Sweet 16

October 6th. The day I became a mom. 🩷

And this Tuesday, you would be 16.

Sixteen years ago, you made me a mom. I had no idea then that I would only get 111 days with you. I didn’t know that I would spend the rest of my life loving and missing a little girl who was here for such a short time, yet somehow changed every single part of who I am.

I wonder about you all the time, but birthdays make me wonder even more.

Who would you be today? What would you look like? Would you look like me? What would your voice sound like? What would make you laugh? What music would you love? Who would your friends be? What would we argue about? Would you be excited to drive, or would I be the one terrified to hand you the keys?

Who would my little girl be at sixteen?

I would give anything to know.

There are so many milestones I have imagined you reaching over the years, but sixteen feels different. Sixteen is supposed to be such a big beginning. Driving. Independence. High school. Friends. Dreams about your future. Watching my little girl slowly become a young woman.

I should be watching you become her.

I should be taking pictures of you. Embarrassing you. Watching you blow out sixteen candles. Hugging you a little too long because somehow my first baby is growing up.

I should know the sixteen-year-old you.

Instead, I have spent sixteen years wondering who she would have been.

And sometimes I wish this version of me could go back and hug that version of me—the mom who had no idea how she was ever going to survive losing you.

I could go back and read all those old blog posts and see just how broken I was. I could read my own words and see the grief, the anger, the questions, and the desperate need to somehow make sense of something that would never make sense.

But I don't need to.

I know how different I am. I know how much I have grown. I know how much I have evolved.

That version of me knew she wanted your life to mean something. She knew she wanted to make a difference because of you.

And I have.

I wanted to write articles that might help someone else, and I have.

I wanted to be part of organizations that could truly make a difference for babies and families, and I have.

I wanted to take the worst thing that had ever happened to me and somehow turn some tiny piece of it into something that could help someone else.

And I have.

There are also things I have done that I will probably never put my name on. Things people may never know I had a hand in. Because none of this has ever been about recognition or making sure people know what I did.

I don't do it so people remember my name. I do it so they remember yours.

If something I say, write, advocate for, support, or quietly help change can protect one baby, educate one family, or make something better than it was before, then it matters.

I can't change what happened to you.

But I can keep trying to change what happens next.

And every time I have the opportunity to do that, I carry your name with me—even when no one else knows it.

I wish I could hug that broken version of me and tell her about everything we've done in your name. The people we've met. The families we've helped. The conversations we've had. The awareness we've raised. The changes we've helped make.

I wish I could tell her, “You did it. You took all of that love you didn't know what to do with and found somewhere to put it.”

And then I would tell her something else:

We're not done yet.

The next thing I'm working toward is taking this advocacy beyond the United States and hopefully becoming involved with SUDC UK.

Because SIDS and sudden unexplained childhood death aren't defined by borders. Grief isn't defined by borders. Families all over the world are asking the same impossible questions and living with the same unimaginable empty spaces.

Am I qualified to be part of something internationally? I don't know. That question almost stopped me from even applying.

And then I thought—why not? What exactly am I waiting for?

Sixteen years ago, I didn't know how to do any of this either.

I was simply a mom who loved her daughter and desperately wanted her life to matter.

So I applied.

Maybe it becomes the next chapter of what I get to do in your name. Maybe it doesn't. But I know I would rather try and be told no than spend my life wondering what could have happened if I had just been brave enough to say yes to myself.

For everything I have been able to do in your name, I am eternally grateful. It is one of the greatest honors of my life to be your mom and to continue carrying your story into the world.

And there is still more work to do.

Safe sleep matters. Education matters. Awareness matters. Research matters. Babies' lives matter. And I am not done yet.

So I carry you through every milestone you don't get to have. In the work I do. In the people I try to help. In the way I love your sister. In the person I have become because I was lucky enough to be your mom. And in the 111 that will forever be a part of me.

Time has taught me how to live while missing you. It has taught me that grief and joy can exist in the same heart and that life somehow keeps moving forward even when part of you will always wish you could go back.

But time has never taught me how to miss you less.

You will always be my daughter. My first baby. The little girl who made me a mom. One of the greatest loves of my entire life.

111 days.

That's all I got.

And somehow, those 111 days gave me a love big enough to last the rest of my life.

Happy Sweet 16 in Heaven, Macie. 🩷🎂🪽

I would give anything for just one glimpse of the sixteen-year-old you. To hear your voice. To see your smile. To wrap my arms around you and tell you how incredibly proud I am to be your mom.

But if I could have anything in this world, it wouldn't be just one more day with you.

It would be all the days we were supposed to have.

All the birthdays.
All the ordinary Tuesdays.
All the milestones.
All the growing up.
All of it.

I will spend the rest of my life wondering who you would have become, loving you, saying your name, and finding new ways to make your little life matter.

111 days with you.
16 years of loving you.
A lifetime of carrying you with me.
And I'm still not done. 🩷