a great reminder to me that there is no destination. Perhaps my brain has romanticized this toddler age and stage, in the same way that the living often glorify the dead. Or perhaps I irrationally fear that a second birthday signals an ending that I don’t want to fully arrive at. 

There are 140 days left on my countdown. My task these days has been to continue returning to my mantra: “Don’t rush the moment; don’t hang on to the moment. Be in the moment, right here, right now.”  

I repeatedly notice the urge to hang on to Owen’s toddlerhood forever, and I repeatedly let the urge go. I remind myself I have two toddlers, one forever toddler, and one toddler who I look forward to watching grow up – not too fast, not too slow.

Like Breathing

In the early days, the grief-as-suffering was like a fresh punch in the gut, overwhelming my ability to cope and causing me to feel each painful breath.

That pain was his absence, and in that early confusion, it felt sacred. I was aware that my suffering would grow duller with time — and yet I also felt it would be a betrayal to forget the sharp pain of his absence. Would forgetting the pain mean forgetting the person? Was the suffering a way of remembering? 
The days were fluid, and I can’t really remember a sense of time passing in the early months. There wasn’t a waking moment where I wasn’t grieving.

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It has been twenty-six months.

In that time, there have been many waking moments where I’m not grieving. It’s now pretty rare for me to feel incapacitating pain.

I’d like to explore whether or not that feels like a betrayal.

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I think that remembering Jackson is like breathing: you can do it automatically, or you can do it attentively, but either way, you’re breathing.

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We remember Jackson in a thousand little ways. When we look at Owen, we see the resemblance, and wonder how they’d get along. When we see other children, we wonder what Jackson would be doing at their age. When we see flowers, or spiders, or the ♥️ emoji, we remember him. When we catch ourselves with one of his facial expressions, we remember him. Every time I walk by Sunset Park, I think of him. Owen and I say good morning or goodnight to his urn. I’ve got pictures of Jackson on my desk, and Owen’s got a board book.

Those are the automatic remembrances, the idea of grief-as-loving-someone-who-is-gone, or the idea of grief-as-a-gentle-companion. This is automatic breathing. Whether or not we’re fully attentive to it, it’s happening in a hundred little moments throughout the week.

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So, what does the attentive-breathing look like? It’s like practicing meditation — I can sit on the bench by our Jackson garden, watch a sunset from the park near our house, open Locket and watch some videos, or sit and read the board book with Owen.

These are decidedly not activities designed as self-flagellation, or attempts to bring back the sharp, shortness-of-breath, punch-to-the-gut pain of the early weeks. They are much calmer, quieter, warmer, softer.

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We swear we’ll always feel the pain we feel right now, because to feel any less would be a betrayal — only to find that we grow stronger in our ability to cope, and the absence of pain is not the absence of love.

Grief has heightened our attentiveness to the fragility of life, others’ suffering, and the importance of being attentive and thoughtful. In some ways, our grief shows up in the attention we bring to other activities in our lives.

Whether we take the time to be aware of it, we keep breathing. We might wish we’d practice meditation, but we don’t always make time. We can do better, but we can also forgive ourselves — and recognize that perhaps the automatic grieving is a sign that he is always on our mind. There’s nothing to forgive.

Feeding Three Birds with One Seed

This week, in a meeting with my advisor, I told her I would “kill two birds with one stone” when describing two tasks that I could take care of in a single action. She very kindly replied “Or, feed two birds with one seed.” This idea really stuck with me, partly because I love efficiency (I’m always on the lookout for “two-fers”, as I call them!), and partly because it connects with how I’ve come to think about Jackson’s Kindness Project. 

