Trigger warning: child loss
I donated my deceased daughter’s clothing yesterday. It’s a straightforward statement, I realize. I’ve tried to soften it, to make it easier to digest, but there’s no way to do that. It’s a truth that’s hard to swallow. Almost seven years have passed since Lily’s passing, and still, when I say “my deceased child,” people’s eyes widen, and they look away, the atmosphere thick with discomfort. I’ve lost friendships over this—over my refusal to hide the jagged pieces of my reality for the sake of others’ comfort.
The idea that children can die is deeply unsettling. The existence of boxes and urns for tiny remains is a harsh contradiction to our instincts. That a death certificate can be issued for a child so small feels utterly wrong. In Lily’s case, the intertwining of her birth and death is profoundly tragic. It’s all quite nonsensical, really—and I think about it. Often.
When I returned home without Lily, I couldn’t bring myself to part with her belongings. The rational part of my mind understood that these items were never truly hers—she never wore them or played with them. But I remember selecting each piece while enjoying a cinnamon roll, imagining my daughter in them. I was thoughtful in my choices, aware that I was raising a girl. I chose lots of blues and Roxy to fit her surfer-themed nursery, envisioning the sun-kissed Florida girl I hoped she would be, just like her brother. (The irony that she would have those curls, yet never see the light of day, is one of those grim truths that makes people uncomfortable when I voice it.)
For nearly seven years, those items have remained in bins in my closet, still referred to as Lily’s things, as if we were waiting for her to return and claim them. As if they were really ever hers.
Yesterday, while organizing my closet, I sorted through items that made sense: school photos of my other children, artwork evolving from stick figures to detailed pastel landscapes, portfolios of their saved schoolwork through the years—a timeline of growth and life. In contrast, Lily’s belongings were just there, a stark reminder of the child I welcomed and lost on the same day nearly seven years ago. For the first time, I felt that maybe these clothes, chosen with love, could be of use to another mother. Perhaps she could place her daughter in them and marvel at the joy of watching her grow.
I felt a sense of peace, a readiness. A friend advised me to handle each item, to gauge how it felt to me. I did just that, saying goodbye to each piece of unworn clothing as I transferred it from a bin to a box. I took an hour to unfold and fold, kissing goodbye to tiny jeggings and sparkly tops. I turned each piece over in my hands, feeling a healing sadness.
I kept one onesie, blue, pink, and green, embroidered with “Little Sister.” I couldn’t let it go; instead, I held it tightly, recalling how my son had excitedly chosen it, beaming with joy in Target, a Pizza Hut breadstick in his little hand, exclaiming, “My baby sister!” I laid it next to the only photographs I have of Lily and continued my task.
My journey into motherhood has been challenging, filled with twists and turns. It’s one of starts and stops, punctuated by setbacks that felt endless. But I’ve accepted this truth and appreciate the perspective it brings, which combats the self-doubt that often accompanies motherhood.
Yesterday, I met a woman whose path to motherhood resonated with me. I recognized the pain she carried—the kind of news no mother wants to hear. I asked if she would like Lily’s clothes, and she accepted, promising to cherish them with the same intention I had when selecting them. They would now belong to a little girl who would represent hope and love, shining light in a time of darkness.
I donated my deceased daughter’s clothing yesterday, marking another step in a lifelong journey of grief. I remembered the early days when well-meaning friends urged me to give everything away, as if that would erase the memories of each tiny onesie and pair of socks. I always knew I would feel ready one day, that I would find the right mother and close the box, leaving behind what could have been. These pieces would find their place, and I would feel the peace that comes from knowing something beautiful could emerge from pain.
For more insights and resources on this topic, check out this other blog post, or visit IVF Babble for excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re looking for expert guidance, Intracervical Insemination is a great authority on this subject.
For more related information, you might search for:
- How to cope with child loss
- Finding hope after grief
- Supporting a friend through loss
- Choosing a path to motherhood
- Navigating grief as a parent
Summary: In this poignant reflection, a mother shares her experience of donating her deceased daughter’s clothing nearly seven years after her loss. The act symbolizes a step towards healing and acceptance, as she navigates the complexities of grief while finding hope in passing on her daughter’s belongings to another family. The journey of motherhood, filled with challenges and moments of joy, continues to shape her perspective and resilience.