As I sit here with my piping hot tea, reheated numerous times before I could take the first sip, I think about my word for this year. We are in a new home. The last
These days, the glamorization of busy and full and accomplishment seems to top slowness, softness, self care and self love. Just the other day I shared about hustling and slaying, and the language that is
I never wanted to be strong. But from the age of 16, when my spine was fused together with titanium, and my typical teenage problems disappeared into the bleeping of ICU monitors, I was told
As we inch into the second year of my daughter’s passing, I’m finding myself at a standstill. The reality of what has happened to us hits me on a weekly basis. A photo I haven’t
When I think back on our lives with Florence, often in and out of hospital and appointments, I remember being fed. I remember food. Another cup of coffee, an oat bar in a paper bag
I cannot pray. I don’t know how. It’s not that I don’t want to, but words fail me. They come out muffled and fake. They are stale and regurgitated from the days of my youth.
Nothing could have prepared me for the beauty of your spirit as you came in flesh and blood and water. Nothing. The love I have for you is vast. It is overwhelming. On the day
On Saturday we celebrated you, Florence Marigold. It was supposed to rain all day, but guess what? The sun came out! It always has on your birthday party. We wrote in the book that was at
Dear Village, I don’t know how to ask this, without sounding quite desperate. But, the truth is, I am feeling desperate. Desperate to celebrate my daughter and have you alongside me. Her birthday is on
I had so much fun putting together my son’s birthday party. It was time for celebration. My daughter passed away in May, and I felt like his first birthday was the perfect time to eat cake
When I get nervous in life or death situations, I start babbling to the people around me. Or I throw up. I do best when strangers surround me for these reasons. Kind nurses with cool hands offering
By Kendra Roehl “Mommy is this right?” My daughter shows me the note she’s writing. There are pictures of herself and her siblings taped haphazardly alongside her printed words. “It’s close!” I reply. “Well, what
