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Trigger Warning: Child Loss
I donated my deceased daughter’s clothes yesterday. It’s a straightforward statement, but one that carries a weight that can’t be softened. The reality of saying “my deceased child” is jarring, and I often see people’s expressions shift, their eyes darting away as if they can’t bear the heaviness of those words. This has cost me friendships and strained connections, simply because I refuse to shield others from the raw truth of my experience.
The concept of children dying is unsettling. The existence of boxes and urns for babies feels fundamentally wrong, and the fact that a death certificate can be issued for such small beings defies our instinctual understanding of life. In Wylie’s case, the timing of birth and death merged tragically into a single moment, a notion that feels profoundly nonsensical.
Since Wylie’s passing nearly seven years ago, I’ve held onto her belongings. Logically, I knew she never wore them or played with them, yet I remember lovingly selecting each piece while heavily pregnant, my cravings satisfied by a food court cinnamon roll. I envisioned my daughter in these outfits, carefully curating her wardrobe with an intentionality that reflected my hopes and fears as a mother. I chose a lot of blues and Roxy clothes, imagining a little surfer girl, just like her big brother. The irony that she would have those beautiful curls, yet never experience the sun, is a painful truth that makes others uncomfortable when I articulate it.
These items have remained in bins in my closet for years, a somber reminder of the child I welcomed and lost in the same day. Finally, I felt a stirring of readiness—perhaps another mother could cherish these clothes, marveling at the growth of her own daughter in them, basking in the joy of motherhood that I had been denied.
With the help of a friend, I began the process of letting go. I held each piece, allowing myself to feel its weight before deciding its fate. I unfolded and refolded each article of clothing, saying goodbye to little baby jeggings and glittery tops. What I experienced was a profound sense of healing amidst the sadness.
I kept one onesie, a blue, pink, and green garment embroidered with “Little Sister.” The memory of my son picking it out, declaring proudly that he would be a big brother, flooded back to me. I clutched it tightly, remembering the joy of that moment before placing it next to the few photographs I have of Wylie.
My journey through motherhood has been anything but straightforward; it’s been a winding path filled with unexpected challenges and moments of heartbreak. Yet, this journey has provided me with a unique perspective that I value deeply.
That afternoon, I met a woman whose own path to motherhood echoed my own. Knowing the pain she carried, I offered her Wylie’s clothes. She accepted them, promising to cherish them as I once had. They would now belong to a little girl who would embody hope and life—something beautiful emerging from the darkness of loss.
I donated my deceased daughter’s clothing yesterday, taking a significant step in my lifelong journey of grief. I recalled those early days when friends urged me to discard everything, as if that would lessen my pain. I held onto the belief that I would know when the time was right to let go. And now, I find peace in knowing that from my tragedy, a new life would be clothed in love.
If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, check out this helpful resource or explore artificial insemination for more insights.
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