A rocket ship will bring her home

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A rocket ship will bring her home

You can’t imagine what will come after your life is seized by the reality that your child is dead. You don’t know the pain will get worse. You don’t know how dark the nights will be between the hours of 1am and 4am, when your rational self will be taken over by an imposter who imagines all the ways that you and everyone you love is going to die.

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At the kitchen table: introductions and an invitation

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At the kitchen table: introductions and an invitation

It’s our turn now to set the table, put the tea and coffee on, and invite you to pull up a chair. At this kitchen table, you can tell your story if you want, or just listen. Here, your grief is welcome, in all its variations, its beauty and ugliness, love and anger, hope and bitterness. Here, you’re not alone. We’re so glad you found us.

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Pure motherly love

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Pure motherly love

I wanted to remember what I felt when the nurse placed him in my arms for those short few minutes after giving birth. I wanted to remember how smooth his skin was and how soft his hair felt under my fingers when I would gently rub his head. I wanted to remember his eyes and how much he already looked like his daddy. I wanted to remember the happiness I felt to be his mother.

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The reins

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The reins

I founded Glow in the Woods in spring 2008, one year almost to the day after my son Liam died in the NICU after six weeks of love, longing, and agony. I spent the next ten years assembling many talented writers to build the community here at Glow, and writing Notes for the Everlost, which came out in Fall 2018. All these years later, emails like Christine’s — and all the writing here, all your stories — still make me cry. But not in a sad way, oddly. It’s just a repeated humbling, a circular sharing of love and company with other parents who understand.

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