Recognition of Trajectory

A not so subtle realization of my journey from pain to purpose

There are moments when reading someone else’s story leaves an imprint so deep that you find yourself returning to it long after you’ve finished the last line. That was my experience reading a classmate’s personal essay this morning—one that began with the unimaginable pain, the pain I unfortunately know well, of neonatal loss and ended with the resolute decision to become a bereavement nurse. It was more than just a well-crafted piece of writing; it was a journey of grief, resilience, and transformation.

What struck me most was the raw honesty with which she shared her experience. She didn’t shy away from the heartbreak of losing her daughter, nor did she minimize the role her nurse played in guiding her through that impossible day. Her nurse wasn’t just a caretaker; she was a steady presence, a source of comfort when words likely felt meaningless. The essay made it clear that this wasn’t just a moment in time—it was a turning point, one that reshaped my classmate’s entire trajectory. She went from being someone who had never considered the role of nurses in grief to someone who wanted to dedicate her career to ensuring no one else had to navigate loss alone.

The moment of loss she lived, her experience in saying both hello and goodbye to her daughter, it was so starkly different from mine - from not having a nurse, to not even being in a hospital when I delivered the twins, it made me wonder for a moment where the exhalation of transformation is in my own story. Obviously delivering Noah and Victoria will forever be a dramatic turning point in my story, and time will always be broken down into the before and the after, but did it reshape the trajectory of my life?

I mean, the moment they died changed the way I look at the entire world. At pregnancy. At childbirth. At parenting. It changed the way I engage with my living daughter, with the urgency I have in preserving as many perfectly ordinary moments with her as possible. In the loss I experience when I can’t be present with her, especially when that’s the only thing in the world I want most.

Maybe it’s too soon to tell if a cosmic shift has happened, or if one is headed my way. Maybe I’ll even need someone to point it out to me.

What I do know is that my focus this season is on emerging, on rising from the ashes, on the metamorphosis from chrysalis to butterfly, and it is detailing a transition as we speak, but this essay has me wondering and wanting for more. I’ve tried channeling my pain into purpose - and it feels like I just haven’t found the right avenue yet.

However, what I can tell you is this - reading my classmates words gave me a profound sense of admiration for her overwhelming desire to create space for grief, and to ensure that families feel seen and heard in their darkest moments.

This is what I want to do.

This is what I need to do.

This is what I what I was put here to do.

This is where the trauma processing comes in. ALLLLLLL The work that has led me back to writing. This is where the writing comes in. This space, specifically. This is where the idea for the book manuscript was born - can I, succinctly, help others to been seen and felt and heard in their heartbreak by reading about mine? But more specifically, can I teach the external people in their world how to love on them and care for them during their darkest days when they don’t know what they need besides just to survive the moment?

In thinking about how my classmates personal experience shaped her professional path, I thought about how many people I know who have found their life calling through the moment or the experience that initially broke them. I didn’t think I could be one of those people for a long time. I felt like the story hurt too much. I felt like I had to swallow it down as far as it would go. But that didn’t honor the babies that I lost, and it didn’t honor my heart or my motherhood.

Trauma processing has changed some of that. My grief is in a totally different place than it was six months ago. And that’s not a flippant statement, or one to indicate that there is no longer be grief. There will always be grief. AND, I continue to try my damndest to make that grief bearable, to create and keep a connection with the three babies I have in the stars that doesn’t center around heartbreak, suffering and my own survival.

Stepping back into that space now, not to relieve my own trauma, but to use it to offer comfort to others? Now that feels like emerging. That feels like progress. That feels like a new stage in my grieving. A new stage in my living, even.

Teaching people how to sit besides someone’s grief? How to hold someone’s tender heart? How to show up in the middle of the night with snacks and sit in the silence? People need a guide on that. Grief makes people uncomfortable. They don’t know what to say or do so they don’t say or do anything at all. People don’t know how to grieve in community unless they’ve already lost someone they loved like that. What if I could provide direction? Suggestion? What I could talk about what I had that helped me, and what I needed (but didn’t receive) that could’ve helped me?

What if I could help write a guide on how to love the brokenhearted back to life?

In a world that often rushes past grief, pretending it doesn’t exist, people like me can easily get lost. Without having someone in my life to hold the bottle of glue until I was ready to start putting the pieces back together, without having people who were available at least through the phone to sit with me in my grieving, to meet me with grace and compassion and presence and care, I don’t think I would’ve gotten here. I don’t think I would’ve gotten anywhere.

This morning as I start to get ready for my day, I think about emerging. I think about transition. About change. About how grief may be a thing we all have in common, but that it looks different on everyone. & That it isn't just death we have to grieve. Sometimes, it's life, or it's loss, or it's change.

I think there’s a place for me there. I think theres a place where my words can help. I think that’s the way ultimately, that I turn my pain into purpose. And I hope that feels real too.

I hope if it’s something you would’ve wanted, or you know someone who would’ve benefitted from it - I’d love to hear about it below. How can I create written space, a guide, for the grievers and for their loved ones? For families? For communities?

I’m open to all of the suggestions.

& To N, V + R - This mama will love you fiercely, forever and always.