Tag Archives: grief

Pregnancy #3 {Part 2}: Paralyzing Fear.

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If interested, you can read  part 1 here.

The very moment we found out we were pregnant with another little one the fear set in. Every day I was a wreck. My fear was paralyzing me, almost quite literally (with the major exception of a super active boy) and the anxiety within me would ruin any hope that my heart wanted to have. Ted would come home from work or school to find me… and our home… a mess.

For a while I told myself and those around me that my reason for not doing much was because I was so sick and exhausted from pregnancy. Yes, that was partly true but I also knew that a lot of why I wasn’t moving, why I wasn’t doing things I love and brought me hope, why I wasn’t even doing things that I should be doing… was out of fear.

At 8 weeks I had to make the trip to Dr. Hill’s office to have the first checkup on the baby. I walked in his office feeling so nauseous, fearful and shaken up. They put me in the room to wait for him and I began to cry and shake. I couldn’t do this. The last time I had an ultrasound, I was a few days away from 7 months pregnant with Eisley (one week away from potentially delivering her) and they showed me the most devastating thing a mother could see. My baby girl’s heart had stopped beating. The memouries came flooding back and I almost couldn’t handle even being there. When Dr. Hill came in he did the ultrasound and I saw a tiny little baby the size of a bean, wriggling around and when he shared the heartbeat aloud. I cried the entire time.

Even after seeing his swift heartbeat, I allowed myself to sink so quickly into fearing for this baby. And even though I had heard and knew this would be “normal” for a momma who lost a child, it was worse than I’d ever imagined.

There was a part of me, of course, that wanted to hope and trust and believe with everything in me that this baby will be in my arms, healthy and breathing. Of course, I wanted to hope for that. However, with everything we’ve walked through, I feel it would be incredibly ignorant to not remember the reality. I can’t even forget that reality that we’re faced with everyday. I began to believe very fatalistically. I’d constantly dwell on the reality that any given moment I could begin bleeding, I could lose this baby, despite how “good” the heartbeat sounded just the week before, despite how everything was going thus far…

When people who knew we were pregnant would hang out with us or talk with me about this little one, I would say things like, “IF we get to November…” or things like “IF we can carry this baby full term…” I remember one night we had a whole group of friends over and afterwards Ted sat me down and had a serious talk with me. He was so sad and weary of hearing me speak so fatalistically. He wanted to see me hope again and believe that this could happen. He felt so strongly that this pregnancy would be just like it was with Chase.

Not long after our talk I had a major breakdown. I was almost 12 weeks pregnant and the fear was unbearable for my mind. I couldn’t move from the couch besides helping Chase or getting him out of trouble. I laid on my left side and drank a ton of water (both of which I did with Eisley because they were what could help her). I never even got Chase out of the house for most of my first bit of pregnancy.  Most days, I couldn’t even get myself to the shower. I was depressed, fearful, full of anxiety and worry. I didn’t believe in myself. I’d, once again, convinced myself that I was to blame for Eisley’s death and that maybe if I did everything “perfectly” with this pregnancy things would be different.

One huge struggle I have had with believing I had failed Eisley, that my body had failed her, was with this little one, not knowing what it was that I really could do differently. They never gave me a solid reason for why my placenta clotted and why it pulled away from the uterine wall. There wasn’t something they could pin point and say “Do this differently next time.” Nothing. So imagine my fear of doing anything.

The road to 13 weeks was incredibly daunting. At 13 weeks with my sweet Eisley-girl, I had begun bleeding. At 12 weeks with this little one, I had to see the specialist I saw weekly with Eisley. Talk about traumatic experiences… I’m still working through my times in her office when I was pregnant with Eisley.

The thought of returning to her office was more than I thought I could handle. Having rarely ever heard or seen our fetal medicine specialist speak positively or with hope, I only feared the worst…

Part 3 coming soon with how it was to walk back into the specialists, facing week 13 and how I felt in learning this little one’s gender.

blurry.

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I’ve been in a really hard-to-explain place. I can’t really pinpoint it and I feel I won’t even do a decent job of expressing myself clearly, maybe because everything seems so cloudy? I don’t know.

Every time I go to write in my journal, or when I hop on here to write a blog, I get stumped. What could I possibly say to express my heart clearly? Everything seems so blurry in my mind and thoughts lately. I am not going crazy or anything. I think this could best be described as grief.