Allow me to explain. Yesterday, my friend Eliza went to the DMV, and unexpectedly ended up having to get her picture taken. She joked with the man helping her that she didn’t look her best, due to being up all night with her newborn. As they waited for a supervisor, they ended up making small talk and he mentioned that he had a daughter who would have turned 29 years old this fall. He shared that he had never loved anyone until his daughter was born, and that he loved her with his whole heart, more than his whole life combined, in her first and only three days of life. She died of SIDS. Eliza ended up sharing about Jackson and together they shared tears and a rare, unexpected sense of connection at the DMV. When the man left briefly to check on the supervisor, Eliza slipped him a Jackson Kindness Card and a Starbucks gift card she happened to have in her wallet, tucking them underneath his phone on his desk.

A two-fer, don’t you think? Except that it’s really a three-fer, because of the full-body goosebumps that it gave me to hear about this the next day. All three of us walked away with something as a result of this interaction. The man got to talk about his daughter to an empathetic stranger who listened to his story with care (and as a bereaved parent, I know that this is no small gift). Eliza got to walk out of the DMV with a profound sense of connection and perspective and spent the rest of her day imaging him picking up his phone and locking eyes with Jackson. As for me, I got to wake up this morning to hearing this beautiful story. A story that confirms Jackson’s continued, radiating impact on the world. A story that leaves me feeling like his life mattered, is remembered, and continues to make a difference. So yeah, I’d say that’s a three-fer. 

I think this is a powerful idea, for those who are grieving, or grief-adjacent (a term I stole from Norah McInerny). When someone dies, people tend to rush in with calls, texts, emails saying: “Let me know how I can help.” Which is lovely! But you only have room for so many flowers, and you can only eat so many casseroles. Kindness acts have been our favorite way to receive social support from others, our “grief love language”, if you will. Not only because they don’t require space on the shelf or space in our fridge, but because of the invitation they create for channeling goodwill in such a productive (efficient!), and meaningful way. Plenty of people out there (ourselves included, especially before we had experienced grief ourselves) are thinking about someone, wondering how they are doing, wishing that they could help. And due to fear, discomfort, or simply “not knowing how to help”, this well-intentioned energy simply often gets inhibited, bottled up, or set aside for another day, which often never comes. The Kindness Project has been a way of explicitly drawing out behaviors that channel this goodwill into a way that often leaves all of us (the kindness act-giver, the kindness act-recipient, and us—the parents of the child who inspired it all) feeling quite touched. 

Feeding three birds with one seed, indeed. 

Thank you to everyone who has participated in the Kindness Project and been brave enough to connect with strangers in memory of Jackson. Believe it or not, we’ve heard dozens of stories like the one above, and it always moves us to our core. 

Second-Time Parenting

For most parents, second-time parenting is all about juggling how to care for a new baby and a young child at the same time. Things like: moving the oldest to a toddler bed, dealing with conflicting nap schedules, fitting two car seats into a backseat, and protecting babies from the sweet (but sometimes-too-rough!) adorations and jealousies of the older sibling.

For us, it’s been different. And this was apparent from the get-go with things like wondering whether to join a new PEPS parenting group. On the one hand, it didn’t make sense to join a “new parents” group, because we’d done this all before. On the other hand, it also didn’t make sense to join a “second-time” parents group, because we would have had completely different experiences without a toddler at home. We felt like misfits without a home.

Now that Owen is here, we continue to notice ways that our parenting experiences are different. We sometimes wonder if these behaviors just seem like consequences of grief — but are just common, “run of the mill” second-time-parenting experiences, albeit with just a slightly different flavor after what we’ve been through:

When I was pregnant and worried I wouldn’t love my second baby as much as my first: did that mean I wasn’t ready to have another child after losing Jackson? Or, as I later learned, was this just a normal fear that almost every second-time mom worries about?

Once Owen was born and I started making side-by-side collages of our two sons at similar ages in matching outfits: were we morbidly trying to recreate Jackson? 

When we found ourselves comparing the boys’ temperaments, milestones, and behaviors (e.g., “Jackson was a better sleeper”; “Owen took longer to roll over”): were we bemoaning the ways that Owen was not “as good” as his idealized dead brother? (For the record, Owen is also gigglier!). 

