Dear Little Girl…For the Baby I Never Held

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years since I said hello and goodbye in the same season.

Every year around this time, I find myself sitting in the strange collision of two sentences:

Happy Birthday.

And Happy Death Day.

What a strange place to visit year after year.

A place where love and grief sit side by side.

A place where I celebrate a life I never got to hold and mourn a child I never got to know.

It's also a place that can be hard to explain.

Unless you've walked this road, it's difficult to understand. There is a sacred sisterhood made up of women who carried babies they never got to raise. It is a club none of us wanted to join, yet somehow the women in it understand one another without many words.

We know what it means to love someone we barely met.

We know what it means to miss someone whose face we never saw.

And we know what it means to carry both grief and hope in the same heart.

I still don't know if you were a boy or a girl.

And if I'm being honest, I still wonder.

Would you have had blue eyes like your daddy?

Would you have loved sports like Graeme?

Would you have been creative like JP?

Would you have been driven like Will?

Would you have loved dance like me?

Would you have had my laugh? My stubborn streak? My tender heart?

Or would you have marched to the beat of your own drum and surprised all of us?

Sometimes I imagine a little girl in a tiny tutu twirling through heaven.

Other times I picture a little boy running through fields, laughing and exploring.

The truth is, I don't know.

But I love you all the same.

I think that's one of the hardest things for people to understand about losing a baby.

Love doesn't wait for a birth certificate.

It doesn't wait for first words or first steps.

Love began the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, that love remains.

I remember the day I found out you were gone.

Some memories fade with time.

That one never has.

I remember driving to the hospital.

I remember exiting Walnut Hill.

I remember riding the elevator.

I remember the ultrasound technician smiling.

And I remember watching that smile disappear.

"I am so sorry," she said. "There is no heartbeat."

Those words changed everything.

I remember tears streaming down my face.

I remember mascara streaked across my cheeks.

I remember walking through a world that suddenly looked exactly the same while feeling completely different.

I remember hoping they were wrong.

Praying they were wrong.

Believing a miracle might happen.

I didn't want to let you go.

I wanted one more chance.

One more heartbeat.

One more sonogram.

One more miracle.

But it never came.

And so I joined a club I never wanted to belong to.

The club of mothers whose babies live in heaven.

Years later, I learned my Grandma Foley belonged to that club too.

Nobody really talked about it.

I don't even know if all of my siblings know.

By the time I lost you, she was already gone, and I felt very alone.

Because here's what people don't always understand:

I knew you.

I carried you.

I heard your heartbeat.

You heard my voice.

You were real.

And you still are.

If you're reading this and you're part of that club too, I want you to hear me:

You are still a mother.

From conception to death, you are still a mother.

Even if you never held your baby.

Even if you never got pictures.

Even if nobody else remembers.

You are still a mother.

And I am still your mama.

One of my favorite memories happened after you were gone.

Your brother JP was sitting on the top bunk one night and decided you needed a name.

"Trece," he said.

Number three.

The third child.

I don't know if I would've chosen that name myself, but I loved the heart behind it.

I loved that your brother already loved you enough to name you.

And somehow that small moment has stayed with me for seventeen years.

Today, I still wonder about you.

I wonder if you've met my mom and dad.

I wonder if you've met Grandma Foley and the baby she never got to raise.

I wonder what your laugh sounds like.

I wonder what it would feel like to hold you.

I wonder what you smell like.

I wonder if you know how often I still think about you.

I wonder if you know that every June, I remember.

I remember the loss.

But I also remember the love.

And maybe that's what healing really is.

Not forgetting.

Not moving on.

Not pretending it didn't matter.

Maybe healing is learning how to carry both.

The grief.

And the gratitude.

The ache.

And the hope.

Because after all these years, that's what I feel most.

Hope.

Not the desperate hope that asks God to change the past.

But the quiet hope that trusts He is holding what I cannot.

The hope that believes heaven is real.

The hope that believes I will know you when I see you.

The hope that believes love does not end at death.

So today, Baby Berry, I want you to know something.

I never forgot you.

Not for one year.

Not for one day.

Not for one moment.

You are still part of our story.

You are still part of our family.

And you are still deeply loved.

I loved you the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, I love you still.

Wildly.

Always have.

Always will.

Love,

Your Mama on Earth

Dear Little Girl…God is in the Details (Even the Car You Drive)

Welp…I got a new car.

And I love it.

But before I tell you about the new one…
you need to understand the one that came before her.

Mary Poppins

I have been driving a car I fell madly in love with…
a 2005 Toyota Sequoia.

And when I tell you I drove that baby until it cost more to fix her than she was worth…
I mean it.

She was like Mary Poppins. Hence the name Mary Poppins.

She could fit EVERYONE.

Carpool? Got it.
Dance equipment? No problem.
A lamp? Sure.
Honestly…she could probably fit a couch if we needed her to.

She was magical.

One of Graeme’s buddies, Hall, used to say he loved my car because of her smell and that soft, soft leather.

And I loved how high she sat me.
I felt like I commanded the road.

If someone needed a ride?
“I’ve got them ALL—no worries.”

If my boss needed me to meet at storage for set design?
“I can get everything.”

She was that girl.

But…she was also 21 years old.

And she let me know it was time.

👉 When the brakes went out on the way back from Houston.

That was fun.
NOT.

The Search

So the hunt began.

And honestly…that wasn’t easy for me.

I wanted:

• space

• height

• leather

• a sunroof

• and (in my dream world) seating for 8

But reality started to set in.

They don’t make those big third rows like they used to.
And financially, it didn’t make sense for this season.

So I started talking to God about it.

And slowly…my perspective shifted.

👉 I’m actually almost done with carpools.

That season is changing.

So my search changed too.

Mid-size SUV.
Still tall.
Still leather.
Still sunroof.
Still me.

Narrowing it down

I landed on three:

• Land Cruiser

• 4Runner

• Genesis GV80

The Land Cruiser?
Beautiful…
but out of the price range I felt peace about.

The Genesis?
Stunning inside…
but lower to the ground and not the most reliable right now.

So…

👉 4Runner it was.

The One

We found her.

White.
Limited.
Sunroof.

And…

Redwood leather.

Not my original “tan dream”…
but I decided to do something I don’t always do easily:

👉 I put it in God’s hands.

No over-controlling.
No spiraling.

Just:

“Lord, if this is it…make it clear.”

The Wink

The car arrived.

I opened the door.
Sat in the driver’s seat.

And looked up.

Written across the windshield were the words:

“Jesus loves you.”

I just sat there.

Because after all the decisions…
all the adjusting…
all the letting go of what I thought it had to be…

It felt like a whisper:

👉 “We did good, Amy. This is your car.”

And then…this happened

My mother-in-law took it for a drive.

Now, if you know her, you know this:

She feels my brother-in-law Marc’s presence in dragonflies.

And would you believe…

She pulled back in and said a dragonfly had flown right into the windshield.

You can believe what you want…

But to us?

👉 That felt like Marc saying:
“Hey…this is GREAT.”

And I think that’s what I want you to take from this.

Not what car I bought.

Not what features it had.

But this:

👉 God is in the details.

Even the small ones.
Even the everyday ones.
Even the decisions we think are just “practical.”

You don’t have to get it perfect.

You just have to:

• listen

• adjust

• trust

• and take the next step

Because He meets you there.

Sometimes in a whisper.

Sometimes in a windshield.

And sometimes…

👉 in a dragonfly.

So goodbye to Mary Poppins…
thank you for carrying us through so many seasons.

And hello to something new.

I have a feeling…

this one is going to carry us just as well.