When Hope Feels Far...
As a loss mom myself, I know the weight of silence that follows stillbirth. I remember searching for something, anything, that made me feel seen in those first shattered days. That’s why I wrote this letter: for the mother whose arms are empty and heart is broken. It’s the letter I wish someone had handed me. It’s raw, honest, and written with every ounce of love and understanding I carry from my own story. I’ve included it here on our page as a small offering of connection, because you shouldn’t have to walk this road alone. If you’re reading this, I want you to know: I see you, I honor your grief, and I’m holding space for your heart.
Dear Beautiful Mama,
I hate that we have to meet like this. I wish more than anything that the pain that brought you here didn’t exist. That your arms were full, your heart unshattered, and that your story had a different ending. But since we’re here, since loss is the thread that ties our hearts together, I want you to know this: you are not alone.
I know this pain. I know the quiet that follows unthinkable loss. I know what it feels like to question everything, to blame yourself, to feel lost in a world that no longer feels familiar. To get unsolicited words of advice. And I know how it can shake the very foundation of who you thought you were.
You are living through the hardest part. I wish I could take that pain from you, but since I can’t, I’ll sit with you in it for a moment. Please hear me when I say: it won’t always feel like this. This unbearable grief, this hollow ache, it won’t always be this loud. Your feelings, your grief, your questions are all valid. There is no right way to grieve, no timeline you must follow. Every tear you shed is a testament to the love you have carried, and that love will never be lost.
And I want you to hear this clearly; you did nothing to deserve this.
This heartbreak is not a punishment. It’s not your fault. Not even a little. There is nothing you did, or didn’t do, that caused this. I know how easy it is to replay every moment, to ask “what if,” to carry guilt that doesn’t belong to you. But mama, this pain is not a reflection of your worth. You loved fiercely, and you still do, and that love is the most sacred thing in the world.
The truth is, grief doesn’t go away. It evolves. In the beginning, grief is everywhere. It takes your breath. It steals your sleep. It makes it hard to eat, to think, to be. I remember asking my husband if the tears would ever stop. It’s all consuming. You wonder how you’ll survive it, how anything could ever feel “normal” again.
And then one day, not suddenly, but slowly, it begins to shift. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it settles. It finds a place to rest inside you. You begin to breathe lighter again. The tears still come, but they’re not constant. You laugh, and it feels strange. And sometimes, even wrong.
Because after loss, hope feels dangerous. The thought of smiling again, of opening your heart, daring to believe, it can feel too risky. Because hope carries the threat of heartbreak. And once you’ve known that kind of pain, your whole being tries to protect you from ever feeling it again.
But I want to share the best advice a dear friend once gave me:
“I don’t know where life takes you from here, Lyndze. But don’t lose hope. Don’t get lost in the grief. Grieve and mourn the life you envisioned with your baby. Allow yourself that mental and emotional space. But don’t make your home there. You’re strong, and you deserve happiness. Don’t be robbed of those things when the time comes to experience them again.”
I held onto the words “don’t make your home there.” The grief felt endless, like I had been dropped into a place I’d never escape. But that gentle reminder helped me remember: the pain is real, but it isn’t permanent. The grief is heavy, but it isn’t your forever. This isn’t where you live now. Maybe you’re here for a season, maybe even longer than you ever thought possible, but this sorrow is not your home. You just have to keep breathing. One breath at a time.
As time moves on, remember, fear is not a sign from the universe. It doesn’t mean you’re broken, cursed, or doomed to repeat your pain. It’s simply a part of you trying to keep you safe. It doesn’t mean you’re not meant to move forward. It means you’re healing.
And even in the darkest hours, you are seen. And in that darkness, there is light. It might come in small moments, a kind word, a quiet memory, the warmth of the sun on your skin. Hold on to those sparks. They will help you find your way back to hope when you’re ready. Remember, you are doing the best you can. And that, my friend, will always be enough.
With all my heart,
Lyndze Smoot
Founder of Grayson’s Promise
In loving memory of Grayson Daniel Smoot, 7/29/24