I first notice it in December, when the birthdays begin. Little children turning three. We were pregnant at the same time, their mamas and I. I thought our children would grow up together; I remember waiting to hear their names and hoping none would share a name with our baby. I remember laughing as one was given a name we had seriously considered and I was so glad we had chosen a different one. I didn't realise just how sacred her name would become.
I notice it again at Christmas, in the glaring absence of one precious little girl. There's silence where her laughter should be and her present being opened by her brother...not her.
It hits once more on New Years Eve as I remember the joy and hope of NYE 2012. We welcomed in the year on the beach, laughing with friends and trying to find someone with matches so we could light our sparklers. 2013 was a year filled with hope and anticipation. Until it wasn't.
And then the end of January draws near. The heaviness that has been lurking since December gets stronger. Darker. Suffocating-er. I didn't realise grief could be so physical.
I cannot breathe.
Because, next week.
Next week is the Australia Day public holiday. The day we found out she had died. The date changes but the memories don't.
Next week is her Heaven Day, when our sweet baby girl arrived in Heaven. My sad day. When the heaviness is as heavy as heavy can be.
Next week is her birthday. The day I felt a rush of love I had never felt before but also a sorrow I had never felt before. The day I caught her as she was born and smiled because she was indeed a she, just as I had suspected. Next week we'll picnic on the beach and write her name in the sand. Because the day she entered our lives is worth celebrating.
It's been a while since I wrote something here. I haven't felt like I've had much to say and when I do, it's been for my monthly posts on Still Standing Magazine, Pregnancy After Loss Support (PALS) or the occasional post for Sands Australia. Since I posted here last we have been blessed to welcome another little girl into our family. Our sweet Seanna Hope is now 3 months old, born safely after another stressful pregnancy. I shared my pregnancy journey on PALS and you can read her birth story there too. I cannot put into words how healing her labour and birth were. Maybe one day I'll try.
With our little Seanna, photo by Karen Pfeiffer Photography
Life feels full these days. I never expected to be able to say that, considering our precious Ariella is always missing. When she died I searched out so many blogs; I needed to know my grief wasn't an isolated experience. I was in a place of devastating grief and I feel like most of my posts were written in that place. But I'm not there anymore, the son has starting shining again and as a result I've written less. I had found so many grief blogs but not as many that continued sharing life after the initial heavy grief had passed. I (subconsciously) thought my blog needed to be the same and stay grief focused. I'm not even sure how I put that expectation on myself but I want to break free of that. It IS possible for life to be good again. There is hope after child loss. There is joy after intense grief. And if my two littlies allow me time to write, this is what I hope to show!
(Thanks to the beautiful Franchesca Cox for my new blog design)
It's been eighteen long months since you came and went. Or is it went and came? After all, you were gone before we met you. Sometimes I still can't quite believe that. How is it that your anniversary is before your birthday? It shouldn't be that way my sweet girl.
Eighteen long months since I first saw your beautiful face. It really was love at first sight - I couldn't believe that you had dark hair. Your daddy and I were blondies so I expected that for you too. But no, you decided to surprise us with dark brown hair. And no matter how many months pass, I don't think I will ever forget just how dainty your fingers were. They were so beautiful. I miss them.
Sweet girl, you have a baby brother now. He looked so much like you when he was born! Same dark hair (although that didn't surprise us) and the same little nose. Even now, I still look at him and think he looks so much like you. I wonder what you would look like now. Would you have stayed long and dainty, or would you have developed the same glorious chub that your brother has?
I don't know how Heaven works...I don't think you'll be able to read this, but I wonder if you can see me? Would you be proud of your mama? I hope so. It's been so hard without you but I'm doing my best. Your brother loves looking at your photos, although at this point he's probably just enjoying the way the light reflects on them! But one day he will know who you are and how special you are.
Precious Ariella, eighteen months ago today was one of the best days of my life. I got to meet you. And that is a moment I will always treasure.
Today, in a Facebook conversation about breastfeeding and formula feeding, I read a comment that said something along the lines of "if your child still lives and is healthy, you did your job as a mother". Occasionally I see pictures implying that the one thing a mother needs to do to be successful is keep your children alive, like this one:
From someecards.com
And every time it's like a stab in the heart.
Because I couldn't keep my child alive.
But that does NOT make me a failure.