When we mixed up their names and accidentally called Owen “Jackson”: were we deluded or confused? 

Or, as we had to keep reminding ourselves, were these just the behaviors of any second-time parent? Would we also be sharing clothes, making photo collages and comparisons, and occasionally mixing up their names even if Jackson was still here?

On the flip side, there are some other parenting behaviors we know are different because we lost a child. For example, we monitor Owen’s vital signs (heart rate and respiration) whenever he is asleep using an Owlet sock on his left foot. We also say “goodnight” with just a touch more gravity than we ever did before. Sleep training Owen (in Jackson’s crib, no less) has undoubtedly been made harder by the fact that the last sound I ever heard from Jackson was the sound of him crying before putting himself to sleep. And yes, we are a touch more cautious about all the other things, too, like germs and driving, because statistically he is more likely to succumb to injury or death from these dangers than from sleeping in his crib. Although it may seem like a rabbit hole to imagine all the ways Owen could be harmed, I have actually found that it helps me stay sane to recognize all the ways I already tolerate risk and uncertainty (e.g., by taking him out in public and commuting with him in my car). I tell myself “If I can drive and leave him at daycare, I can put him down to sleep in his crib.”

I’ll admit, tolerating uncertainty has never been my jam. Always a bit prone to anxiety, my brain tends to be on the lookout for ways to ensure certainty and steer clear of unpleasant surprises. This often manifests as excessive worry. But I’ve now learned that worrying doesn’t actually make things more certain or more controllable; I always used to worry about Jackson’s safety and yet we were completely blind-sided by his unpreventable death. Life simply was, is, and always will be uncertain and uncontrollable to some degree; worrying only gives us a false sense of certainty, or the illusion of control. I learned I had a choice: a) live in an uncertain world, or b) live in an uncertain world AND be consumed with useless worry. It’s not easy, but I try to let go of my worries day in and day out.

How does this look for us in practice, when we understandably worry about the possibility of Owen dying in his sleep? We remind ourselves of the facts: SUDC is rare and has never struck a family twice. This helps, but I find that a different practice, one of acceptance, helps even more. I recall my favorite passage from When Breath Becomes Air, a memoir written by a young physician while he was dying from cancer. He’s about to leave his toddler daughter behind in this world, and writes something for her that is so poignant I can never quite get through it without a tear in my eye:

“When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.” — Paul Kalanithi

Although Paul’s tragedy was the flip-side of ours (death was after him, not his daughter), these beautiful words speak to a sense of “enoughness” that I try to find every day in my life with my boys. Though many could (and do) say that Jackson died “too young” and “should have” lived much longer alongside us, there is something so beautiful about this father’s acceptance of, and satisfaction with, the time he was given with his child. I have worked hard myself to get to this place. Whatever time I had with Jackson, whatever time I get with Owen, it will be “enough” because they were a gift from the moment they arrived. In some ways, no length of time would ever feel like enough (either I will feel robbed of time, or they will), so I’ve made it my mission to rest satisfied each day. This, above all, brings me peace.

Second-time parenting has been a gift. Bryan and I cherish all the things we get to do again with Owen, that we either did (or never got to do) with Jackson. Second-time parenting is also at times an invisible identity. When we are out and about with Owen, everyone assumes he is our first and only child. And why would they think anything else? In some way, this is a nice reprieve from having to constantly answer “Is this your first?” while I was pregnant. But now that I no longer get asked that question, I find myself missing the invitation to bare my story and share who I am, a mother of two. 

Welcome, Owen.

Owen,

Two weeks ago, we welcomed you into this world. It’s in a rough state, and that keeps me up at night - but more on that another time.

It’s only been two weeks, but we can see that you’re a curious, calm, sweet, snuggly little dude. You’re your own person, and like any sibling, you resemble your brother in a myriad of uncanny little ways.

