Currently on social media, there’s a trend called “I almost forgot this was the whole point” featuring video montages of what some might call life’s biggest joys. They’re simple clips — a mother rocking her baby to sleep, a family dancing in the kitchen, a golden hour walk in nature, a group of friends raising glasses in celebration, a husband and wife standing at an alter. Subtle reminders of what really matters. The moments we sometimes rush past, forgetting how much they actually mean.
After a few minutes of scrolling, I felt a heaviness start to build in my chest. An ache, realizing how far away those moments seem from where I am right now. “If my life doesn’t look like that, then does that mean it doesn’t have real meaning.” I found myself listening to that lie and thinking, what is the whole damn point anyway?
Maybe you’ve asked that question too.
To resist that slow, creeping heaviness, I started jotting down the small, memorable moments within my day. Not curated highlights, just scenes that made me pause and smile. If I were to make a montage of this past week these would be the features:
The French doors open in our kitchen as Grace basks in the sunshine.
A squirrel nibbling on tulip bulbs that I lazily left by the planters of fresh dahlias.
A perfectly cooked over easy egg.
Xave running late for work, rushing around the kitchen with his flight suit unzipped, arms tied around his waist like a sweatshirt, and a pen tucked into the fold. (Hard to explain, I guess you just had to be there.)
Finally being able to breathe again after days of congestion from a stubborn cold.
A photo of the Holy Door at the Basilica of St. John Lateran sent by my in-laws on their pilgrimage in Rome.
A 40-minute catch-up call with a close friend.
A cup of tea at the end of the day in a poodle teacup my mom gifted me for Easter.
Learning, but not quite mastering, a new needlepoint stitch.
The feeling of climbing into a bed with freshly washed sheets.
These aren’t big moments of joy, but they’re something. However, infant loss has a way of making this list feel insufficient. Grief whispers more lies that none of it matters. That all good things are fleeting. Or worse, that good things are just for other people.
Yet still, I return to my daily lists. I write them not because it really fixes anything, but because it helps me remember that I am still here, paying attention and trying. Maybe the point isn’t some grand purpose we’re supposed to uncover, but instead just ordinary, sacred interruptions. Flashes of meaning that arrive and leave too quickly, but insist, just for a moment, that life is still unfolding. A beautiful parallel to our Gianna Marie.
When you’ve held a baby who did not get to stay, the world splits into before and after. And in the after, everything is heavier. Even the good things. Especially the good things, really.
There are days when I watch those sweet montage videos — life unfolding like it’s supposed to, and it feels like a world I can’t reach. Like a story I was written out of. But then the light pours through the window just right. Or Xave makes me laugh. Or I catch the scent of a new flower blooming in our backyard. And something stirs in me — a reason. These little moments don’t take away the grief. They don’t fill the empty space where she should be. But they sit beside the sorrow, showing me that both can exist. The missing and the still here, the ache and the beauty, the loss and the love.
I don’t know if I’ll ever stop asking what the point of all this is. But maybe for now, the answer is simple. That even when it’s hard, even when it hurts, we can still notice what’s good. So maybe that’s it. Noticing.
The whole point is to listen more attentively to the voice that is screaming, “I am still here, and there’s good things that are still worth noticing” until it becomes louder than the lies.
So I will keep writing down my lists of small things. Not because they’re everything. But because, right now, they might be just enough.
If you are a mother who has known loss, please know this space is for you. You are not alone in your before and after. I don’t have the answers, just a heart that’s learning how to navigate both grief and joy. If this piece found you on a heavy day, I hope my words gave you something gentle to carry, even if only briefly.
Before and after!
I love that you planted bulbs.
God is the OG gardener.
Gianna is one of God's bulbs entrusted to you.
You tended to her and delighted in her growth. You saw the beauty.
You mourn her missing from your garden. But she's always been God's bulb and she and Joseph now bloom forever in God's heavenly garden.