Honoring Hazel

Honoring Hazel My goal is to provide a safe space for grieving parents to post their feelings and give hope.

Grief. It has broken me in ways I never would have chosen. But I’ve also come to see that there is something strangely b...
06/09/2026

Grief. It has broken me in ways I never would have chosen. But I’ve also come to see that there is something strangely beautiful about that kind of brokenness. Bittersweet. Ironic even.

It softens the way I see people. It makes me more aware of what others are carrying. It gives me a deeper kind of compassion. And by deeper, I mean deep down in my soul compasssion. I’ve cried for people I don’t even know compassion. Even in moments when I don’t have perfect words.

There’s a beauty in being changed like that. Not because the pain is beautiful, but because somehow love still finds a way to grow through it. And it changes the way you show up in the world. The way I show up for other people.

05/28/2026

Some days grief is loud. Other days it’s just quiet and constant in the background of everything I do.

I don’t always have words for it anymore, but I still feel it in the small moments, the ones nobody else would notice.

Just sharing this for anyone else who understands. 😌

There’s a kind of nostalgia that hits different when you get older.It’s not really about a decade or a certain time peri...
05/20/2026

There’s a kind of nostalgia that hits different when you get older.

It’s not really about a decade or a certain time period… it’s something deeper.

It’s that feeling of when everyone you loved felt permanent.

When life felt like it would always stay the same. When your mom was just “Mom” and not someone you slowly realize is aging too. When you didn’t yet understand how much life would change or how many goodbyes you’d eventually have to learn how to carry.

Being an adult has a way of changing that lens.

You gain so much wisdom, perspective, your own family, your own stories, but you also start to understand loss in a way you didn’t before. People change. Seasons change. Some people you love end up becoming memories you visit more than faces you see every day.

And that part can be hard.

Not just missing the past, but missing how permanent everything felt back then.

I think one of the hardest parts of growing up is realizing that you don’t just lose that feeling, you eventually realize you are now living in someone else’s “before.”

I have people in my life now who will one day feel the same way I do.

My kids will grow up and look back on their childhood and feel that ache for the version of life where everything felt simple and steady. The version where home was always full, where the hardest problems were smaller, where they didn’t yet understand time or change or loss.

Even the people I love most right now… my family, my friends, the everyday rhythms I take for granted. They are all part of someone’s future memory already being written.

That’s a strange and beautiful thing to sit with.

It makes me want to slow down more. To be more present. To notice the ordinary moments instead of rushing through them. Because I’m not just living days. I’m living the kind of days someone else will one day miss.

And I think that’s what makes this stage of life both heavier and more meaningful at the same time.

Because nothing is permanent… but love makes everything worth remembering.

05/04/2026

Some motherhood journeys are visible. Some are carried quietly in the heart.

Today is Bereaved Mother’s Day, and I just want to pause and gently acknowledge the mothers who are carrying a kind of love that also carries deep grief. The mothers who are missing children they love and think about every single day, in ways most people will never fully see or understand.

Whether your loss came through miscarriage, stillbirth, infancy, childhood, or even later in life… whether your child is far away or simply no longer here in your arms… your motherhood is still real. Your love is still real. And your bond with your child is not diminished by absence or time.

I know today can bring a mix of emotions — sorrow, longing, quiet memories, and sometimes even moments of gratitude woven through the pain. All of it belongs. All of it matters. You don’t have to explain your grief or justify your love for it to be valid.

If your heart feels heavy today, I hope you can feel seen. I hope you can feel held in some small way. And I hope you know you are not forgotten in this kind of love that continues on, even through loss.

Your motherhood matters. Your child matters. And you are not alone in carrying this.