Though you can’t possibly know it yet, you have a big brother: Jackson. We’ve been waiting for your arrival, eager to meet you, to know you, to love you.

Jackson pried open our parenting-hearts, and now that you’re here, we’re twice-pried. I have little idea of what to expect, but: I expect this means that often you’ll get twice the love - there’s certainly a large, loving community ready to welcome you. They’ve carried us these past 16 months, and many of them will carry you, too. 

I also expect that there’ll be times that you have to share it: the only kid in the house, and yet sharing attention with your brother. I hope you can forgive us - and maybe someday, you can participate with us.

Though you won’t meet face-to-face, you are going to get to know him. We know him from raising him for two years. Others know him second-hand from pictures, videos, and stories. You’ll know him from a new perspective: as a sibling. I don’t know what this will be like. I imagine it’ll be normal for you, but I don’t know what that means - maybe a mix of love and longing?

Though he’s not here with us, the two of you are going to share. You’re wearing some hand-me-downs, you’ve got the same goofy dog, the same crib, many of the same bedtime stories, and, over time, many of the same friends.

When we lost your brother, it collapsed our lives. With you entering, it’s not reversing that collapse - and yet, it’s also the opposite of that collapse. We’re parents to a living child again, with those roles, responsibilities, and relationships that we so cherish. You’ve pried our hearts back open, and it’s a complete blessing. You’re snuggled up on us all day, and we’re so happy to finally have you with us.

Owen, we really don’t know what to expect from all of this. We have our guesses — and we have some mentors who’ll guide us, as we’ve guided other grieving families — but we’ve all got a lot of figuring-out to do.

Owen, here’s to figuring it out, together, day-by-day. ♥️

Love,

Dada

Different and Perfect

Newborn photos of Owen at one week old. (Photographer: Ashley Mae Scott Photography.)

Part One: Shoots of Joy

“Grief is exactly as painful as you think it will be, but with time you will learn to love your sadness because of the tiny shoots of joy and gratitude that sprout around it, like new growth on scorched earth.”

— Michelle DuBarry

When Jackson died, it felt like someone came out of nowhere and carved a deep line in the sand of our life story; everything that came before was so perfectly blissful and complete, and everything after became so dreadfully empty and fractured. A crater-sized void so intolerably gaping and impossible to fill.

Owen, ever since my heart laid eyes on you I learned that my life had actually never been complete, because we didn’t have you. Although you cannot possibly replace your brother or fill the crater-sized void he left behind, we also would never task you with that or even wish you to try. You are your very own shoot of joy in our lives, an overwhelming joy we didn’t even know we could feel so deeply. You didn’t bring us Jackson back; you brought us you. And that is an equally precious gift.

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Part Two: Different and Perfect

A few weeks before Owen was born we met with our doula to discuss our birth plan. I told her “I just want it to be like last time!”. As soon as the words escaped my lips I realized that I was overly attached to things going the exact same way. Sure, it made sense because we’d had such a positive birth experience, but so many things would inevitably be different this time and out of our control: gestational age, time of day, fetal position, rate of progress, support people in attendance, effectiveness of coping strategies, need for intervention... to name a few.

In the end, our birth plan was largely the same but our birth experience was quite different. Though I was very attached to the idea of laboring from home again as long as possible, we ended up having to go to the hospital as soon as my water broke because I couldn’t immediately confirm fetal movement to my doctor over the phone. So off to the hospital we went, and I let go of my vision of laboring on my birth ball from my own living room eating string cheese and apple slices with my doula and Stella (yup! That was my favorite memory from my first labor with Jackson!) and instead made new memories of laboring in the hospital tub by the dim light of a “brother” candle votive while Bryan, my sister, and my doula took turns pouring warm water over me between contractions.

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In the end, it was perfect. Not Merriam-Webster dictionary “perfect” — as some things certainly did not go according to plan: he came earlier than expected, my epidural malfunctioned, my mom wasn’t in Seattle to attend the birth — but it was a wonderful experience in its own right, even though it was different than the last time.

