My introduction to motherhood was vastly different than what I had hoped and dreamed for. My twin boys arrived two months early, one stillborn and the other one fighting for his life. I write this letter to myself on that day, two years ago, when I lost my firstborn son. This letter is for a broken mother who had just tasted the bitterness of loss and experienced her darkest day.

Dear Mom in the Midst of Grief,

Taped to your hospital door is a little blue teardrop, a constant reminder that you’re not like the other mothers in this maternity ward. The cry of a newborn baby permeates the thin hospital walls and you place a hand against your deflated belly. You did not expect to end up here so soon, the due date circled on your calendar is still two months away. But it’s clear now that your plans no longer matter; they were stripped away from you along with the babes you so recently carried in your womb.

Who knew grief was so physically painful? It chewed you up and spat back a broken shell of who you used to be. Your heart pains worse than the row of stitches marching across your abdomen and your bloodshot eyes refuse to focus. Life has punched away at you, leaving a bruised and bloodied fragment of who you were yesterday.

You do not know how you will make it through this day let alone the next few hours. But you will. One excruciating second at a time, with shallow breaths and a weary heart - you will survive this. Overnight your life has radically changed.

I see you lying in an uncomfortable hospital bed, counting ceiling tiles and replaying the events of the past twenty-four hours over and over again. You wonder what you could have done differently, how this loss could have been prevented. Your entire pregnancy you were blissfully ignorant of words like “stillbirth” or “preemie.” Now there is no room left to think about anything else.

I’ve stood where you stand. I’ve ran the scenarios and I want you to know that the guilt is not worth it.
There is nothing you could have done differently. For the seven short months that you carried your boys, you loved and cherished them, comforting them in your warm womb, praying and singing over them. You tried your best to protect both of them but God gave you a different tale to tell.

You don’t believe me now but one day your heart will feel lighter and you will laugh again. This is not the end but the beginning of a great love story that you will carry until your dying breath. You will not watch your son grow but he will not fade either, he will always be a part of you.

I wish I could tell you that this would be your only loss, your only heartache, but I can’t. There will be pain ahead but it will not break you. This pain will mould you but it will not define you. You will emerge from the other side victorious.

You are strong even though you don’t yet feel it.

I know there are moments when you worry that you’re slowly unraveling one stitch at a time; that you’ll be unable to get it all back together again. You didn’t sign up to spend weeks in the NICU, living in perpetual fear that another little one will never come home. You worry that you’re not cut out for this type of motherhood: the kind that involves picking out a casket and a gravestone.

You feel robbed of your “motherhood firsts” but what you don’t know is that you are slowly redefining your definition of motherhood.

It will never look like you had dreamed it would. Motherhood is more difficult and frightening than you could have ever imagined. But it’s in these dark, tear-stained moments that you are being shaped and stretched. Your heart can hold more than you ever felt possible and this love is worth the momentary pain.

Don’t hold yourself back. Let yourself grow, sweet mama.  
You will eventually figure out how to navigate this new normal. But for today, take time to grieve. Be patient with yourself and with your spouse. Find a network of grieving moms and surround yourself with family and friends who will care for you (and yet give you the space that you need to mourn). Grieve at your own pace and don’t let anyone rush you. This is your story and only you know how to tell it.

Remember that you will not always be in this place; you will one day emerge from the other side of this grief. It will always be a part of you but it won’t always look like this.

Hang in there mama, you’re going to make it.

Much love,
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Liz


Liz Mannegren, mother of three precious babes (two in heaven, one in her arms) and blogger at mommymannegren.com


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I wrote this letter from my present day self to myself four years earlier on the day that my daughter (then 21) told me she was gay.

Dear Mum who has just heard the words: “Mum, I’m gay”,

I see you are in shock, numbly going about your business like a machine whilst the implications of these words sink in. Your deepest fears have been spoken and you can no longer convince yourself it isn’t true. 

You feel overwhelmed and sick with shame. What will people think of you? How can you ever look someone in the eye again? What does it even mean - is being gay a real thing, or just a choice? What does God think about it? What about bible verses that condemn it?

I know it feels paralyzing but you will get through this.

However for today, it is all consuming. Amid the feelings of shame other emotions start to surface:

You feel sad, partly for your child, but mainly for yourself - the dreams you had of your kids marrying Christian spouses and bringing your grandkids up in the same church, now lay shattered on the floor around you.

You feel guilt - for opinions you have shared from your sheltered, conservative experiences; for not being there earlier whilst your child suffered and for burying your head in the sand. This revelation has cut you to the core and left you with many questions. You feel desperately alone, but the thought of sharing your news with someone is even more terrifying.

I have a message for you, because I lived through it and made it to the other side. You will not only get through this, you will blossom as a result of it. Today your heart has been broken. Up to now you have done a pretty good job of keeping your emotions to yourself, but this wound is too big to conceal. Your ‘look good’ masks can’t hide it.

The walls you built around your heart to protect it will need to be broken down. Your heart will have to be exposed before it can be mended. This will be painful initially but what you didn’t realize when you built the walls to avoid failing, or being rejected or ridiculed, is that they also stifled your dreams and starved you of joy and intimacy.

Once your heart is mended you will be free to be your true self and you will never want to go back. You will have a much greater capacity for courage, hope, compassion, love, acceptance, empathy, gratitude and joy. You can’t see the bigger picture because you are in the middle of it. But you made it through that day, and many more, so that now, four years on it is a completely different picture.

Let me tell you what I see:

I see a mum who loves her child unconditionally and will walk this journey along side her, maintaining a close relationship.

I see a person who will do research and talk to her child about the aspects of her life to which she was blind. Someone who is open minded and willing to change her views.

I see a woman who trusts God and will draw closer to Him; who will know His strength, peace, comfort and love in greater measure.

I see the daughter whom you have raised, full of grace and love as you process this.

Looking ahead:

I see you gradually opening up to people, letting them see your pain and shame and that liberating you from the fears you’ve held up to now of letting people get close.

I see family and friends coming along side you, supporting you and casting no judgement, leading to deeper relationships.

I see a passion rising up in you to advocate for gay kids growing up in the church. To break the silence and try and change the environment so they know love, acceptance and support.
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I see you connecting with other Christian mums of gay kids and supporting each other as you walk similar journeys.

And most importantly I see you free from shame and embarrassment, completely accepting your amazing child as she is, acknowledging that being gay is part of her, just like having red hair. The practices that will help you most during this transition are journaling your raw, unabated thoughts and feelings; walking and talking honestly with God in the forrest, and sharing your struggles with close friends.

I will leave you with this, broken Mum, Within a few years you will be celebrating with absolute joy, the marriage of your daughter to her lovely fiancee. You will have a closer relationship with God as you know His journeying with you and you will be a freer, stronger, more confident, less judgemental person; feeling much more fully alive than you ever thought possible.

I know this is hard to believe right now but hold on, take each day as it comes and trust in the Lord whom you love.

Much love,
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Julie