I believed for too long that it did, but I refuse to believe it now. There is not a single baby loss mother I know who has failed her baby...because every single one of them loves that baby with their whole being. For those who haven't lost a child, allow me to let you in on something...most baby loss mamas blame themselves in some way, at least initially. We feel like we have failed our babies, our partners, our family. We don't need comments implying that (intentional or otherwise).
But it's not just about keeping your child alive, success should not be defined by having a healthy child either. I cannot speak from experience, but I don't think my friends whose children are unwell or have a disability would be comforted by the idea that a healthy child is what defines a good mother. It's not.
Motherhood is about more than "keeping the kids alive" or having a healthy child. Motherhood is about love. If you do the best for your child, with the knowledge you have, and you do it out of love, THAT'S what matters. That's a mother doing her job.
Sometimes I fight with myself about whether I should write about a particular issue or not. I had talked myself out of writing about Easter without my baby, until I read my friend's post about her broken Easter. Her honesty inspired me to be honest too, so here it goes...
This Easter sucked. Big time.
And I feel like a bad Christian for even thinking it, yet alone saying it.
Easter is a time when Christians focus on the death and resurrection of Jesus. It's always there in the back of our minds, songs and sermons, after all, it's the event our faith is based on, but at Easter it becomes front and centre. Rightly so! I think it is wonderful that it makes us think more purposefully about such an important event. Last year, all I could focus on at Easter was Mary and how she had to watch her firstborn die. This year, my focus could not get away from the little sayings people use:
The day death died. O death, where is your sting? Death has been defeated.
Etc, etc.
I know that people have been using little phrases like that since, well, probably forever. And one of those sayings is a Bible verse, so I'm not against them entirely. But this Easter, it didn't seem to me that "death had died" or that death was in any way defeated. Because on the way to church on Sunday, we stopped in at the cemetery where my firstborn is buried. That is where death's sting is.
Death to me is not dead.
I see it when I look at my daughter's photos - the only photos I will ever have of her.
I am reminded of it when I look in my car's back seat and see only one car seat, not two.
I feel its power when the ache in my heart comes out in my tears.
Death to me is not defeated.
The Christian faith is about more than little statements or catchy phrases we use to summerise the most significant event in history. I know that. And I do believe that one day I will see Ariella in Heaven, alive. I believe that one day there will not be any death, pain or suffering. But right now there is. And as a result, Easter without my baby was just too hard.
I never knew it would hurt this much. That almost 13 months later the pain would be just as raw even if the tears don't always flow so freely.
I never knew it would be so hard to use basic terminology. That words like dead, funeral and grave would be replaced by stillborn, service and special place because my broken heart can barely cope with using the others in connection with my daughter.
I never knew that I could feel so much guilt for something that wasn't my fault. That I would have to battle so hard against the lies of the enemy in order to simply glimpse the truth, yet alone believe it.
I never knew how desperately I would wish that I could visit Heaven. That a beautiful sunset could bring me to tears as I wished the clouds were stairs.
I never knew how frequently I would get asked if Levi was my first child. That at least once a week my heart would begin to pound as I worked out what to say.
I never knew that sometimes I would answer yes to that question. That I would deny Ariella's existence to protect my heart from breaking or even just to save a stranger from feeling awkward.
I never knew I could miss someone so much. That my heart could be so full and so empty at the same time.
At midnight on December 31 2012, I stood with some of my closest friends on a beach, laughing as we tried madly to light sparklers with no success and then tried to get some flame from another group on the beach. As we watched the fireworks to the north and south of us I was full of anticipation for 2013. In one sense, it was a year of unknown: was Baby going to be a girl or a boy? Would they come early or late? What job would my husband find? How would I handle life with a newborn? But in another sense, I thought I knew what 2013 would hold: a baby.
And I suppose it did. Our sweet Ariella Jade was born at 9am on January 30 and we got to spend two whole days with her. Our baby; our forever baby.
That’s why I’m not ready to say goodbye to 2013. It will always be the only year in which we got to hold our daughter. I cannot say it was the worst year of my life, because it contained some of the best moments of my life. In 2013 we got to meet our baby, hold her, name her and create memories with her. In no other year will I get to clothe her, snuggle her or read to her, so 2013 cannot be all bad. In addition to that, I’ve spent 37 weeks of 2013 pregnant with Baby #2; it’s been hard and draining, but also wonderful. Feeling a little life wriggle about and knowing that at least one of my children is alive. I cannot say 2013 has been all bad. On the flipside, 2013 also contained the worst moments of my life: the drive to the hospital assuming that our baby had died, the confirmation ultrasound, leaving the hospital room and later, the funeral home.