Minutes after after Owen was born, I looked at my doula and thanked her for supporting us through the perfect birth experience. But importantly, it wasn’t Jackson’s birth experience, it was Owen’s. Bryan and I looked at each other and we agreed that this was the beginning of things being “different but perfect.”

Now I know that I can, and will have to, let go of being attached to recreating all the same experiences and memories with Owen as we did with Jackson. Some things will be similar (and I’ll cherish those greatly), but most things will be different. And it will all be perfect.

Jackson & Owen

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First at-home portrait, 2015

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First at-home portrait, 2019

One Year

It’s been one year since we lost Jackson.

No warning, no build-up — just gone in the night, stolen from us by some unknown cause.

For two months, we didn’t have an official explanation — so everything was suspect in our minds; any conspiracy seemed convincing. Fear for our own lives (or any future child) was creeping and persistent.

We were near-drowning in grief. The waves were fast, frequent, and terrifying. It was a struggle to make it day-by-day.

Yet despite all of this, we were immensely fortunate in several other ways. We were surrounded within minutes by family and friends, who’ve held us close ever since. Natalia and I had each other, in good health, side-by-side. We had careers that let us take as much time as we needed. She had years of training in trauma and recovery. We had a roof over our heads, and time to sit with our feelings and try to make some sliver of sense of it all.

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With this first year behind us, I feel like telling you some of what I’ve learned: how I think about surviving a loss of this magnitude.

I don’t know of a better metaphor for grief than ocean waves.

Before September 2017, it’d been smooth waters for us.

Grief arrived in a surprise wave, and left us struggling for air. We’d come up for a gasp, then get plunged back below. In the early months, we learned to find the bottom and push back up.

With time, we noticed patterns with the waves. They really are waves: they rise, crest, churn, and fall back into quiet. A wave always returns to calm - and it was important to remember that when we were getting tumbled and dragged along the coral seafloor.

At first, they arrived every 20-40 minutes, and would knock me flat. Later, they became less-frequent, and we could tell when we were “due” for one — which meant they didn’t catch us off-guard as often.

Like a child learning to swim, we were initially completely overwhelmed - but as we got stronger in the surf, the waves that used to terrify us became familiar, and we learned to prepare ourselves, to duck-dive under some, ride-out and really feel others, and find time to catch our breath in the calmer moments.

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There’s a concept from Bearing the Unbearable that has helped us make sense of our suffering. Grief ranges from zero-to-ten, and your ability to cope with that grief also ranges from zero-to-ten. Suffering is the difference between the two. Or, to put it in a little formula: Suffering = Grief - Coping

Grief is a variable that’s out of your control. The waves may be less frequent, but they still appear, sometimes as strong as ever.

Coping, though — you can work on coping. And with time, you strengthen the ability to cope with that grief — and as a result, suffering isn’t nearly as high as it once was.

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Grief is going to visit all of us at some point. Death is a part of life, and if you’re close to any number of people, odds are you’re going to lose one of them at some point.


I write this not to drag you down under, but rather to set some expectations for whether-and-how you might approach grief when it appears in your life. If our culture would talk about grief more openly, then maybe it would feel less isolating and terrifying.

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This morning, as 8:12am arrived, I could see myself exactly a year earlier, scrambling, my world shattering. I wanted to tell my year-ago self that, one year later, we would still be here.

If my year-ago self heard that, he would’ve rejected that idea completely. There is no way that a year ago, I would’ve been able to imagine myself functioning and grieving in this way. I would’ve felt that I had betrayed my memory of Jackson — because how could I carry on in any capacity after this loss?

And yet — I also know that a very quiet, calm part of my mind was telling me to hold on. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it was there. I knew that people survive trauma, and that there was probably a way through that - even if it felt like a betrayal to believe it.