I’m in a seriously explicable, blurry place.

I also am struggling with other things adding to my grieving the loss of Eisley. Things I feel I shouldn’t even be dealing with yet I am. It’s out of my control. And some days when I would get on here to write, all that would come out was from an ugly place of anger, frustration, jealousy and hurt. It would be super passive aggressive, ugly places that I just cannot. go. to. I can’t dwell in it for its eating me up inside and I don’t know how much longer I can handle grieving and this without just going totally crazy or without growing numb. I don’t want to be numb. I need to feel, especially right now.

Ted has been incredible and gracious and compassionate to me throughout all of hurt and my shocking anger toward this situation that I bring to him (I should probably say it it’s not him ;)).  He is super loving to remind me of truth yet validate my hurting heart. I am so thankful for this man who somehow manages to stick with me despite where I’m at.

Each heart knows its own bitterness,and no one else can share its joy. Proverbs 14:10

Bitterness and hurt are stealing things that are so precious to me. Including my joy. It’s consuming my thoughts and I’ve even allowed it to dictating my actions.

But mostly I hopped on to humbly ask for your prayers for my heart to release this bitterness so I can freely grieve.

I guess I wanted to get on here and write you to say, “I’m still here”, I plan on posting a DIY this week. I do.

(p.s. …we finally found a place to call home. We signed the papers today. More on this soon…)

5 months; the part where the shock wears off.

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(5 months ago today, we held our precious baby girl, whispered our earthly goodbyes)

My fear of man keeps surfacing lately and I’ve really allowed myself to be so afraid of what everyone would think of where I am at in the “grieving process” (ugh) so I slowly find myself retreating from the truth of where I’m at when I share. I always hope to be real, raw and authentic but to also use wisdom in what I share and what I don’t (totally failed on that front more than once!)

All that to say, I really still want to share where I’m at. Okay, whoa, how’s that for a disclaimer ;)

Last Thursday, Ted got me out of the house, we went for coffee and then he took me to Hobby Lobby (which for me is relaxing haha). When time came to leave, I stood in line to pay for my few items and before me stood a momma with her baby girl. Her daughter looked to be around 5 maybe 6 months old. She had a cute little pink and brown monkey hat on and was chewing on a toy. I couldn’t stop staring… imaging… dreaming. I couldn’t help but think of my Eisley-girl. I teared up and tried to think of anything else to distract me from crying.

Then this Tuesday, I attended my first ever, mom’s group called “Moms 4 Moms” at my mom’s church. She has been asking me to go with her since this fall, but until now I haven’t had the desire or the strength. So I went, I did it! I actually had a really good time. It was so great for Chase to hang out with kiddos his own age and for me to be around other moms. I tried to prepare myself for the fact that there would probably be baby girls there (and there were many). I did pretty well when we arrived, but then when they asked about new visitors and asked my name and if I had any kids, I was taken back and didn’t really know what to say. I awkwardly answered, “I have a son, Chase, he’s 18-months-old”…. because I knew as soon as I spoke of her name, I would probably cry.

Holding it together sometimes just doesn’t seem possible unless I, I don’t want to say lie but I guess that’s what it is. Unless I withhold the whole story, the truth. But then I felt horrible because I also want people to know I have a daughter, my Eisley-girl. I do, I have a daughter, she’s just not here with me. When I face moments like that or when I seeing precious girls around the age Eisley should be, my heart breaks deeply, again. Over and over.

I find myself in this really dark and awful rut here and there. In the darkest parts of the “valley” where it feels like everything around me is crashing down and all hope is gone. Where the lies that I’ve failed her and that I’ll lose everyone I love, I begin to believe. Where the flashbacks and traumatic memouries haunt me. It is hard to get motivated, to have will power to do even the most basic things, on these days.

When I’m in this rut, it affects every area. I take care of Chase and his needs, but that’s it.  I can’t even find the strength to create something beautiful. Our house is also proof of this “rut”; piles of laundry, toys and books everywhere, dishes piled up, trashed bedroom, every thing is a huge mess.

My body is proof; my weight, my chewed fingernails, my hair from splitting my ends/yanking my ends off, the bags under my eyes, etc. I feel much older than my 23 years. Weary, worn down.

