September 3 marked two years since my perfect Baby Sloane was born still. My son told me he didn’t want to go to the cemetery to visit Sloane’s grave because it makes him sad. And because it makes me sad. Truth be told, I don’t like going there either. I wish I didn’t have a grave to visit. I wish she were here with us. I wish I could just stop thinking about her, stop reliving the horror and trauma of the day she came into the world, stop what-iffing myself over and over again. I wish I could just forget it ever happened and move on with my life. But you know what? I can’t. Why? Because she’s my baby. She came from my body and she’s a part of my family. She literally pops into my head a hundred times a day, just as often as my son does. I can’t forget her, or move on, or pretend she didn’t exist. So I do my best to keep her memory alive and make her proud of me. I write about her, I speak publicly about her birth and our experience with the medical system and care providers, I make donations in her name, I buy all the keepsakes, I add her name to memorial items, because that’s all I can do.

Instead of having our friends and family over for Sloane’s 2nd birthday, I put flowers on her grave, bought myself a birthday cake that I like, and tried to enjoy the beautiful boy I have the privilege to raise. It’s so beyond unfair that this is my reality, and it hurts knowing that I am one of millions of parents who know this heartbreak.

This life is beautiful and cruel and above all else, bittersweet.

Happy 2nd birthday, Baby Sloane 💜 I love you and miss you more than words can say