This year, my daughter Ara would be turning two. As time carries us further from the last moment I saw her in this world, my heart grows heavier. The anticipation of her arrival has come and gone, leaving only memories of what “should” and “might” have been.
I found out that Ara’s heart had stopped beating on October 28th. Though the doctor wanted to induce me immediately, I chose to go home and process the devastating news. The morning of the 30th, I returned to the hospital and was induced. Ara was born that evening, on Hallow’s Eve. Her birth was quick, just a few hours of contractions before I pushed her into the world.
I still remember the somber silence that enveloped the room after her arrival. There was no newborn cry—only the sound of her father sobbing in the corner, unable to bear the sight of her as her body already showed signs of decay. Yet, despite the mark of death bestowed upon her 3-pound body, I held her immediately—she was, and always will be, my baby.
I wish I could go back in time to hold her again; I would have kept her by my side all night. Leaving the hospital the next day without her was torture. It went against the primal instinct in my body to care for my baby, yet I knew I could not keep her. As I was pushed in the wheelchair down the sterile hallways of the hospital, with an empty womb and empty arms, I sobbed hysterically.
As I passed through the exit doors, I looked up into the sunset sky, where a flock of geese flew overhead in perfect V formation. In that moment, I felt it was a sign from her spirit, transcending her physical absence. Geese symbolize loyalty, and to her memory, I will always remain loyal. It reminds me of that powerful scene in Harry Potter where Snape casts the Doe Patronus. Dumbledore looks at him surprised and says, “Lily,” and then asks, “After all this time?” to which Snape replies, “Always.“
I feel a tremendous duty to keep Ara’s memory alive, as I’m the one who truly felt her spirit while I was pregnant, sharing that intimate bond between mom and baby. Her DNA lives on inside of me, and I am forever changed by her presence, although brief. Loss has reminded me of the fragility of life, teaching me that in order to love, we must also lament.
Writing has become my refuge. The pages of my journal hold the unfiltered emotions I can’t always share aloud. They contain my fears, hopes, and dreams for a future that will forever be missing her. It allows me to express the depth of my longing and the magnitude of my love for her. I find comfort in the small rituals that honor her—whether it’s lighting a candle, tending to her altar, or sharing stories about her with those who understand.
This year, I chose to honor her birthday by wearing her necklace containing her ashes, writing her a letter in her journal, cleaning her altar, and placing fresh marigolds and yellow roses upon it. At 7:17 PM, I lit a candle to honor her journey from womb to earth, marking the moment in time with love and remembrance.
Though I can’t hold her in my arms, she’ll always be in my heart. I love you, Arabella, and I often wonder what you’d look like as you grow and how your personality would be. I’d love to hear your laugh and see your face as you tried sweet and sour foods. I wish I could hear you say “mama” and watch you run toward me, eager to be held. Each missed milestone and passing year feels like both a weight and a wound as I carry your absence forward.
Until we meet again, whether in flesh or spirit, I feel you in the breeze, see you in the butterflies that dance before me, and smell you in the fragrance of roses. You are always here, in my heart, Ara. Happy 2nd Birthday, my sweet angel. Love, Mama