The enemy hounds me in every way possible, he has me questioning myself on “those” days where I’m so low, “Shouldn’t I be past this part in the “grieving process” yet?” and then the days where I am doing really well, still grieving but able to face life, I find myself battling guilt, “You didn’t even think of her once this morning. What is wrong with you?” “You haven’t cried in over two days.”

Sneaky, sneaky enemy. Wherever I’m at in my journey, he’s one step behind, trying to pull me down. Many would say that might not be so, but I tell you, in the darkest of the valley it’s true. He is one step behind you, constantly reaching for your ankle, to pull and drag you down. It really comes down to whether or not you allow that to happen. There have been countless times where I’ve believed the lies as truths and fallen, BUT let me just say, every. single. time….

I find {hope}. I think I know deep inside, even on “those” days, that there is hope. That I am not beyond repair. That there is promise and life and truth and healing meeting me where I am at, waiting for me to grab hold and begin to move forward.

To us this feels like the darker parts of the valley, the part where the shock wears off and the reality sets in full force.. I was telling a friend just the other day, that I really hate this place where I’m at because, honestly, I prefer the shock. For many, us losing Eisley was but a brief moment. For us, it is our life. In our life we will never had her here with us on earth. Never. She is gone. I really, really hate that this is our reality.

It all falls back to acceptance, again. I’ve talked about this before. Now that the shock has worn off, I really have to face this and … accept this.

As the shock wears off  and as I allow myself to really face the truth, I’ve found, that even though this (for me) is the most difficult part of our journey, I find myself healing. I cry even as I write this because I am slowly healing even though it doesn’t always feel like it. Even though sometimes I fight it because I don’t feel ready to heal completely and I’m far from being healed completly. I read this quote and this has helped me a lot because it’s something I’ve really struggled with since we’ve lost Eisley;

“Knowing the Lord and His comfort does not take away the ache; instead, it supports you in the middle of the ache. Until I get home to heaven, there’s going to be an ache that won’t quit. The grieving process for me is not so much a matter of getting rid of the pain, but not being controlled by the pain.” Dr. Larry Crabb

When I first read this, I just cried. Yes. God really spoke to me through this very word and showed me that I can begin to heal and still feel this deep, unending ache. And the even though the enemy is one step behind me, my Heavenly Father is walking beside me, not taking away the ache, but supporting me in the middle of it. WHEW. He is. And most of the time, I realize that He has me, “Resting between His shoulders”, carrying me, carrying us, through the darkest parts of this valley.

Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in Him, for He shields him all day long, and the ones the Lord loves rests between His shoulders. Deuteronomy 33:12

He carries our precious Eisley. And He carries us.

There is hope, forevermore and through every deep, dark valley and unending ache.

i wasn’t prepared.

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Disclaimer; this post is really raw.

I wasn’t prepared to lose Eisley. You might argue that the time I had in the hospital might have prepared me, but honestly, all the time in the world couldn’t prepare you to lose a child. Nothing could, because even if you guard your heart sometimes and try to prepare, you still hope fervently and with {everything} inside you. You could never prepare, ever.

I wasn’t prepared for the {infinite} shattered dreams.

I wasn’t prepared for the constant shattering and the effect thereof.

I wasn’t prepare for how it feels when you lose someone you love so deeply.

I wasn’t prepared for how often grief is revisited. How quickly it surfaces when I read or see or hear things that reminds me of Eisley.

I wasn’t prepared for the insensitivity towards us.

I wasn’t prepared for the lack of response/encouragement to our loss of Eisley from ones we once called friends. Or even those who knew of what we walked through and never once said a word to us.

The flip side- We are so grateful for the friendships we’ve made and those that have deepened since we lost her. We are so grateful for the encouragement, love, care and letting us know that you are standing with us. That means the world to us right now. More than I can express.

I wasn’t prepared for those, even those who are pro-life, who never considered our loss a loss. I was 3 days away from 7 months pregnant. Our beautiful baby girl was a life lost, a beating heart gone. I wasn’t prepared for how people would treat us as though we never lost a child.

I wasn’t prepared for how quickly people think we should be moving forward.

I wasn’t prepared for how comforting and encouraging I find words like; “I haven’t forgotten Eisley or you guys”, “you are not forgotten”,  anything I hear about Eisley’s life and her impact on others, etc. The messages, comments, texts, calls… whew. They comfort our hearts a lot.

I wasn’t prepared for the deep ache I’d feel when watching others do the very thing I longed to do with her. The very things I had talked about, hope for, dreamt of, etc.

