Jacob's Crossing

05/28/2026

Sometimes I think trauma was like,“You know what? You’re gonna need a sense of humor to survive this.”🤓

Because at this point, my coping skills are basically caffeine, denial, and making inappropriate jokes at objectively inappropriate times.😳

I mean… the jokes may be concerning, but to be fair, so is the backstory.🤷‍♀️

Or is that just me?🤦‍♀️

Seriously though, sometimes laughter really is the best medicine 🖤

05/28/2026

Believe in Wonderful Things ☀️🖤🪽

05/28/2026

Believe in Beautiful Things ✨️🖤☀️

05/28/2026

"My journey didn't end, it changed" 🌅🪽

05/28/2026

Since losing Jacob, I’ve learned that grief changes shape.

At first, it feels like proof that something inside us has been destroyed.

But with time, if we’re gentle with ourselves, we begin to realize that grief is also proof of how deeply we were capable of loving someone ~ a love so enormous that it refuses to disappear, long after they are gone.

How incredibly beautiful is that?

Perhaps this is why little things suddenly matter so much after loss ~
a certain song, a familiar smell, finding a dime on the sidewalk, or a cardinal perched nearby as if it stopped by to say hello.

A flickering light. An empty chair. A joke you would have told them. A snack you know they would have loved to try. An animal crossing your path and pausing long enough to stare at you. Even hearing someone laugh in a way that sounds so much like them.

After losing someone, the world starts to feel like it’s full of echoes ~ and I think that is one of the most magical things.

Little treasures we find and tuck into everyday life so they are never truly absent from it… or from us.

Grief can be ugly. But oh, how beautiful it can be too.

What are some of the little treasures, signs, memories, or moments that still make you feel connected to your person? I’d truly love to hear them. 🤍

05/28/2026

WHY SKELETONS?

My daughter asked me recently why I've been using skeletons so much for Jacob’s Crossing.

The truth is, I think they’re the most honest representation of grief I’ve ever found.

When a parent loses a child, a part of them dies with that child. Not all of them, because life keeps asking us to continue. We still go to work, attend birthdays, weddings, vacations, and Christmas dinners. We learn how to smile again without guilt and laugh again without feeling like we’re betraying the child we lost.

And eventually, we truly do enjoy those moments again.

But grief never fully leaves.

Because beneath every beautiful moment is the quiet thought:“They should be here for this too.”

There’s an ongoing grief in child loss that I don’t think gets talked about enough ~ the lifelong awareness that someone is missing from moments they were meant to live beside you.

So we learn to carry it quietly. After a while, it begins to feel like we exist between two worlds: one foot here with the living, and one foot somewhere beside the child we love and miss.

That’s what our skeletons represent to me.

They’re still living, loving, feeling, and experiencing life… but there’s a part of them that’s gone. They are grief stripped down to the bones ~ not frightening, not cold, just honest.

And that is why their little hearts glow.

Because even after unimaginable loss, the heart continues to beat. Love, warmth, and hope still exist within us.

And if you look closely at our images, you’ll often find little hidden pieces of Jacob woven into them too ~ an albino squirrel, a mischievous cat, a dog named Max, Jordan clothing, cologne bottles, and other small details that quietly belonged to him.

I think, in my own way, I try to leave little pieces of him behind in every creation.

Because Jacob’s Crossing has never only been about grief.

It’s about love continuing, even after loss.

And I’m so glad you’re here walking this journey with me.

Sweet Dreams,
Jacob's Mom 🖤🪽

05/26/2026

If love could borrow one more conversation beneath the trees, who would you choose to sit with? 🍃✨

05/26/2026

If Not for Ourselves, Then for Each Other

I am grateful for the parents before me ~ their knowing eyes needing no words. Expressions that feel like a gentle embrace, comforting my soul. Without their strength and guidance, I would not have learned how to navigate the storms that naturally follow the unnatural event of losing a child.

And my heart aches for the parents after me.

Instinctively, I know how crushing those waves of pain are. I can feel them spiraling downward, drowning beneath the unbearable weight of sorrow. I can see the look behind their eyes:

“I can’t survive this. I don’t want to survive this.”

These unfortunate souls will hopefully have family and friends to support them, therapy to help compass the many phases of grief, perhaps even a prescription to soften the fire now burning within their lungs with every breath they take ~ a fire born from knowing it goes against nature to remain breathing when your child is not.

But nothing holds you quite like a fellow bereaved parent.

Watching quietly from a distance, we become a safe place for navigating the treacherous waters of grief and mourning. There is no judgment here. There is no timeline. Your grief is uniquely yours.

And we see you.

We see you when the storms begin to brew and the waves start to dance. We watch your fight to stay afloat, and we never rush to intervene when you slip beneath the surface. We know you’re scared. We know it hurts. But sometimes, feeling the full depths of our sorrow is necessary before we can rise again for air.

So we wait for you ~ life raft in hand.

And we see you on the calmer days too.

The days where you allow yourself to float gently along river bends, face turned toward the sun, eyes closed as you soak in its warmth. We watch you breathe in life and exhale with a smile as memories of your child drift softly through your mind.

It is peaceful there. And loss feels a little less frightening.

We smile too ~ our hearts glowing gently alongside yours, celebrating your healing.

There will be other storms. But with time, they become farther and fewer between. Maybe a little less overwhelming. You are learning how to swim within a new sea of reality, and time becomes your greatest teacher.

We have all screamed painful cries alongside the thunder, staring into lightning-filled skies with eyes no longer frightened by the storm. Because once life has already shown you its cruelest devastation, the things that once seemed terrifying no longer carry the same power.

We have endured unimaginable pain. None of us asked for this.

But we are warriors now.

And it is both a curse and a blessing to discover just how strong the broken can be.

Even on the days we do not feel strong, we continue walking this earth beside others entering the darkness we once fell into ourselves ~ quietly helping guide them toward the surface, one trembling breath at a time.

We are warriors now ~ if not for ourselves, then for each other.

With love, Jacob’s Mom 🤍

05/25/2026