When I stood on the beach one year ago, I had no idea what would occur exactly 4 weeks later. I miss that innocence, thinking that the worst that could happen was that our sparklers wouldn’t light and that 2013 was going to be an incredible year. I guess all I can say is that it has been an incredible roller coaster.
Sometimes I'm scared to say what I really think. Because if I say "I would give anything to be able to kiss her perfect little cheeks again", I just know someone will say "one day you will." But it's not about that; it's not about the future. It's about now. Right now. It's about the aching hole in my heart that I have to live with every. single. day.
Sometimes I'm scared to talk about how long it has been since our sweet girl was in our arms. Because no one else is as aware of each passing day as I am. Because people assume I'm talking about something else. And it says to me that they have moved on.
Sometimes I'm scared to say just how much I miss her. Because sometimes it feels like people don't want to hear about her anymore.
Sometimes I'm scared to meet new people. Actually, I'm always scared to meet new people. When they ask if I have kids or if this is my first pregnancy, how will they react when I tell them about Ariella? Will they be awkward? Will they literally back away? Or maybe, will they ask me about her? But sometimes I'm too scared to take that risk.
Sometimes I'm scared to be honest. Because if I'm honest, it often means I'm blunt at the same time. And I don't want to hurt others; I feel like I should be considerate of them. But honestly? I'm tired of making excuses for others. Of qualifying everything I say in order to lessen the chances of offending someone. I wish I could scream from the rooftops that this is my grief. Mine and my husband's. Stop comparing yours with ours. Stop trying to make it better. Stop trying to fix us. This cannot be fixed. Just be with us.
From A Bed For My Heart's facebook page
Sometimes I'm scared that people think the hope I have in Jesus is the answer to my pain now. It's not. A fellow Christian said the perfect thing to us the other week - "while you would be comforted in knowing she is with our Heavenly Father, you must miss her terribly here on earth." Yes. We do. And the comfort we have in Jesus does not mean we miss her any less.
Sometimes I'm scared to finish blog posts where I want to finish. I feel like I should end on a positive or at least on a hopeful note. But some days just aren't like that...
I couldn't help but notice the lone purple daisy next to the driveway. I didn't even know there was a daisy plant there, I thought the only daisy bushes were further down. I took a second look to confirm that yes, this flower was indeed part of a small plant, hidden by some weeds and other bushes.
How odd, I thought to myself, one lone flower, so far from where I thought it belonged.
And then I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.
Bloom where you're planted, whispered the still small voice of God.
What? I asked. Bloom? Here? In a place of sorrow and pain? In a community that no one wants to be in, because the only way to gain membership is to lose a child?
The answer? Bloom where you're planted.
The flower was not where I thought it belonged. It was not where I would have looked if was to go searching for a purple daisy. I am not where I thought I belonged; I'm not where I would have looked if I was looking for somewhere to bloom. I argued with God for the next little while.
How can I possibly bloom here? I don't want to bloom here, I want to be somewhere else, somewhere that isn't a result of my daughter's death.
God's gentle reply was becoming familiar, bloom where you're planted.
So I guess that's what I'll do. I have my bad days, the days when I want to yell and scream at others, at myself, at the world. Days when I sit down to write and all that comes out are words of confusion and hurt; those are the posts that get labelled as "drafts", to be shared on a later day when I'm not feeling so vulnerable or afraid to be honest. The bad days are when the closest I get to blooming is being "blooming angry" that my daughter isn't here and the world has moved on. As the nine month anniversary approaches, those days are becoming more frequent. And it was on one of those days when I heard God's voice: bloom where you're planted.
So Deeper Still is me trying to bloom where I'm planted. Writing on Still Standing is me trying to bloom where I'm planted. Even simply getting out of bed each day is me trying to bloom where I'm planted.
Please remember,
I love my daughter,
I'll always miss her.
Please remember,
The "old me" is not going to come back,
My daughter's life and death have changed me.
Please remember,
You don't have to fix me,
I am at peace with missing my daughter.