I wasn’t prepared for feeling so wounded.

I wasn’t prepared for the array of emotions or sudden force of them.

I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming realizations that hit frequently.

I wasn’t prepared for so much more.

I sometimes lie in bed feeling so overwhelmed I don’t know what to do, I just weep into my pillow and even that sometimes isn’t enough…

The LORD is near to those who have a broken heart,
And saves such as have a contrite spirit. Psalm 34:18

I also love this version too;

If your heart is broken, you’ll find God right there;
if you’re kicked in the gut, he’ll help you catch your breath.

I am sitting here crying as I write this. We will not be overcome because it’s not by our strength that we’re getting through this. I believe that with my whole heart.

Jesus, give us the courage to face what we do everyday. As we face our reality. Please give us courage and be our everything for we cannot.

Edit: Please understand I know that (esp if you’re reading this) you’ve probably been one who has been there for us throughout everything. I am so very grateful for your love, encouragement , etc, etc! The above just sometimes overwhelms me more than it should and I focus on the negative too much sometimes.

acceptance.

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(photo taken during Eisley’s service)

Accept: to accommodate or reconcile oneself to: to accept the situation. (source)

Acceptance has been the hardest part. I think it’s what has caused this last month to be the hardest to walk through yet. I know we really have to face our reality in order to really begin moving forward, but to accept this… whew.

I feel like I go through the “grief cycle” many times throughout a day but the acceptance is the part that I still get caught up on. I could try to accept this, I don’t want to accept this.

It’s hard to accept or come to terms with what happened, with the bed rest, the hospital, the waiting, the hoping, the trauma, the birth…

I don’t want to accept that this was the first and last time we got to hold her in our arms.
 
I don’t want to accept the fact that I will never kiss her nose on a daily basis, or that Chase will never get to play with his baby sister, or that I will never get to see Eisley adore her daddy, or that I can’t dress her like me or watch her creativity blossom (I really felt she was a lot like me, I know it sounds odd, but I do). I don’t want to accept that our dreams with her are gone, or that we will never watch her grow to be a beautiful lady. I don’t want to accept that I won’t someday watch her walk down the aisle… etc, etc, etc, ETC. There is so much that I don’t want to accept. It’s seriously infinite.
 
I like the above quote, but suddenly realized it is more like INfinite disappointment then finite disappointment. Infinite is immeasurable. There is immeasurable disappointments and aches and there is also infinite hope. A hope that says no matter what we face, we can make it through the hardest, darkest day. Hope helps us breathe deeply, take that first step out of bed each morning, face the day, live… hope will help us to dream again eventually. We are clinging to hope, to Him. We must not lose infinite hope and we aren’t. We’re struggling and aching still, everyday and often.
 
 Four and a half months too many.
We miss you baby girl. 

Whew, I know this is really a downer of a post, but I want to stay true to where I’m at and honestly, to ask for your prayers.

I will share a not-so-down post next, with some fabulous finds to lift the mood.

Come on, come on, come on…

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When she came her family was there
And all her things were neatly prepared
When the moment came I was scared
If I look at her I’ll break down
If I don’t she’ll know it somehow
When she came there wasn’t a sound

Come on, come on, come on

Come on, come on, come on

Come on come on, come on

Listen for the beat of her heart
Listen as your plans fall apart
Listen but there’s nothing there
When you lose what you never had
Left with impossible plans
Listen in but you can’t hear

We knew that this could happen
I feel the distance creeping
One there in my position
Moving against my fingers
Against my human nature

Come on, come on, come on

Come on, come on, come on

Come on, come on, come on

Are you through with punishing me
I thought that you would at least
Give what you promised me
Are you through with punishing me
I thought that you would at least
Give what you promised me

What would a father say
He would say to come right home
What would a father do
He would try to comfort to you

What would a father say
He would say to come right home
What would a father do…

When she came her family was there
And all her things were neatly prepared
When the moment came I was scared
If I look at her I’ll break down
If I don’t she’ll know it somehow
When she came there wasn’t a sound

Come on, come on, come on
Should have done something

Marot – by Meese

A friend gave Ted and I this song after we lost Eisley. Written by a father that had lost their daughter Margot. When I first heard it I weeped. “Come on, come on, come on”. Two words that speak volumes to me. I cry even now. My heart hoped and longed for her heartbeat to be found. Oh Eisley-girl, “Come on, come on, come on”…

Today we brought Eisley’s ashes home from the funeral home. I keep thinking “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.” And it’s not. My heart and my mind still aren’t connected the dots. Four and a half months in and still, it’s so very hard to accept. It’s my reality every single second of every day and even still…

I long, hope, “Come on, come on, come on”… and ache when the reality strikes again and again and again.

