All The Ways I Carry Him

Sometimes I look at my children and think about the little girl I used to be.

It happens in the most ordinary moments.

Watching my husband make our son laugh. Seeing him hold our baby girl against his chest. Sitting together with toys everywhere and probably something in the kitchen that still needs to be cleaned.

Or sometimes, like in this picture, I’m simply looking down at my daughter.

And suddenly I’m not only thinking about her.

I’m thinking about me, too.

I grew up surrounded by women. My mom, my auntie, and my grandma raised me. Strong women who loved me, took care of me, and taught me what it means to show up for the people you love.

When I think about my childhood, I don’t think of it as a childhood without love. There was plenty of love.

But I did grow up without a father.

I didn’t know what it was like to have both of my parents together. And when you grow up without something, you become aware of it, even when you’re little.

I remember wondering what my own life would look like someday.

I wanted to get married. I wanted babies. I wanted a husband who would be there beside me raising them. I wanted my children to know what it felt like to have their mom and dad there.

I wanted a family.

Not a perfect one. I don’t think that exists.

Just mine.

And now I have one.

Sometimes that realization catches me off guard because actually living the life you once imagined doesn’t always look particularly magical.

Sometimes it’s a toddler making a mess immediately after you cleaned it.

Sometimes it’s breastfeeding a newborn while trying to give your other child attention.

It’s exhaustion, laundry, dishes, and trying to figure out what everyone is going to eat. It’s my husband and me being tired, laughing about something stupid, getting irritated with each other, figuring it out, and waking up the next morning to do it all over again.

But then there are little moments when everything gets quiet enough for me to see it.

This is what I wanted.

I get to watch my husband be a father.

There’s something emotional about watching the man you love give your children something you never experienced yourself.

My babies don’t know why that matters so much to me.

To them, Daddy being there is just normal.

His hugs are normal.

Playing with him is normal.

Seeing Mom and Dad together is normal.

And I hope it always feels that ordinary to them.

Especially my daughter.

She won’t remember this photograph being taken. She won’t remember being this tiny or the way I could hold almost her entire body against mine.

But someday she’ll remember being a little girl.

I hope she remembers laughter.

Feeling safe.

How much her mama loved her.

Her daddy being there.

I hope she remembers watching her parents hug, kiss, laugh, have hard days, forgive each other, and keep choosing each other.

And I hope she knows where she comes from, the strong women before her, her grandmas and aunties, her family, her roots, and all the stories that are part of who she is.

There are things from our childhoods that we carry with gratitude, and there are things we decide to do differently.

Maybe that’s part of healing.

Not pretending the past didn’t happen or forgetting the people who loved us well.

Just taking the beautiful parts and the painful ones and deciding what we want to carry forward.

I was raised by strong women.

My children will know that same kind of love.

But they’ll also grow up with something their mama didn’t have.

Their dad.

And maybe one of the greatest gifts I can give them is that they won’t understand why that means so much to me.

Because to them, it won’t feel extraordinary.

It will just feel like home.

There’s another layer to all of this that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully explain.

My daughter was born on my brother Austin’s memorial date.

Of all the days she could have come into this world, she came on a date that already carried so much weight for me.

For years, that date was tied to losing my little brother. It came around every year carrying memories, grief, and the reminder that Austin should still be here.

And then she was born.

Her birth doesn’t replace the grief attached to that day. Nothing could.

Austin is still Austin.

He was my little brother, my shadow, and losing him at only 17 will always be one of the deepest losses I carry.

But now that date holds two things at once.

Grief and joy.

Missing someone and meeting someone.

Remembering a life that ended far too soon while holding a brand-new life against my chest.

I named this blog All the Ways I Carry Him because grief has taught me that we don’t simply leave the people we love behind.

We carry them.

Into new seasons. Into new versions of ourselves. Into marriages, motherhood, celebrations, ordinary days, and even moments they never got to be here for.

And now I carry Austin into motherhood, too.

My children will know their uncle.

They’ll know his name and his stories. They’ll hear about how funny, stubborn, kind, and resilient he was. They’ll know how much their mama loved her little brother and how badly I wish he were here watching me raise them.

And every year, my daughter’s birthday will probably hold a little bit of both.

I’ll celebrate the beautiful little girl God gave us while remembering the little brother I wish were here to celebrate her, too.

Maybe that’s part of healing.

Not moving on.

Not forgetting.

Not replacing a painful memory with a happy one.

Just learning that the heart can make room for both.

Not instead of him. Alongside him.

When I think about my life now, I realize how many pieces of my story I carry with me.

The little girl I used to be.

The strong women who raised me.

The brother I will always carry.

The husband I get to raise our babies beside.

And these two beautiful children God entrusted to us.

I pray that when my children look back someday, they remember a childhood they never had to wish for.

And maybe somewhere inside me, that little girl who once wondered what this kind of life would feel like gets to experience a little bit of it with them.

I think that’s one of the unexpected things about becoming a mother.

Sometimes, while you’re busy creating your children’s childhood, you find yourself healing pieces of your own.

Thank you, Jesus, for the women who raised me.

Thank You for the man I get to raise my babies with.

Thank You for our son and our daughter.

Thank You for the brother I was blessed to have, even though I didn’t get nearly enough time with him.

And thank You for reminding me that love doesn’t end when someone leaves us. It just finds new ways to be carried. 🤍