Please remember,
Mentioning Ariella's name is not going to upset me,
It's going to make me smile that you acknowledge her.
Please remember,
How much you take pride in your children,
I am no different to you.
Please remember,
A subsequent pregnancy does not take away the sadness of our daughter's death,
We rejoice over this baby while still grieving the death of our first.
Please remember,
This baby is not going to "fix" us,
We will always be aware of what we missed with our first baby.
Please remember,
I am not going to get over our daughter's death,
I will get through it, but I'll always miss her because I will always love her.
I live near a park, so it's common to hear birds chirping away throughout the day. I hear them first thing in the morning, and it can be so lovely to open the doors or windows and hear them as I go about my day. But last night, they were chirping as I went to sleep. Since when do bird chirp (continuously) at 11, 11:30 at night? It was very strange, but it made me smile. The birds sounded so cheerful, even in the pitch black of night.
And that made me realise something:
Day 1 of Capture Your Grief: Sunrise.
Some days feel like the night; they seem dark and you just want to sleep through them. And I have to confess, yesterday was one of those days. I couldn't think of why, as it wasn't a significant date. A friend suggested that maybe it's due to the emotions that doing the Capture Your Grief challenge is bringing to the surface. I think she might be right. For whatever reason, yesterday was a dark day.
But just as the birds were singing in the darkness, there was hope in yesterday's darkness. A friendly older man to chat to while waiting in a line. An overseas friend who "happened" to not be able to sleep and was therefore awake when I needed to talk through some things. Another friend with good news to help me look beyond myself. Winning a fuel voucher. A cute maternity top for only $9. An email that I think contained some incredibly exciting news (although I'm just waiting for confirmation before I know for sure). A night spent with some wonderful friends. Knowing my husband would have today off work. Knowing it's just a few more days before a week long holiday.
Some days seem pretty dark. Yet there is always hope.
I shouldn't have the luxury of resting in bed, trying to fight off a cold that hasn't yet made up its mind whether it will stay or not. I should be up, looking after an eight month old. But I'm not.
I shouldn't dread meeting new people, in case they ask if this pregnancy is my first. I shouldn't feel awkward when answering truthfully, but then again, people shouldn't back away when I tell them about Ariella.
I shouldn't be uncomfortable at larger gatherings, but people's silence regarding Ariella is deafening.
I shouldn't be planning how to capture my grief when on holidays for a week; I should be excitedly looking forward to introducing Ariella to a great friend of ours. But I'm not.
I shouldn't have to go to the cemetery to visit our girl. But I do.
There are a few TV shows that I love. Gilmore Girls would have to be at the top of the list, no doubt about it. But I also like 30 Rock, Whose Line is it Anyway, and Friends. And it's that last one that I wanted to write about today, hence the title of this post...any other Friends fans out there and get it? :D
In one episode, Joey realises he doesn't have a present for baby Emma's first birthday, so on the spur of the moment he decides to give her a dramatic reading of the children's book that happened to be sitting near Joey. The book was Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch. From what we see of Joey reading it, it's a very sweet book that includes the refrain:
I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be.
Isn't that sweet? I happened to see that episode while pregnant, and thought it sounded like such a sweet book. I would love to have a collection of children's books and hopefully instill a love of books in our children. And I thought this one would be a good book to add to the collection. I looked it up on Google, and found the words for the whole book...and it was hilarious! It's all about a mother who rocks her baby to sleep while singing the refrain. But the baby, "it grew and it grew and it grew". It became a two year old, a nine year old, and a teenager, whose behaviour would prompt his mother to say "this kid is driving me crazy"! But nevertheless, at the end of each day, the mother would go into his bedroom, pick him up and rock him, while singing the short song. Even when he was a "great big man"! It's quite funny the scenarios that are given; I mean, a mother sneaking into her adult son's house in order to rock him and sing to him? At the end of the book, the roles are reversed, and the son is the one rocking his elderly mother and singing the song to her (with the last line reading "my mother you'll be"). To hear Munsch reading the book, click here.
I thought it was a sweet book about the unending love a mother has for her baby. But that's all I thought it was.
Now for the surprising back story:
Love You Forever was Munsch' personal tribute to his two stillborn babies and his way of remembering and honouring their little lives.