No more words… just an aching heart asking for your thoughts/prayers.

WE.

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The past week has been especially difficult in the Davis household. Reality sets in more and more each day and with each reminder that our Eisley-girl is gone, I grow weary. I originally popped on to write a post, venting in a most unhealthy kinda way about reminders and things are bringing me down. But I just can’t… I can’t go there and what’s the point but to bring me down further. So instead I decided to share, first a verse, then a little bit about how WE are (you’ll understand the need for caps soon) and then (the FUN stuff) in the a DIY project I’ve been meaning to share with you.

A few nights ago I was desperate for a word I could cling to. I typed in “sorrow, grief, tears, loss,” etc, into a search button on Ted’s ipad Bible app. I stumbled across these verses in Micah.

We’re clinging to Him, to {hope}.

(call me cheesy, but rainbows do always remind me of hope and promise. We woke one morning to this!)

We’re holding on to a few promises we feel He’s given us.

 To be honest, it has been so very rough between Ted and I, since we’ve lost Eisley. ”They” say it is the most difficult thing that  a couple can go through, the loss of a child. The statistics of divorce after the loss of a child are ASTOUNDING. I can actually see how that could happen, not that I think it is right. You can very easily disconnect from one another because you don’t know how to be there for each other as you are BOTH grieving. You feel at a loss for how to be there or even encourage each other, most of the time. To say “it’s been rough” for us is a huge understatement. You might have noticed that I didn’t talk a lot about Ted since we’ve lost our girl. I wanted to respect where he was at and not share his personal life like I share mine with you all.

Side note: It might be confusing to some, why I share so much. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I shared our journey before we lost Eisley and I want to share our journey as we grieve as well. I write to process (in my journal) but I share some things “aloud” (blog) also from advice for those who’ve walked this road before us, also for encouragement and to know we aren’t alone, also a mixture of hoping that Eisley’s life and story and our journey will touch someone or help someone.  And I think, if I’m compltely honest, a bit of why I write and process for all to see, is because I am afraid of people forgetting Eisley.

Whoa, side track.  Back to Ted and I…We’re both the weakest we’ve ever been and it’s hard to have strength to be strong for one another, so lately we realized, that is okay. We are super weak, broken, sorting through shattered dreams, clinging to hope but we’re all of these things {together}. We’ve recently started walking together and it is so healing. That might seem confusing, why would we just now start walking together? It’s hard to explain. You’ve heard it said that “men and women grieve differently”. it. is. so. very. true. However, we’re learning that we grieve differently, yes, but not seperately.

And we’re now we’re seeking counsel to help us walk through this season. For the first time in my life, I really want to see a counselor. There is so much to process and walk through, things that I’ve avoided that I need to face, truama I need to process with someone who is not grieving as well. I’ve put a LOT on Ted that hasn’t helped him in his grieving, so this will be so healing for us both.

 Ted, I love you and am so thankful you’re the one by my side. WE are not giving up.

(on a fun note; DIY Recipe box on next post)

words that resonate.

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i have my days, my hours where my heart is aching in a way that feels almost unbearable. today is one of “those days” where it’s really  hard to get back up. it’s hard to even find the words tonight to express where i am at. my own words are failing me, so instead i will share a few photos with quotes or verses that resonate with me.

chase and eisley’s blankies (Thanks evie for this verse.)

 (thank you brittney maxwell for this beautiful treasure you found me!)

shatter, shatter, pause, repeat.

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(Eisley’s ornament for 2010)

Shatter, shatter, pause, repeat.

Sometimes the “shattering” is so deafening I just want to climb into bed and sleep the days away so not to deal with any of this. This probably seems incredibly dramatic, but it’s the honest-to-goodness truth.

Before our sweet girl passed away, I would have break downs, but never fully shattered because I had {hope} that she would live. September 14th so began the shattering …and it didn’t end there. It follows me and sneaks up on me as I’m reminded of dreams we had for Eisley, or even in the little things,  like today when I watching Chase play by himself in the bath.

