Finding a Way Through Grief
As I sit down to share this, it’s hard to fully capture the depth of emotions we felt during those first weeks at home after losing Stanley. Grief was—and still is—an ever-present part of my life. Those early days were about pure survival, learning to hold joy and sadness at the same time. I remember thinking, “How will we ever laugh again?” In the darkest moments, it felt unimaginable to smile, to try again, to find hope in a world without him. But one thing I learned through this journey was the importance of “and.” I could be happy *and* sad forever. I could find moments of joy *and* carry an ache for my son at the same time.
Grief, as I discovered, was layered. Social media was a minefield, and I had to step away from the pregnancy announcements and the reminders of what could have been. The most complicated part, though, was learning that my brother-in-law and sister-in-law were expecting. It was a mix of joy for them and an added weight to my loss—a reminder of the future I imagined for Stanley and the relationship he would’ve shared with his cousin. Navigating that was difficult, but with open conversations and patience, we found our way through it. Now, I’m able to look at my little nephew with pure love and joy, but it took time, honesty, and family support.
To find a reprieve from all of this, Taylor and I decided to just get away for a week in the Dominican. But grief doesn’t wait in the airport—everything we left behind was still there when we got home. Yoga and crafting became my ways to cope. My therapist encouraged me to find comfort in crafting, and that permission to just create, to be messy, to let my hands work while my mind processed, was freeing.
As July approached—Stanley’s due date—we felt an urge to celebrate him in a way that was ours. We didn’t have a funeral when he passed, as that didn’t feel right, but a celebration of life felt like a chance to honor him in a way that brought a little light to his memory. But planning this was new territory. How do you hold a celebration for a baby? We reached out to an officiant, Jodi, who was a calm, warm presence and understood loss in a way that gave us comfort and peace. She became not only our guide in creating a meaningful ceremony but also a dear friend who helped us bring Stanley’s memory to life with love and sensitivity.
In those weeks, Taylor and I worked together to create something special. We chose a beautiful urn and an engraved stone for a little garden in our backyard, honoring the meaning of his name, Stanley, which translates to “stony meadow.” We invited family and a few close friends, decorated the space, and set up simple ways for everyone to participate. We made the garden into a little rock memorial, with each person adding a stone they had written on for Stanley. It was surreal but comforting to have our family together to remember him.
When the day arrived, we walked into the backyard hand in hand, carrying Stanley’s urn and sitting beside his garden. Jodi spoke, and her words were simple yet powerful—she described our loss with gentle honesty. I’ll never forget how she phrased it for the children there: “Stanley was very sick, and he died.” There was something so pure about hearing it that way; it’s a phrase that rings true in its simplicity.
Throughout the ceremony, our family came forward to share. My mom read poems for the first time ever at a family event; Taylor’s brother shared a sweet, Dr. Seuss-style rhyme he had written. My dad and sister even performed a song together, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” with my dad on his accordion. As chaotic as planning this was, and as emotionally raw as we were, every detail from that day brought Stanley into our world and cemented his place in our family.
Finally, Taylor and I read our own words for Stanley. It was hard to get through, but it felt right to take the floor and give voice to our feelings. Afterward, we played “In the Morning” by The Trews, a song I had sung to him in those precious moments we shared. Family members placed their stones in his garden and raised a toast to Stanley—an homage to the family tradition of a shot and a beer at gatherings.
As we sat there, surrounded by family and memories of Stanley, I felt something lighten, even in the midst of my sadness. Creating a celebration of life for Stanley was a reminder that we could carry his memory forward in ways that brought warmth and joy to our lives. There was a beautiful mingling of grief and joy that day, and it felt like our son was bringing us together, his spirit embedded in our family forever.
In the end, our little backyard gathering gave me permission to carry my love for Stanley openly. We all came together that day not only to grieve but to celebrate the gift of his short, powerful life. And even now, every time I see his garden or feel the warmth of my family around me, I remember that love and grief can coexist, and that Stanley’s memory is as much a part of us as our joy and laughter are.