Happy 7th Birthday in heaven to my sweet angel. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you and wonder who you would be ...
04/15/2026

Happy 7th Birthday in heaven to my sweet angel. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you and wonder who you would be today. Though my arms ache to hold you, my heart finds comfort knowing you are safe in the arms of Jesus. You are forever loved, forever missed, and forever a part of our family. Today, we eat cake and think of you! 🥳💕

Today my four-year-old was laying on the trampoline, looking up at the sky. She was so sweet, so happy, and she said, “I...
04/09/2026

Today my four-year-old was laying on the trampoline, looking up at the sky. She was so sweet, so happy, and she said, “I want to visit Jesus. I want to go to heaven.”

In her world, it wasn’t heavy or scary. It was simple. Peaceful. Almost joyful.

And deep down, I wanted to say, “No. Stay here with me.” But I didn’t. I held it back, because I don’t want to create fear in her heart. A fear I already know too well.

And then there was this other part of me… quiet, hidden somewhere deep… that felt something I can’t fully explain. A strange peace. Like, okay. Okay, Lord.

Because I know heaven is real. And I know love doesn’t end there. But I also know what it feels like to have someone you love already there and to feel the weight of that distance in a very real way. To know once they go, they aren’t coming back.

Children have a way of speaking so freely about things we carry so carefully. And in her innocence, she reminded me of both the ache and the hope that live side by side in my heart.

I feel both so much. An ache so fierce. Heavy in my chest. And a hope so desperate. Grasping. Clinging. Between the two, I’m just trying to catch my breath.

04/09/2026

If you could tell your loved one something today, what would it be?

If today feels heavy, I just want you to know… there is hope.If all you did today was get through it, you did something ...
04/01/2026

If today feels heavy, I just want you to know… there is hope.

If all you did today was get through it, you did something incredibly brave.

I don’t always understand why things happen the way they do. But deep down, I know our God is good. Even when it’s hard to wrap my mind around… even in the middle of tragedy, loss, pain, and hurt. I can still feel in my soul that He loves me.

I’ve seen good come from my pain. I’ve seen God working behind the scenes. And still, I find myself lost in the “why.” I say lost because sitting in that space, full of questions, grief, and sadness. It can feel so isolating.

But even there… in the quiet, in the ache, in the moments when words won’t come, He is holding what you can’t carry.

Romans 8:26 reminds me that the Holy Spirit speaks for me when I can’t find the words. When all I have are cries, screams, sobs, and sighs… He intercedes.

You are not alone in this.

Grief is… weird.Like, can we just talk about the strange things we do when we’re in it?Not wrong. Not bad. Just… things ...
03/22/2026

Grief is… weird.

Like, can we just talk about the strange things we do when we’re in it?

Not wrong. Not bad. Just… things you look back on later and think, “huh… that was kind of unusual for me.”

I’ve been thinking about this lately, and some of the things I did don’t even feel like “me” looking back. In the moment, it all felt completely normal.

I went to the funeral home and asked if I could see her again. (They gently told me it wasn’t a good idea.)I hugged the people who buried my baby. At one point, I even got down on the floor in my house, just looking… trying to see if there was any proof. Like I needed to convince myself it all actually happened.

At the time, none of that felt strange. It just felt like… what I needed to do I guess.

But now I look back and I’m like, grief really does something to you.

It’s not logical. It’s not predictable. It’s not always something people talk about.

So I’m curious, what’s something you did in grief that, looking back, you wouldn’t normally do?

No judgment. Just real life. 🤍

02/16/2026

Thoughts

I think about those tiny hands.
What they could’ve been.
What they could’ve held.

It’s so easy to get stuck on what I don’t have and so easy to forget what I do have and so easy to be sad and so easy to stay there.

I have to choose hope.
I have to choose joy.
I have to choose trust.
I have to choose to know.
I have to.

The wave comes in, bigger than I thought. I sit on the shore expecting to get my toes wet. Instead I’m holding my breath.

Just for a moment.

It recedes.
I stand up.
I’m fine.
I’ll be ok.
A beautiful shell. It catches my eye.
Salt stinging a bit, but I smile.
Noticing small details of beauty.

Even here,
in the unexpected hit,
there is beauty.

There always is.

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