Letter to the Grieving Mom Leaving the Hospital with Empty Arms

Nuriman Faris

Dear grieving mom,

I am so sorry for your loss. No words will take the pain away, and there is no measure of comfort. This may be the worst day of your life. Your world has been turned upside down, taking you along with it. It's unfair. I know it is. You were supposed to take your baby home instead of a memory box. You feel every emotion, and none of them, as the shock, is still fresh. You are a witness to your own wreck. You're trying to make sense of it all, but you can't. You ask yourself, "Why me?"

No parent should ever have to endure this horror, but you will live, even on the days you feel like dying. That's the grief; it takes you to dark places, places even you don't want to admit you've been to. Your heart has been ripped out and shattered into a million pieces. You're left to pick them up and attempt to reassemble them. But you find a hole where a bit of your heart once was. You'll never be whole again. A part of you will always be missing.

The only consolidation I can provide is that you are not alone. You have been inducted into a tribe of warrior mothers. They are fierce and strong, but not by choice. I know right now, you feel weak. You don't know how to get up tomorrow or the next day to face another day. You'll do it a second at a time, placing one foot in front of the other. You may only do it for the ones you love, but you do it regardless.

You are a mother. You are the vessel that bore life, even if it was for only a little while. No matter what your inner critic tells you, you are not to blame. You did not cause this, and it is not your fault.

The what if's, could'ves, should'ves are loud enough to drown you. You will struggle to find silences in the echoes of your mind. So when you do find some peace, do not feel guilty. You have earned that peace, and you will still have to carry the weight of what you've lost afterward.

I have been in your shoes. I have felt the deepest depths of despair. I hold space for you today and every day moving forward. Your experience is valid. Your loss is real. Your emotions are true. Feel it all, even at the risk of losing yourself. You cannot move forward if you cannot lighten the weight you carry.

Cry, scream, yell, tear into paper, punch your pillow, and get all the rage, frustration, and justified wrath out. Then you'll feel it; you'll feel the sudden, soft, and subtle transition to sadness and grief. In this space, there is love. Love for your child. The one thing death does not take away.

You grieve so strongly because of that love. That's what makes us human. Feel it all. Let it consume you so you can start to heal. Do not be afraid of it, and trust me, and you will be. You may not recognize yourself yet, but you'll find your way with time. The path may be long, and you may grow weary and want to quit, but the spirit of those who have walked the path before you carry you forward.

Some days you'll merely survive. Survival is not living, but it is necessary. We are designed to survive. It is our innate instinct. We are the keepers of our babies' memories. We endure for them to keep their memories alive. Otherwise, they die with us. You are a mother, and that is enough.

Love, a mom who understands

Meet the Author: Nuriman Faris

I'm a wife, mother to two living girls, and to a son who was stillborn at 38 weeks in August 2021. I'm an Interactive Designer and photographer, navigating life after loss.

Connect with Author: On Instagram @nafaris or at www.afamilypact.com/blog