There is an Eisley shaped hole everywhere I look, in everything we do.


I’m walking a road I’ve never walked before this year;  the road of mourning the death of a loved one. I’m 23-years-old and this is the first time I have lost a loved one. I was still in the womb when my biological father passed away and even though it did affect me growing up, I still didn’t feel loss in such a way as I do now. I lost my great-grandfather when I was 2 and honestly I don’t remember much. I’ve stood beside my husband as he grieved the death of his friend Phil, which was heart wrenching for me but in such a different way. I still have all my great grandmothers, all of my grandparents, my siblings, my friends, etc.

My first time ever losing a loved one and I’ve lost my daughter, my Eisley. It’s completely overwhelming that I sometimes wonder how people survive after loss. Some days I struggle wondering if I will ever be able to move forward. I struggle with not letting my mind go to the “what ifs”. There is just SO much that swirls through my mind, so many questions…. Will I always grieve? Will this ache ever cease? Do I really want it to? What would life have been like with Eisley? Should I even go there?  Will I be the voice I want to be for my daughter? ETC.

Or things like, How do you cope with seeing reminders so often? How do you rejoice in others joys as you ache so deeply? How do you respond with someone downplays what you went through? How do you respond to people who wonder why we’re still grieving, as if Eisley wasn’t a life?

Or things like how I’ve overreacted;  to people who didn’t say a word to us throughout everything, like how I, the very day I got home from the hospital, deleted a lot of people from my friends on facebook just because they didn’t say a word to us. Or how I’ve allowed reading/hearing things affect me to the point I was in tears. Or how I’ve taken certain things people have said directly/indirectly to us when their heart intentions were probably pure.

I’m learning a lot right now, in my first time walking through loss.

It’s. so. so. so. overwhelming.

My mom just called me as I was blogging this and asked me how I was doing after the let down after the holidays. Oh…that might partly explain the sudden overwhelming I-don’t-wanna-get-out-of-bed feeling I had this morning.

I’ve been so busy making gifts for the past month at least, I’ve had a dear friend visit me and my mother-in-law come to town for a week, 3 Christmas celebrations, etc. It’s been busy, busy, busy and now it’s all calmed down. I never once felt completely okay over the holiday, but I also kept busy (sometimes intentionally) because I knew it would be hard to just sit still. I didn’t really think of after the holiday. I didn’t expect waking up this morning to be so difficult.

Bleh.

In November, I found myself in this pivotal moment where I knew if I didn’t pick myself up… I might never. So I began creating things for fall and Thanksgiving, and suddenly realized how therapeutic it was for me. I can’t explain it fully but it was so very healing. I realized that it was helping me and kept going and decided instead of giving up my goal of creating handmade Christmas gifts, that I would try. And I did it and it was {so} good for me.

All that to say, I’ve decided I am opening a Etsy store because creating is so very therapeutic for me. I feel like this is a really good outlet. I am hoping to get my Etsy store going soon. I think I need to because it’s healing. (Maybe it was perfect that I didn’t get the 2 nanny jobs I interviewed for?)

One thing that will help me immensely in the area of creating are a few of the gifts I received this year… I was pretty shocked to get a Cricut and a sewing machine plus Hobby Lobby and Joann Fabric gift cards! It’s so perfect and the best timing!

Please pray for me all around?

Thanks for loving me, even in my all over the place state.

Love, Jami

p.s. I’m doing a small giveaway on my blog this week. I will be posting it in the next two days and will announce the winner on 1.1.11!

{Forever Imprinted}- the full meaning behind my tattoo

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While on bed rest I decided that I wanted to get a tattoo representing Eisley’s life and this season in our lives. I truly thought I would be getting a tattoo that meant or represented healing, because I truly believed our little girl would survive.

One week after we said our goodbye to her, I knew without a doubt, I wanted her footprints on me forevermore. I originally planned that I would wait until what would have been her first birthday to get this tattoo as well as one under my collar bone, above my heart (not literally) that represented her life and our time with her. It’s hard to tell you the reason behind why I did her footprints sooner that I had thought, but I will just say, I needed the daily reminder to be inspired by her life and the reminder to not let what we’ve walked through to ruin me.

I was afraid to share that I was getting this tattoo and even after I got it, I had to be encouraged by Ted to share it. I guess I was afraid that some people might call this an emotional whim tattoo. It truly isn’t there is so much meaning behind this tattoo. Here is the full meaning in the best way I can explain.

