A pocket of happy.

350 days.

The days since Knox died.

I had to look up how long it has been. For awhile after his death, I could tell you the amount of days that had passed. And though I don’t know the exact moment he left us—he died sometime in his sleep—I know I would’ve been able to tell you the count... probably down to the minute with some quick math.

A lot has happened since I shared my thoughts with the world last. I've kept them private because many of them been heavy. Obviously. But over the past couple of months, I'm confident in saying that my perspective has taken a switch (and feels that way majority of days).

I've been silent, but I've been writing. In fact, before coming on this thread to write, I looked.. I have over 40 blog posts that I've just kept for myself. They have felt too personal, too burdensome, to share with the world. But deep down, I know they're not.

Having your baby die is an uncomfortable subject to talk about, nonetheless try to put into words how unbearable it can be... all while bearing it all.

BUT recently, a momma who had lost her infant daughter reached out to me. She shared that my words had brought her some comfort in her grief... which was humbling. It reminded me of the quiet, yet overpowering connection we share through our loss, and how even in the midst of pain, we can find ways to lift each other up. Her message was a reminder of the strength found in community, and it means the world to know that in sharing my heart, I may have helped hers... even if just a little. But it's not only parents who’ve lost children who’ve reached out, though; many people have told me that reading my posts has helped them face other challenges... but having someone on a similar path as me tell me that they admire my courage and strength (which by the way, I don't always feel), has really inspired me. If sharing what has helped my family and I deal with the loss of losing Knox can, in even a small glimmer, help someone else climbing the mountains and dredging through the valleys of grief (in general), it's worth it to share the "hard" parts that I've been keeping to myself.

I'll post the "hard" soon.

But today, I want to share a happy moment that seems maybe really small to you, but really filled my cup.

We recently welcomed our newest family member.. our son, Grizz. The journey of pregnancy is a whole other topic, but bringing a new life into this world has come with a lot of emotions; a lot of happy, but obviously some hard.

But today, because of Grizz, I had a "pocket of happy."

Back when Knox died, my mother in law treated my husband and I to some new dress clothes for his services. We went to Target and while quickly perusing the toddler section for our son Beau, who was 2 at the time, the infant clothes seemed to stare at me hauntingly.

Even the thought of looking at those tiny clothes was like stepping into a wave of sadness I wasn’t ready to feel. What was once a simple joy—browsing little clothes filled with the promise of new life—became a new trigger I didn't know I had. They felt like a harsh reminder of all the opportunities we lost when Knox died. It seemed daunting; everything we wished for, milestones we never reached and the moments we envisioned as a family, but never got to experience.

Today felt different.

For the first time since Knox died, I found myself walking—no, willingly drifting—into the infant section of the store. My husband was somewhere in the men’s section, but I moved without a second thought toward those rows of tiny clothes. The need to look away wasn't there.

I’d only been there for a few minutes when it hit me. Not so long ago, the sight of all those little outfits would have felt unbearable. I would have avoided those aisles like the plague. But here I was, feeling something I hadn’t in a long time—a glimmer of hope. Hope that this time will be different.

I keep telling myself this won’t happen again; that I won’t lose two babies to SUIDS. I have to believe that, or I will literally lose my mind. I have to believe that we’ll reach those milestones, that we’ll get those moments we once dreamed of as a family, even if one little soul watches from somewhere in the sky.

It’s like I turned a corner today. I felt good having Grizz wrapped to me and imagining him in all those outfits. For the first time since Knox died, the sadness didn’t overshadow the joy. It didn’t steal that simple pleasure. I didn’t buy a thing, but that didn’t matter. I left the store with something more valuable—a small, but really real piece of hope.

So, if you’re reading this as someone who has lost a child, please know that good days are coming. They may come quietly, disguised as little moments of peace, but they’re there, waiting to be noticed.

But the sad days will still be there, too. That loss, that ache—it doesn’t vanish. It becomes a part of who you are. It embeds into your soul; but it softens and stretches, almost weaving into you even though it never truly disappears.

But alongside the sorrow, you’ll start to notice these tiny "pockets of happy."

It could be something small; a smile when you hear a song that once brought tears, a deep breath as you savor the smell of fresh air, or a simply just a memory that feels warm instead of painful, like today, getting excited looking at these little clothes.

In those moments, the weight of grief eases just a little, and you’ll feel yourself filling with a gentle kind of joy again. It’s fragile, but I encourage you to soak in these moments as they come. Let them wrap around you and remind yourself there is light to be found. You are not dishonoring your grief by letting yourself feel joy; you're honoring the love that exists for them within you. It's a love that can keep you going... one day at a time.

If you’re reading this as someone who worries about me, please know that I’m okay.

Truly, I am.

I’ve reached a place where I finally feel brave enough to share some of the hard, messy thoughts with the world. And maybe, over the next few days, weeks, or however long it takes, I’ll start letting some of those truths out, bit by bit.

I know there’s an instinct to worry; some of you even feel the need to shield me from the depths of this grief, but the truth is, I’ve come to a place where I no longer need to shield myself from it.

As time has passed, I’ve realized that I’m stronger than I thought. I can face this pain, live with it, live IN it, without letting it break me. Even when I don't feel like it, I KNOW I am because I’ve survived some of the hardest days of my life. I've discovered that, while grief doesn’t fade, it does evolve. It becomes a part of you, something you feel as if you can hold, carry, and eventually learn to live beside... even when it's living inside you.

So yes, I’m okay. More than that, I’m ready to be open, to share the truth of this journey. It’s not just a story of sadness; it’s a story of survival; of finding hope in the cracks, of learning that healing is not about erasing the pain but learning to carry it with grace. And so, if you’re reading this, know that your love and support have meant everything.

I'm here, and I’m strong—because of this journey, not despite it.