I still treasure those morning family cuddles — no matter how big they get. Arms tangled together, soft breathing in the early hush, a quiet that feels sacred. Just a pity they’re so few and far between these days. Life moves, children grow, and those simple, golden moments become memories we hold onto with everything we’ve got.

Today was another beautiful Mother’s Day. Truly. I felt loved, seen, celebrated. But as night falls and the world quiets down, a familiar mist rises — memories and pain I’ve long kept buried stirring softly in the dark. It’s bittersweet, this day. Full of joy, yes, but laced with sorrow too. Because even as I smile, my heart remembers.

The older I get, the more I realise: I will never forget the babies I lost. Four of them. Precious lives that flickered briefly and then were gone. Miscarriage isn’t something you get over — it’s something you learn to carry. The ache may dull, but the love never fades. Maybe one day, I’ll stop blaming myself. Maybe I’ll grow stronger and find the courage to walk alongside others in their grief. Maybe, with time, I’ll be able to say it out loud — that I’m a proud mom of six. Even if only two are still here with me.

Tonight, my heart is also heavy for a different kind of loss — the slow drifting of one child’s heart away from mine. It’s a grief that’s hard to name, because he’s still here, just not... here. I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know how to bring him back into the fold. I only know that I love him fiercely and endlessly and that I’m not ready to give up.

If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of your own silent sorrow — I feel your pain. I see you. And I believe healing is still possible, even when the night feels long.