Wow. When I discovered that this morning, I was blown away. It was one of those moments of realising that baby loss really does affect a lot of people. I never got around to buying the book when I was pregnant last time, and I'm more determined than ever to find it this time. I love the last two lines of the refrain: as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be. Because that's how I've felt about Ariella this whole year. It doesn't matter that she isn't living anymore, I am, and she is still my baby. Even though I will have other children, who will (hopefully and most likely) grow up, she will quite literally be my baby forever.
And I'll love her forever, I'll like her for always.
(To read the full back story of Love You Forever, click here.)
Sometimes it hits me that I'll always miss Ariella. Everyday. For the rest of my life. Forever. And that's a really long time.
Missing her isn't like missing my sister, who is living overseas for three years. Because my sister will come back; Ariella won't. Forever is a really long time.
The hurt I feel at her absence isn't like the hurt from a friend who doesn't speak to me. Because friendships come and go; a daughter should not be gone. Forever is a really long time.
Every time that I look at the dirty washing that needs doing, I know there should be a stack of little baby clothes also waiting to be washed. I pre-washed all her clothes while I was pregnant, but I'll never wash clothes for her again. Her clothes will forever sit unwashed. Forever is a really long time.
I see parents playing with their little girls on the playground near my house, pushing them in the swings and catching them at the bottom of the slide. I'm reminded that I've forever lost the chance to play with our little girl. Forever is a really long time.
On every Mothers Day. On every Fathers Day. On every birthday, anniversary and Christmas. In every family photo, there will forever be one person missing. One sweet little girl, with blue eyes and wavy brown hair.
Forever is a really long time.
(*Disclaimer - as a Christian, I do believe that I will see Ariella again in Heaven. Trust me, if it wasn't for that belief I wouldn't cope anywhere near as well. But please understand that sometimes it's hard to see past this life without her. This life can seem like forever. And forever is a really long time.)
Last Friday I started to feel like I was coming down with a cold. And sure enough, I woke up Saturday with a (not so) lovely cold that has knocked me about for a few days now! It's nothing serious, and if I wasn't pregnant, I'd probably just take a few Cold & Flu tablets and be able to continue on with my normal activities. However, those tablets aren't recommended in pregnancy, so I've been limited to the traditional remedies: rest, and hot honey and lemon drinks made for me by my wonderful husband (thanks Marcus)! I have barely been out of the house since getting sick, but that doesn't mean I haven't done anything! ON the contrary, I've done heaps of things. (Not really, but I'm trying to look for positives and not feel quite so helpless about being home sick!)
So without further ado, the things I have achieved while stuck at home sick for six days:
*A tax return
*Kept the house relatively tidy
*Made, printed, laminated and put up a meal planner (as I find cooking much easier if I know what is ahead). It's nice and colourful on the fridge, and I like the sense of organisation it gives me!
*Made two meals worth of chili con carne and some mini quiches for lunches
*Finally got around to labeling some plastic containers that store our card games. It's only taken me about 12 months to do...
*Watched almost an entire season of Gilmore Girls (an excellent use of my time!)
*Created a Facebook page for the blog. That's right, Deeper Still is now on Facebook! I thought it might be nice to have a place to share my blog posts and other baby loss articles or information, as well as getting to interact a bit more with readers who I don't know in person! You can find the page by clicking here - there's not a lot up there yet, but I'll probably post there more frequently than I have been writing blog posts.
As well as the things listed above, I've managed to completely forget about an appointment that ordinarily I would NEVER forget (although thankfully it didn't matter that I forgot), used one box of tissues (and counting), and stayed in my pyjamas a whole lot more than I have in a long time! Oh, and I ordered some Tupperware :D
So it hasn't been the worst week, even though I have been sick. While I do miss being able to just take a Cold & Flu tablet and get on with life, it's been a good lesson in actually taking time to rest when my body needs it. After this week, I'm sold on the hot honey/lemon drinks to relieve a sore throat! And I'm curious - what's your best natural cold remedy?
I haven't written on here a lot lately, in fact, this is only my second post for September. I have about 10 half-written posts in draft form, but for various reasons (that I won't go into) I haven't finished them. But when I heard a particular song yesterday, it struck a chord with me and I wanted to write about it.
