In the Middle of Being Known

I sometimes wonder who people think I am now. Not in the existential sense. Not in the "finding myself" sense. I mean quite literally.

When my name comes up in conversation, what is the first thing people think of?

Before Haven died, I never wondered about things like that. I was a wife. A mom. A friend. A coworker. A woman who loved Jesus, loved her family, and was trying her best to build a beautiful life. I still am all of those things. But now I am also a mother whose daughter died.

And no matter how hard I try, I can't find a corner of my life untouched by that reality. It's there when I make plans for the future. It's there when someone announces a pregnancy. It's there when I pass the baby aisle at Target. It's there when I imagine what our family should look like. It's there when someone asks how many children I have. It's there when I watch Sully play by himself and wonder what life would look like if his little sister were here.

The loss of Haven isn't something that happened to me. It is something that continues to happen to me.

Every day.

Every holiday.

Every milestone.

Every conversation about growing families and new babies and due dates and first birthdays.

And because it touches everything, I sometimes wonder if it's all anyone sees when they look at me.

Do they think about me before sharing their pregnancy news? Do they hesitate before talking about their growing family? Do they wonder if a casual conversation about babies might hurt? Do they remember?

The strange thing is that I don't know what answer I want. Because on one hand, I don't want to be known as the woman whose baby died. I don't want that tragedy to be the headline of my life.

I want people to see the whole picture. The wife. The mother. The friend. The person who still laughs and dreams and plans and hopes. I want to be more than the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

But on the other hand, I don't want people to forget. I don't want Haven to disappear from the story because her story is painful. I don't want her name to become something people avoid because they aren't sure what to say. I don't want the world to move on as if she never existed while I continue carrying her every single day.

The truth is, when someone announces a pregnancy, I am genuinely happy for them. When someone welcomes a new baby, I celebrate with them. When families grow, I rejoice in the goodness of that gift. And at the very same time, there is often a quiet ache.

A twinge.

A reminder.

A whisper of what should have been.

Not because their joy takes something from me. But because their joy reminds me of something I lost. Both things can exist together. They often do.

I think that's the part people don't always understand about grief. We don't need the room to stop celebrating. We don't need joy to become quieter. We just need people to remember that grief is still sitting beside us while the celebration happens. That every conversation about new life brushes against the absence we carry. That our children are still ours, even when they are gone.

Maybe that's why I feel pulled in opposite directions. I don't want to be reduced to my grief. But I do want my daughter remembered. I don't want every conversation to revolve around what happened. But I do want people to understand that what happened changed everything. I don't want pity. I want remembrance.

And part of remembrance is continuing to ask. It’s continuing to remember the dates that no one else has marked on their calendar.

My friend Jenna brings me flowers on the 11th of every month. Not because it's a holiday. Not because social media reminds her. Not because anyone expects her to. She does it because she knows what the 11th means. She knows that each month the date arrives carrying the reality that I’m one month further away from the day I last held my daughter.  She remembers what so many people naturally move on from.

And every single time, I am reminded that Haven is not forgotten. The flowers themselves are beautiful, but what they represent means even more. They tell me that someone else is carrying a small piece of the remembering. Someone else noticed the day. Someone else remembered that my daughter lived. Someone else understood that while the world keeps moving forward, a mother's heart still keeps count.

I don't know that I will ever have the words to fully express what gestures like that mean to me. Because grief can feel incredibly lonely. Not because people don't care, but because life moves on for everyone else while you continue carrying the weight of an absence they no longer feel every day.

So when someone remembers—when they acknowledge a date, say her name, ask how I’m doing, or recognize that another month has passed—it feels like a hand reaching into that loneliness. It reminds me that I am not carrying Haven's memory by myself. And that is a gift beyond measure.

Not because I want every conversation to be about grief. Not because I need every interaction to carry the weight of loss. But because grief didn't end when the casseroles stopped coming or when the calendar turned another page.

Sometimes I think people are afraid to ask because they assume more time means less pain. As though grief follows a predictable path toward healing. As though enough months can put enough distance between a mother and the loss of her child. But that hasn't been my experience. The grief I carry today is different than it was in those first raw weeks, but different doesn't necessarily mean easier.

It ebbs and flows.

There are days when I can talk about Haven and smile. Days when gratitude feels louder than sorrow. Days when I feel steady beneath the weight of it all. And then there are days when the ache catches me completely off guard. Days when a pregnancy announcement, a milestone, a passing comment, or a memory pulls me right back into the reality that my daughter should be here.

The hard days are less predictable now, not less real.

So when someone asks, "How are you doing?" and genuinely wants the answer, it feels like a gift. It tells me they understand that grief isn't something I experienced. It's something I am actively living.

And maybe that's what I want people to know most: you don't have to fix my grief. You don't have to find the right words. You don't have to be afraid of bringing up Haven.

Just remember.

Remember her.

Remember me.

And every now and then, keep asking how we're doing.

Because while I don't want to be known only as the woman whose daughter died, I never want to live in a world where my daughter is forgotten.

She is woven into every version of me that exists now. Not because grief is all I am. But because love never stopped being part of who I am. And when you lose a child, the two become impossible to separate.