12 years ago

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June 24, 2026

I don’t have many words yet. My heart is still in shock, trying to find its footing after losing yet another person I love so deeply. But today is Aila’s twelfth birthday, and if there’s one thing grief has always taught me, it’s that when I can’t carry it anymore, I write.

Every year on June 24th, I hike alone.

It’s a tradition that began long before Aila was born. During my pregnancy, when doctors told us the odds and uncertainty grew heavier by the day, I would head for the hills and walk beneath the oak trees. I pleaded with God there. I bargained. I hoped. I prayed for a miracle.

Aila’s name means “strength of an oak.”

At the time, the hills surrounding our home were covered in them. Ancient trees with sprawling branches and roots that seemed to disappear deep into the earth. They were protected. Illegal to cut down. Enduring. Unmovable.

Twelve years later, I still find myself drawn back to them.

I marvel at their grandeur. I listen to the leaves rustling overhead and watch the sunlight filter through the branches. Somehow, beneath those trees, I always feel closest to her.

This year was supposed to be our first June in a new city. I had already been looking for a new trail. New oak trees. A new place to continue the tradition.

Instead, this week has been consumed by funeral plans.

Obituaries. Photo boards. Flower arrangements. Slideshows and photo books. Programs. Phone calls. Comforting wailing children in the middle of the night when I can barely comfort myself. Trying to find words for a loss that still doesn’t feel real.

Last week, seven days before Aila’s 12th birthday, Ryan’s mom, Barb, passed away unexpectedly and very suddenly. At 70 years old. She has been a mom to me since I was 16 years old.

I’ve always thought it was poignant that Kezia was born just twelve days before her big sister’s birthday. Every June has held both celebration and remembrance. Joy and grief. One daughter here in my arms and one forever missing.

Now Barb’s story is forever woven into this month too.

Just days before she died, she celebrated Kezia’s birthday over FaceTime, lighting a candle and having her blow it out through the screen. It was such a Barb thing to do. She never missed a birthday, a recital, a baseball game, a school play, or an opportunity to make one of her grandchildren feel special.

Twelve years ago, she came to the hospital to meet her very first granddaughter. She knew Aila had already passed. Yet the smile on her face in that photo radiates nothing but love.

Barb was the last family member to hold Aila.

And now she is the first family member to join her in Heaven.

I don’t pretend to understand Heaven. And to be honest, I’m not sure it’s even real in devastating moments like this. I don’t know for certain what happens when we leave this earth. But I know Barb.

I know that when she entered a room, she immediately got down on the floor to play with her grandkids. I know she built magical garage carnivals for my kids during the stay-at-home time. I know she never stopped searching for little toys and surprises that would make them smile. I know that loving her grandchildren wasn’t something she did. It was who she was.

So while I’m weighed down by grief and memorial plans and all the earthly details that come with saying goodbye, I find myself returning to a different image.

Not the hospital.

Not the funeral home.

Not the 500-image slideshow for the memorial awaiting completion on my laptop .

I picture an oak tree.

Strong. Enduring. Deeply rooted.

And beneath it, a little girl who has been waiting twelve years for her grandmother.

Maybe that’s why I keep returning to the trees.

Because they remind me that love survives things that should destroy it.

Because they remind me that some things are stronger than death.

And because somewhere beyond what I can see, I like to imagine that while we’re here remembering them both, they’re finally together.

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A Conversation : Pregnancy and Infant Loss