Today marks two months since Ethan’s arrival.

Somehow, that feels impossible and painfully real at the same time.

For a while, there were things to do. Tasks to complete. Boxes to check. Paperwork to figure out. Decisions to make. Calls to answer. Things that, in some ways, gave me something to focus on.

And then over the weekend, we received his birth certificate in the mail.

It felt like the final piece. One of the last things we were waiting on. One of the things we weren’t even sure we would be able to get. And when it arrived, there was this heaviness that came with it. Not because it wasn’t meaningful, because it is. But because it felt like another reminder that this really happened. Ethan was here. Ethan is ours. And Ethan is not physically here with us.

We were away for a little bit as a family, and in some ways, being away gave us space from the constant reminders. But coming home felt like waking back up into the reality of it all. Like for a moment, maybe it had been a bad dream. Maybe life was okay. Maybe we were okay.

And then we walked back into our home and remembered that it wasn’t a dream.

This is real.

We are still here, trying to figure out what life looks like without Ethan in our arms.

Right now, his absence feels like it is everywhere. I see a family with two kids, and I think of him. I see a baby, and I think of him. I think about what our family was supposed to look like, what I thought these days would hold, and there is such a deep ache in the space where he should be.

People ask how I’m spending my time, or what I’m doing with my days, and the honest answer is that some days I don’t even know how to explain it.

Text messages stack up. Small tasks feel overwhelming. My brain does not work the way it used to. Something as simple as ordering a shirt for Austin’s second birthday can feel like too much. Emptying the dishwasher, putting away clothes, following through on normal everyday things, all of it takes more focus and energy than I expect it to.

That is a really strange feeling for me.

I am used to being independent. I am used to problem solving. I am used to pushing through, figuring it out, moving quickly from one thing to the next. But right now, I cannot always do that.

Physically, I am still healing. I have to remind myself not to run around the park or pick Austin up too much, because when I push too hard, my body reminds me that I am not where I was before.

Mentally, I am still healing too.

And giving myself grace in that feels so hard.

The space is scary for someone like me. I know how to keep moving. I know how to jump into the next thing, the next problem, the next event, the next project. But right now, there isn’t really a next thing in the same way.

There is a closing of a chapter of carrying and caring for Ethan here on earth. And now there is this unknown place of learning how to live after. Learning who I am now. Learning what our family looks like now. Learning how we remember Ethan, carry him with us, and talk about him in our everyday lives.

I wish I could skip over this part.

I wish I could jump into something else and outrun some of the pain. I know that going back to work early or burying myself in busyness would probably relieve some of it for a little while. It would give me something to focus on. Something to do. Something to solve.

But it would not make the grief go away.

And maybe that is part of what makes this so hard. I cannot solve this. I cannot fix it. I cannot organize it into something manageable. I cannot push through and make it better.

I have to sit in it.

And I do not like that.

I wish I could say I know what hope looks like right now, but most of the time, I do not. Most of the time, hope feels far away.

I think one of the hardest things to admit is that I am scared to hope again.

Scared to dream too far ahead. Scared to imagine the future. Scared to let myself feel excitement about things sometimes, because grief has changed the way I experience all of it.

Hope used to feel natural. Now it feels fragile.

Sometimes even moments of joy feel complicated, because part of me is afraid of what it means to keep moving forward without him.

But maybe hope does not always have to look big or certain. Maybe sometimes it shows up in small, gentle moments.

In getting through one more day.

In Austin’s laugh.

In a text I finally have the energy to answer.

In saying Ethan’s name out loud.

In realizing that even though this hurts more than I know how to explain, love is still here.

I do not have this figured out.

I am not writing this from a place of resolution. I am writing this from the middle of it. From the unknown. From the place where I am still learning how to breathe, how to function, how to be a mom to both of my boys, one in my arms and one in heaven.

This is where I am right now.

Still grieving.

Still healing.

Still missing Ethan.

Still trying to understand what life looks like from here.

And somehow, still here.