Tonight, Austin and I went for another walk.

We almost always do.

If you’ve ever walked with a two-year-old, you know they’re not exactly in a hurry. Every airplane has to be pointed out. Every dog deserves a wave. Every rock absolutely has to come home with us.

I used to think we were just taking Austin outside to burn off some energy.

Now I think God has been slowing me down all along.

Three months ago, these walks looked different.

Back then, Ethan was tucked safely beneath my heart.

Austin walked beside me, and without either of us realizing it, there were three of us.

Now, sometimes I catch Austin’s shadow stretching across the sidewalk, and before my mind has time to think, my heart quietly whispers,

There should be three of us.

That thought still catches me by surprise.

Not because I’ve forgotten what happened.

But because love still instinctively makes room for Ethan.

When we found out our embryo had taken, we spent 233 days dreaming about our little boy.

We imagined watching two brothers grow up together.

We pictured bedtime stories, wrestling matches in the living room, scraped knees, family vacations, and all the ordinary moments that make up a childhood.

We even joked that since Austin was such a daddy’s boy, Ethan would surely be my little buddy.

Those were ordinary dreams.

The kind every parent has.

Then, eighteen weeks into the pregnancy, everything changed.

The dreams didn’t disappear.

They became prayers.

Every kick became a gift.

Every week felt borrowed.

Every appointment reminded us that tomorrow wasn’t promised.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, we still hoped.

Ethan lived for nineteen minutes.

When I think about those nineteen minutes, one memory rises above the rest.

I remember laying my cheek against his.

He was warm.

His tiny face rested perfectly against mine.

It felt safe.

It felt peaceful.

It felt like home.

For those few moments, there wasn’t a diagnosis.

There wasn’t fear.

There was only my little boy.

The three days that followed are some of the most precious days of my life.

I know that probably sounds strange.

But they were the only days I would ever get to hold my son.

I didn’t want to put him down.

For 233 days, my body had known exactly where he belonged.

Holding all 3 pounds, 8 ounces of him against my chest simply felt right.

Like he had come home one last time.

I traced the tiny lines in his hands.

I smiled every time his little fingers wrapped around mine.

I ran my fingers through the thick dark hair that covered his head.

I memorized every little feature because one day those memories would be all I had left to hold.

At the time, those three days felt long.

Now I would give almost anything for three more minutes to feel his warm cheek against mine one more time.

June 20 marks three months since Ethan was born.

Ninety-two days.

Oddly enough, those ninety-two days have felt longer than the 233 that came before them.

I never expected that.

I thought leaving the hospital would be the hardest part.

Leaving was heartbreaking.

Learning how to live afterward has been harder.

Eventually, life asks you to come back.

You go back to work.

You celebrate birthdays.

You answer emails.

You laugh with friends.

People stop bringing meals.

The cards become fewer.

The world keeps turning, just as it should.

But your world has been permanently changed.

That has been one of the strangest parts of grief for me.

Some of my hardest moments haven’t happened on the hardest days.

They’ve happened after the best ones.

After Austin’s birthday.

After an evening with friends.

After a really good day.

The house gets quiet.

I climb into bed.

And all I can think about is the little boy who wasn’t there to experience it with us.

No one prepared me for that.

I also wasn’t prepared for how surreal returning to normal life would feel.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking that maybe none of this really happened.

Maybe it was all just a terrible dream.

Then I look down at my watch.

I see Ethan’s sweet little face.

And I’m reminded…

He was here.

I held him.

I kissed him.

He wasn’t a dream.

He was my son.

Grief has also changed my capacity.

If I’ve been quieter than usual these last few months, it isn’t because I stopped loving people.

It’s because surviving takes more energy than I ever imagined.

There are days when answering a text feels overwhelming.

Days when brushing my teeth feels like a victory.

Days when someone asks, “How are you?” and I don’t know how to answer because the truthful answer would probably take an hour.

If you’ve been one of the people who has continued to pray for us, checked in on us, or simply let us know you haven’t forgotten Ethan…

Thank you.

You may never fully know what that has meant.

Somewhere in these last three months, something else has changed too.

I notice the way the sun shines through the trees.

The excitement in Austin’s voice when he finds another rock he absolutely has to show me.

The hurting people around me who are carrying burdens I’ll never see.

Loss has made the world more heartbreaking.

But somehow it has also made it more beautiful.

Not because losing Ethan was beautiful.

It wasn’t.

But because loving him has changed the way I see everything else.

People sometimes ask how my faith is doing.

The honest answer is that I still have questions.

I still ask God why.

I still have nights where I have to remind myself what I know is true because my feelings are trying to convince me otherwise.

I’ve learned that faith isn’t the absence of questions.

It’s bringing those questions to Jesus instead of running from Him.

It’s trusting that even when I don’t understand His plan, I can trust His character.

Without Him, I honestly don’t know how I would have survived these last three months.

Tomorrow evening, Austin and I will probably go for another walk.

He’ll point out another airplane.

He’ll hand me another rock that he absolutely has to bring home.

I’ll stop to admire another sunset.

And somewhere along the way, I’ll think about Ethan.

I always do.

Because loving him didn’t end after nineteen minutes.

Or after three days.

Or after ninety-two.

It simply looks different now.

And somehow, by God’s grace, hope and grief have learned to walk beside each other.