I've written before about the relationship between faith and grief, but I haven't written much about what it's like to actually go to church after baby loss. I think that's mostly because people from my church will read this, and I don't want them to think that they've done something wrong or that I am picking on them. I also don't want extra looks or glances at each service. But I want to be honest:
While Ariella's death hasn't really shaken my faith, it has made going to church incredibly hard.
You see, there are plenty of things that make being at church hard. Babies born in the months before and after Ariella, including one who was born the week before. I see those babies growing up while knowing that I won't see my girl grow up. Women who were pregnant at the same time as me and with whom I had plenty of baby-related conversations. Those women have their babies in their arms, I do not. Advertisements for the two mothers groups that I had planned on attending, but now cannot do so. Seeing people get prayed for and healed (and rejoicing for them), while knowing that my baby girl wasn't healed.
I knew those things would be hard, but I underestimated how hard one other aspect of church would be: worship. In the 32 weeks since Ariella died, I've only managed a couple of weeks without tearing up (or bawling!) during worship. You see, so many songs that we sing talk about how Jesus has defeated the grave. I am so, so grateful that Jesus has done so, as it gives me the assurance of seeing Ariella again. But singing about the grave being defeated when I have literally lowered my daughter into her grave? Ouch. That hurts. Yes, I believe that Jesus has defeated death - one day it will be no more. But in the present day, death is all too real to me.
Then yesterday I heard this song:
I'm Still Yours - Kutless
If You washed away my vanity, if you took away my words, if all my world was swept away, would you be enough for me? Would my broken heart still sing? When my life is not what I expected, the plans I made have failed, when there's nothing left to steal me away, will You be enough for me, will my broken heart still sing? If I lost it all, would my hands stay lifted to the God who gives and takes away? If you take it all away, this life you've given, still my heart will sing. Even if you take it all away, You'll never let me go. Take it all away, but I still know that I am Yours, I'm still Yours.
I like how this song doesn't say that my heart will sing in spite of what happened; it's about making the choice to praise God and sing to Him and about Him even when we have nothing left. When bad things happen, you do have a choice. You could walk away from God or you can choose to praise Him even if everything is taken away. I've seen both happen and it makes me so sad when I see people walk away from God and/or the church in the tough times. It's understandable but it does make me sad. On the other hand, when I see people who have been through the unimaginable and yet their faith is stronger than ever, that's inspiring. That's who I want to be like. No matter what happens, I want to be able to stand and worship God throughout the week and each Sunday in church.
A friend told me at the start of my grief journey that sometimes we just have to go through the motions until it becomes real again. For me, that means going to church and doing my best to worship even though my heart breaks at the sight of a small baby or the sound of their cry. Some weeks, it means acknowledging my weakness and staying at home. It's been 32 weeks, and sometimes I still feel like I'm just going through the motions at church. But I'm convinced that's ok. If I didn't do that, I'd never go, and that's no good either. Going to church is hard, but worthwhile. Even if it's only to stay in the habit until I'm no longer just going through the motions.
When hard times come, the choice is yours. If everything you have or long for is taken away - what will you do?
Life after loss is a very varied thing. I use the term 'life after loss' to label some of my blog posts, and the fact that I have 42 (now 43) posts with that label is evidence of how much there is to say about this topic.
Some days, life after loss looks remarkably like life before loss. We wake up, go to work, come home, go out to meet friends, go back to bed. It has its moments of normalcy.
Some days, life after loss looks like you might expect; it's full of tears, a desire to stay in bed and heart-wrenching pain. It has its moment that you hope don't last for too long.
Some days, life after loss looks like a mixture of both. It's going out somewhere and then hiding in the toilet so you can cry without being questioned. It's laughing at a joke and choking back tears because you saw a pram in the background. It has its moments that are just so conflicting.
It's laughter turning into tears.
Smiles hiding the pain.
Guilt underneath the enjoyment.
Jealousy just beneath the surface.
It's treasuring the small things.
Knowing not to take a moment for granted.
Loving more than you knew was possible.
Finding God's strength when your own has run out.
But no matter what it looks like or what the predominant emotion seems to be, it all comes down to one thing. Whether I'm at work or in bed, laughing with friends or crying alone, sometimes it just comes down to three simple words: I miss her.
The two things most important to me in life are my faith and my family. I've been a Christian since I was a little girl, a wife since 2011 and a mother since 2013, to a beautiful girl Ariella, who was stillborn, and four beautiful rainbow babies who came after her.
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