Surviving Another Year as a Loss Mother

As October comes to a close, I find myself sitting in the familiar stillness that always seems to follow Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. The world gets a little quieter, but inside, everything still hums with memory.

This is my second October as a loss mom. Two years of carrying this love and this ache. Two years of learning what it means to live with both grief and gratitude woven together.

Last October felt like walking through fog — the kind where every step hurts, but you keep moving because you don’t know what else to do. This year feels a little different. Not easier, but gentler in some ways. Like I’ve started to understand my grief more, to know its rhythms, its edges. I still have days that take my breath away, moments that remind me of everything I lost, but I’ve also found small pockets of peace — places where I can breathe again, where I can smile without guilt.

Surviving another year doesn’t mean the pain is gone. It means I’ve learned to live alongside it. It means I’ve found ways to honor my baby quietly, in my everyday life — through the families I serve, through the way I hold space for others, through the tenderness that grief has carved into me.

October will always be heavy. It will always carry a different kind of meaning now. It’s a time of remembering, of lighting candles, of whispering names. But it’s also a time to look back and realize: I’ve made it through another year. I’ve carried this love another 365 days. I’m still here — still loving, still surviving, still finding my way.

If this was your first October, I want you to know it’s okay to feel undone. If it’s your fifth or your tenth, it’s okay if the ache still surprises you. There’s no timeline in this kind of healing. Every year looks a little different because we are different. Our grief grows with us — it softens, deepens, changes shape — but it’s still love. It always has been.

As this awareness month ends, I’m giving myself permission to exhale. To rest. To not have to do anything grand to keep remembering. My baby is remembered in the quiet ways — in the way my heart moves through the world, in the gentleness I bring to others, in the love that will never leave.

To my fellow loss mothers: I see you. I know this isn’t an easy month. But you made it through. You’ve survived another October. That’s no small thing.

Here’s to the ache that reminds us how deep our love runs. And here’s to us — learning, surviving, and loving through another year.

With love,

Victoria

A doula, and a loss mother who carries her baby always.