Her footprints:

The words to describe how healing it is for me to have her footprints on me are so hard to find.

Her tiny little footprint mold.

I got her footprints in the exact size, shape and imprint at are in the mold they created for us the day she was born. I saw my (amazing) tattoo artist 4 times beforehand to get it perfected. When she tattooed the footprints on me, she had the mold next to her to make it as similar as possible. {I love that she did that}

I got it on my right foot which was actually is important to me. I lead with my right foot. I hope to let her life inspire me and to be a piece of what helps me keep going. To keep moving forward and to live life fully.

The words;

“You are my sunshine” … I sung the words to this song over and over to her during my time with her. I could cry even now as I think about my time in the hospital with her and how, in those moments when all seemed hopeless, I’d lay with my hand on my belly singing her this song and also the simple song I wrote her, “Grow Eisley Grow”. 

I combined the two meanings into one for the tattoo. I used the words “you are my sunshine” and wrote them in the exact, broken handwriting I used to write her the “grow Eisley grow” song.

The handwriting is broken and isn’t perfect and that is what I {love} about it. It represents that time when I wrote to her, broken and afraid, yet believeing and holding onto hope. It represents where I was and am at now. Broken, yet moving forward holding onto hope and truth.

It also represents inspiration. The way I was inspired with her inside of my womb, I want to continue to be inspired, in an even greater way, by her life and the imact she had/has on me.

It represents my children. Eisley and Chase, they are my sunshines. That might sound dramatic or even cheesy, but Chase in his enthusiasm and joy, encourages me so very much on a daily basis. Eisley and Chase are my little sunshines. I’ve never yet called them my prince or my princess and maybe someday I will think of them like that but I’ve {always} thought of them as my sunshines from day one in the womb. I sung this same song to both of my children every night they were in my womb. I now still sing it to Chase but usually find myself in tears before the end of it. He still finds it comforting and I do too.

My tattoo as a whole:

I wrote before about her impact on my heart and my life, and now it’s even a physical reminder of the impact she had on me.

It’s a reminder; It’s a reminder to be inspired by her life and how deeply she touched and changed mine. It’s a reminder to keep pushing forward in that inspiration instead of letting this overcome me.

I want to look back years from now knowing that we grieved and mourned the loss of our daughter yet that we didn’t let it overcome us. I want to look back and see that we we were inspired by her little life and her impact on us. I want to look back and know we became better people because of her. I long to be her voice, and to be inspired and find pieces of her in how I create and look at life.

I want, in a very good way, to be changed and to never ever be the same again.

The date:

December 17th- the date I got the tattoo also has significance. I felt it would be healing to get it on the day she was supposed to be due. The pain of getting the tattoo was both healing and significant. There were moments it hurt terribly, but more than anything it was emotionally painful and healing all at once. There was a part of me that kept thinking that I should be feeling the pain of labor instead and then there was that part of me that sat in awe of Eisley’s little footprints on my foot. The size of her tiny little feet on mine… I am crying even now. It’s hard to put into words the moment when she first placed the outline of my little girl’s footprints on me. 

My tattoo artist told me that the tattoos she had that were linked emotionally were actually some of the more painful tattoos. She was right. It was a lot more than the physical pain that caused the tears streaming down my face. I also shared Eisley’s story, I spoke it aloud, which was hard and healing simultaneously. Two times Ryan, the tattoo artist, had to stop and put her face in her arm to cry and even that was healing. Eisley’s life and story and legacy was touching another person. …I can’t find the words to tell you how much that means to me…

One thing I didn’t think about when I got this tattoo was of how it could impact the life of another. Ryan was the first and already, less than a week of having this tattoo, I have shared her story with a bank teller (seriously) and Eisley’s life touched her as well… the first of many, many more times to come I have a feeling. I will always share her story and it will probably always be painful yet healing.

I keep looking down and seeing her little imprints on me forevermore. It blesses and heals my heart more than I can find words to share. The physical reminder that she is with me is very healing. I had a  hard time finding the words to express fully what this tattoo means to me and I hope I was able to clearly portray the meaning. Thanks for “listening” and caring and loving us like you do.

Baby girl, do you see? I’ve got you now physically on me forevermore. You’ve impacted and inspired my life so deeply. …………..