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Milestone dates often bring waves. We see Father’s Day, birthdays, or this anniversary on the calendar, and we brace ourselves.

One year out, we’ve certainly had our waves this month — and yet they are fewer and smaller than we were expecting. In many ways, we welcome them. We feel less-distressed when the wave tosses us, because we’ve been through so many.

There are also calm periods, and that can bring up guilt. If we’re feeling calm, especially on a milestone, does that mean we’ve forgotten him? Does it mean we’re not doing this properly? Of course not — but it’s a feeling that comes up.


It’s important to remember: on these milestone dates, our responsibility isn’t to make the waves; it’s to paddle out and sit there. If a wave comes up, we’ll ride it out, like we’ve done a thousand times. If it’s calm, we’ll sit there together, and find other ways to honor his memory.

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Bubbo, we miss you every day. We miss your snorting giggles, your little songs, hearing your little slippers clomp around, and watching you explore the world around you. You brought (and continue to bring) so much love into all of our lives, and we are so thankful for the time we had together. You are loved, you are cherished, you are missed, and we will always hold you in our hearts.

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One of my last photos of Jackson. September 17, 2017 at Bastille in Ballard.

Mothering Jackson and His Memory

According to Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, there is no “self”. He says “true self is non-self, the awareness that the self is made only of non-self elements.” According to this idea, we walk around every day experiencing artificial boundaries; we think we are separate from others and others are separate from us. But if we force ourselves to observe these boundaries with microscopic precision, we find that they do not exist. For example, a flower is not separate from the seed, the water, or the sunlight. Similarly, a flame is not separate from the wax, the oxygen, or the heat. Take away any of these components and the flower or the flame could never have existed. 

This is about the closest I can get to the idea that “Jackson is here with us.” In many ways, he is most definitely not here with us. I no longer get to touch him, hold him, smell him, or kiss him. In fact, it has at times felt downright infuriating when well-intentioned people tell me he’s “with us” because he simply is not; yes, I carry his memory in my heart, but that is different from carrying his body on my hip. Then I started reading about the concept of “interbeing”, or interconnectedness, and it has changed the way I relate to the idea of Jackson’s continued presence. While I don’t believe that his spirit is watching over us, I do believe that if I relax my boundaries of what it means for him to “be here”, I can feel him everywhere. 

Simply put, I am filled with this sense that I am not really separate from Jackson’s life; everything I do is touched by his existence. And I am not really separate from his death, either; I am a different person because he lived and because he died. Looking back over the last year, I see so much evidence of this: our Kindness Project, friendships we’ve forged, books we’ve read, tattoos we’ve inked, trips we’ve taken, and gardens we’ve nurtured. None of these things would exist in the absence of Jackson’s life and then subsequent death. Although I wish he was still here, I see that he is still here. His life and his death simply cannot be extricated from everything that came after, and his presence continues to manifest in new ways.

The notion that we’ve been changed by both Jackson’s life and his death can bring up complex feelings. We just came back from spending a very special weekend with another SUDC family we’ve become very close with and, although we could picture Jackson sitting at the table with us, we realized that it was an impossible vision. We both wished Jackson could have joined us on this trip, and recognized the trip only existed because he died. We are weeks away from meeting our next son and, although Jackson “should” get to meet his brother, that too is an impossible vision. We both wish that both our boys could appear together in a family photo, and realize that this new baby is only alive because Jackson is not. While we would of course reverse the tragedy of losing Jackson, it’s complicated to realize that special and beautiful things have also grown out of his death.

The impact of Jacksons life and death is not only complex but also evolving. He has not simply left a permanent one-time imprint on our lives. His impact on me and the world around us, is constant, ever-changing, ongoing, and in flux. As a sweet mama friend wrote to me on Mother’s Day, “Even though Jackson isn’t here, I know you are still mothering him and his memory.” Yes. There is something quite active about how I want to keep mothering Jackson and his memory because his impact on living, changing things by default means that he continues to live and change. This also means that Jackson will continue to impact this world in ways I have yet to see. I may not get to watch him physically grow or make new memories (I don’t get to watch him learn to swim, ride his bike, graduate, or get married), but I will watch his impact grow for the rest of my life. The quote on back of our kindness cards captures this idea exactly: “A life that touches others goes on forever.”

