child loss

Welcome to Quiet Ground

Quiet Ground

15 Apr 2025 — 1 min read

This space was born from grief–deep, life-altering, world-splitting grief. In 2022, my son died. And everything I thought I knew about life, love, purpose, and time unraveled in the quiet afterward.

Quiet Ground is not a place of answers. It's not polished or packaged. It's a place where I write to keep breathing. To tell the truth of what it means to live inside loss, and somehow–still–wake up, still mother, still try, still hope.

Here, you'll find stories. Reflections. Rage. Resilience. A little light. Maybe a lot of shadow. But always honesty. Always heart.

This is where I lay it down, gently and sometimes not-so-gently, in hopes that it reaches someone else standing in the wreckage, or the rebuilding.

If you're here, welcome. I'm glad you found this ground.

The Hardest Work You'll Ever Do

Therapy isn’t a warm cup of tea and a cozy blanket. It’s more like picking up the rug you’ve been sweeping things under for decades, only to find the dust is heavier than you imagined. This morning, I sat with my therapist talking about “emotional childhood neglect.

Still Here

It’s strange, isn’t it? How the world expects you to survive the unimaginable and return to it like nothing happened. How your child can die, and people just… forget. They expect you to move on. To be “better.” To show up the way you used to, like you’

The Quiet Drift

It’s been creeping in slowly, this feeling that I’ve drifted from my son. I don’t feel him like I used to. And saying that out loud feels like betrayal. In the beginning, he was everywhere. In the songs that came on at the perfect time. In the

I Want to Be Seen

I've spent years being the helper. Today I admitted out loud: I want to be helped too.

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The Hardest Work You'll Ever Do

Still Here

The Quiet Drift

I Want to Be Seen