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by Jessica Anderson
April 7, 2021
Trigger warning: child loss
Yesterday, I donated my late daughter’s clothing. It’s a stark statement, I understand. I’ve tried to soften it, to make it less painful for anyone who reads it, but there’s no way to do that. It’s impossible to wrap such a reality in gentle language. Almost seven years have passed since Mia’s passing, and still, when I say “my deceased child,” people’s expressions change; their eyes widen, and they look away, creating an atmosphere thick with discomfort. This truth, my truth, has cost me friendships, as I refuse to hide these painful shards to ease others’ discomfort.
The idea that children can die is unsettling. The existence of boxes and urns to hold the remains of infants is a harsh reality. The fact that death certificates can be issued for such small lives contradicts our deepest instincts. The intertwining of birth and death into a single moment, as was the case with Mia, is tragically incomprehensible. It’s absurd, really, when you think about it.
And I do. Often.
After returning home without Mia, I couldn’t bring myself to let go of her belongings. Logically, I understood that she never wore or played with them. Yet, I vividly remember choosing each item, my pregnant belly full after a food court treat, how I delighted in every piece as I envisioned my daughter wearing them. I was a thoughtful shopper — a woman more inclined towards the darker hues of Hot Topic than the pastel shades of Princess Pink — and I felt anxious about raising a girl for that reason. I bought plenty of blue, lots of Roxy for a surfer-themed nursery, picturing the sun-kissed beach waves I hoped she would have, just like her older brother. (In a cruel twist of fate, she would have those curls, but the sun would never shine upon them. This realization often makes others squirm when I voice it, the irony of the situation.)
These clothes have sat in bins in my closet for nearly seven years, and I still refer to them as Mia’s things, as if we are simply waiting for her to return and claim them. As if she would come home from college one day and ask for them for her own children.
Yesterday, while organizing my closet, I encountered items that made sense: school photos of my other children, their artwork evolving from simple scribbles to intricate pastel sketches, portfolios filled with their growing achievements. A natural progression — growing, aging — is what we anticipate when a baby enters the world.
Mia’s Things, as the bins are labeled, sat quietly, gathering dust. They served as a bleak reminder of the child I welcomed and said goodbye to on the same day nearly seven years ago. For the first time, I felt that these clothes, selected with love, could be of use to another mother. Perhaps another mother could dress her daughter in them, watching her grow and thrive, marveling at the joy of a child doing what children do — growing up — under the sun’s warm embrace.
I felt a sense of peace, a readiness.
I consulted a friend who advised me to hold each item and gauge how it felt. Following her guidance, I carefully said farewell to never-worn clothing, moving them from a bin to a donation box. I spent an hour unfolding and refolding, kissing goodbye to tiny jeggings and glittery tops. I turned each piece over in my hands with a sense of calm I had long awaited. There was a healing quality to that sadness.
I kept one onesie. It was blue, pink, and green, embroidered with “Little Sister.” My hands refused to let it go, remembering my son’s joy when he picked it out, proudly announcing to everyone in Target that he was going to be a big brother. I can still picture his smile, wearing a brown Hawaiian shirt, a breadstick in hand. “My baby sister!” he had exclaimed, and I held it tightly, tears streaming down my face, placing it beside the only photographs I have of Mia.
My journey into motherhood has not been smooth, but rather a winding road filled with potholes and jagged glass. It has been a series of starts and stops, challenges that seemed insurmountable. I have come to accept this truth, appreciating the perspective it brings, which helps combat the self-doubt that often accompanies motherhood.
Yesterday afternoon, I met a woman whose journey to motherhood mirrored parts of mine. I recognized the pain in her eyes — the kind of news no mother wants to hear. I asked if she would like my daughter’s clothes, and she accepted, promising to cherish them with the same love I had when selecting them. They would belong to a little girl who would represent hope and light after a darkness that was just beginning to lift.
I donated my late daughter’s clothing yesterday, turning another corner in a grief journey that will accompany me for a lifetime. I recalled the early days of my pain when well-meaning friends and family members urged me to part with everything, as if that would help me forget each tiny garment. One day, I assured them, I would be ready. I knew I would find the right mother and feel that closure. These items would fit perfectly, and I would find solace in knowing that from pain and loss, hope would emerge.
And she would wear clothing that, seven years ago, was chosen with a mother’s love.
For more insights on similar topics, check out this blog post here. If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, Make a Mom offers valuable resources. Also, this guide on what to expect during your first IUI is an excellent read.
Probable Search Queries:
- how to donate baby clothes
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In summary, this heartfelt narrative recounts the experience of a mother who donated her late daughter’s clothing, emphasizing the healing process intertwined with grief. The act of giving away those precious items symbolizes hope and new beginnings for another family, demonstrating the enduring connection between love and loss.
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