Like the very dandelion “puff balls” he loved to blow on, Jackson has scattered his own seeds in the wind, germinating his impact farther than the eye can see. Jackson has fed and clothed the homeless, furthered the education of refugee children, put hair on the heads of cancer-survivors, fed the birds outside our window, bought coffee for strangers, and contributed to critical research on SUDC. Jackson has also taught us and others about grief and love, brought people together who otherwise wouldn’t know one another, and changed the way we all look at life and helped us stop taking a single day for granted. It has become part of our meaning making to continue spreading his impact in these ways. 

What blows my mind even more is that, despite our urge to be active in the spreading of "Jackson", his memory and impact truly seem to have a life of their own. There is something “viral” about the way his memory is spreading, even when I am not actively spreading or cultivating it. I got my haircut last month and learned that after my sister chopped and donated her hair to “Wings for Kids”, another client came in weeks later looking for a fresh chop and our hair stylist convinced her to donate her hair in honor of Jackson, too. I keep learning about people who “pay forward” our kindness acts and pass along our website and podcast link beyond the “intended” audiences. It’s comforting and moving to know I can at times rest from spreading my son’s impact, and still have the ripples continue to propagate without my effort. Like a mother who actively nurtures a child and then sends them off into the world, I am learning how to balance actively nurturing his memory while allowing it to grow on its own. 

Thank you to all who have supported us in staying connected to Jackson in so many ways. If we’ve been the water nurturing the seed, you have been the sunlight that has further allowed his memory to thrive. The seed, the water, and the sunshine are all necessary conditions for the flower to grow and we are grateful for your role in remembering and honoring Jackson.

[For more on interbeing: Hanh, T. N. (2003). No death, no fear: Comforting wisdom for life. Penguin.]

Jackson's Little Brother is On the Way

I didn’t think I could be brave enough to have another child after losing Jackson. The day he died I told myself “never again”; it was too risky to love that fiercely with the knowledge that it could all be taken away from you in a moment without warning, without fault, without explanation. Over time we realized that this had always been life’s contract, and that living without fierce love was not a life we wanted to live. We knew having another child would never be able to bring Jackson back, but it could bring back opportunities for that fierce love we were so desperately missing.

The words of Dr. Paul Kalanithi in “When Breath Becomes Air,” an incredibly honest and moving physician’s memoir on life and death from the perspective of both doctor and patient, resonated deeply with me as we contemplated the risks and benefits of trying again. He heartbreakingly describes battling stage IV metastatic lung cancer in his 30s and the painful decisions he is forced to make with his wife, Lucy, about whether to have a child. A friend asks him “Don’t you think saying goodbye to your child will make your death more painful?” He responds, “Wouldn’t it be great if it did?”. Lucy and Paul learn, in the most painful way, that “life wasn’t about avoiding suffering.”

We decided to go for it, but it wasn’t an easy road. After two early miscarriages, we learned that suffering one loss doesn’t preclude you from further loss. Each passing month took us farther away from the last time we held Jackson. And each passing month that I didn’t get (or stay) pregnant took us farther away from the first time we’d get to hold our new baby. It’s as if we were stuck in some warped universe where we were simultaneously falling away from both of our children at the same time.

It was tempting to feel victimized, like the universe was out to get us, but we know that the universe doesn’t keep score. We just kept rolling the dice. We’ve learned there is no such thing as “fairness” or “deserving” when it comes to loss. In fact, the expectation of fairness or the idea that we are “owed something” at times just made it all the more painful. But longing to be a parent, especially when we felt repeatedly blocked from being parents, did felt torturous.

And then it happened. That second pink line came and it stayed. It didn’t bring Jackson back, but it brought back some much needed hope. It also brought so much gratitude that I was able to pretty easily dismiss my 24/7 nausea, because we were getting another chance. Some expressed concern for this joy at such an early stage of pregnancy (especially given the prior miscarriages), and that’s when I realized I was fearless. Not devoid-of-fear, but rather freed-from-my- fear. Although there are traditional “in the clear” milestones with pregnancy, like hearing a heartbeat, making it through 1st trimester, and clearing genetic and ultrasound screening, I had the painful but freeing awareness that we are never fully in the clear. I knew mothers who had stillborn babies in their third trimester, and mothers who had lost their infants shortly after birth. And I knew my own story of losing a perfectly healthy and thriving toddler. The painful wisdom that comes with surviving this kind of loss is there is no clear – so enjoy what you get, for however long you get it. From the moment that second line turned pink, I pledged to love and appreciate this little life whether they stuck around for 2 days, 2 weeks, 2 months, or 2 years – and hopefully, much much longer than that.

Of course, in addition to joy, hope and gratitude, we have experienced grief and sadness, too. It’s very painful to know that Jackson won’t get to meet his baby brother. And although we intend to teach his baby brother all about Jackson, that falls painfully short from watching their relationship flourish and grow. These are the secondary losses that come with pregnancy after child loss; where there used to be singularly giddy excitement, there is now grief-tempered joy. Where there used to be happy tears, there are now happy-sad tears. Ultrasound visits, pregnancy reveals, and setting up the nursery are just going to be different this time around. We have learned that although we can experience genuine positive feelings, these emotions sit alongside, rather than eliminate, our sadness and longing for Jackson. In fact, finding out three days ago we were having a boy brought tidal waves of emotion. But in spite of all of this complicated joy, I experience the very strong and genuine comfort in getting to mother a son again. Best job I ever had, and I can’t wait to have it again.

So here we are, 13 weeks into a new chapter of our parenthood. January can’t come soon enough! I don’t know how I’ll put our new baby to sleep, or how I’ll sleep while they are sleeping, but I trust we will figure this out, as we have learned to cope with so many unthinkable challenges already. Can’t wait to meet you, Jackson’s brother. ❤️ 

Natalia’s Interviews with Dr. Charlie Swenson

I had the great privilege of being invited to speak on Dr. Charlie Swenson's podcast, called "To Hell and Back". Dr. Swenson is a psychiatrist in Northampton, MA, and a renowned expert and trainer in DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy). In my graduate school program at UW, I have also come to specialize in DBT, as well as exposure-based therapies for Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). One of my supervisors, Dr. Melanie Harned, learned that I was interested in sharing our story from the perspective of a DBT and trauma therapist, and introduced us.

"To Hell and Back" is a very approachable podcast series focused on how people cope with "hellish" life experiences, drawing from DBT and other forms of treatments. I was invited to talk specifically about how we've coped with our loss of Jackson. 

In the first episode, I share our story and we talk specifically about the natural recovery process, the power of acceptance, and permission to function after trauma and loss. 

In the second episode, we discuss "avoiding avoidance" and the importance of social support and how to elicit and shape that support in one's community. 

In the third episode, we discuss the changes to relationships and to the "self" after trauma, making meaning after trauma and loss, our "Kindness Project" in memory of Jackson, and the ways in which Jackson's presence and impact continue to live on. 

The links to the podcast are available below. Thanks to Charlie and Melanie for the opportunity, and thanks to everyone who listened in! I felt Jackson right by my side the whole time during this precious, shared mama-son project. Although I wish he never had to die for me to learn and share these things, I am grateful for the opportunity to not let our suffering go to waste. `

Surviving the Death of a Child (Episode 1 of 3)

Surviving the Death of a Child (Episode 2 of 3)

Surviving the Death of a Child (Episode 3 of 3)