My life changed forever when I lost my best friend, Whitney, to a brain tumor. She was 33 years old. As she took her last breath, in the middle of the COVID-19 lockdown, I held my 15-month toddler in my arms and 22-week baby in my belly. I felt numb, wondering how I would find room to handle the devastation. Four months later, my second child was born, and I found myself navigating a previously unimaginable life: grieving Whitney’s loss while caring for two kids under two—a notoriously demanding stage of motherhood—during the height of the pandemic. The lack of time and space to process my grief made it impossible to understand what I needed to heal and feel like myself again.
Whitney’s death was not my first time experiencing loss, but my first loss in motherhood. In fact, I was still new to motherhood altogether. I wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember. Becoming one wasn’t seamless. Breastfeeding alone introduced character-questioning hurdles: trying to get my child to latch onto my cracked nipples or draining a clogged duct while screaming in pain. When my first child, Reid, was born in February 2019, Whitney helped to ease my transition to motherhood by anticipating my needs and showering me with empathy. Even as a new mother, I could be myself with her as I was before. She loved and cared for me naturally, as an old friend does.
My husband, John, and I were fortunate to have overlapping parental leaves with Reid, allowing us to tackle the newborn firsts together. His active role also allowed me space and time to balance my needs and wants—things that made me feel like myself—like spending time with Whitney. Between her radiation and immunotherapy appointments, we got into a groove of meeting for morning workout classes and coffee dates. On sunnier days, we would swap for a walk around the lake. Afterward, we’d return home to feed Reid, and she’d snuggle up close to read or sing to him while staring into his eyes. Seeing their bond grow was magical. She loved him as her own.
I was ecstatic to learn I was pregnant with my second child in January 2020. Reid was eleven months old. The following week, as Whitney and I stood in line to order our lattes and Kouign Amanns, she asked me if I was pregnant before I could share the news. She just knew. I couldn’t have been more thrilled for this baby to love Whitney as Reid did.
Knowing what to expect with a newborn, I dreamt about the ease of my second maternity leave: the slow, cozy days curled up on my favorite spot on the couch near the big windows looking out back. With Reid in daycare, the baby and I would welcome the fall and winter seasons together, playing, cooing, giggling, reading, and dozing off as his belly rose and fell on my chest with every breath. Whitney would join us to binge a new series, cook a meal with whatever ingredients she found in our fridge, or get us out of the house for a long walk. But that wasn’t how it played out.
Whitney’s tumor spread in the following weeks, making her progressively sicker. The reality of her diagnosis whiplashed me into shock and disbelief. Not only my maternity leave, but the rest of my life, would look different. In early April, she decided to end treatment and focus on comfort care. What we thought would be another six to twelve months quickly fizzled into one. It never crossed my mind that she wouldn’t live to see the birth of my second child. The heartbreak of sitting at her bedside during some of her final moments before that could happen is indescribable. I wanted to run away, or run back, to how it was with Whitney here.
Callan arrived in September 2020, bringing rays of sunshine to my world. From his first breath, he carried Whitney’s bold energy and spirit. I wished she could visit us in the hospital again, as she did when Reid was born, but I knew she was there. Once we arrived home, those slow, cozy newborn days vanished before I could mold my imprint on the couch. We pulled Reid from daycare at the start of the pandemic, terrified of catching COVID-19 or, worse, spreading it to Callan or my immunocompromised dad. When Callan was three weeks old, John started a new job without parental leave benefits, making me the primary caregiver for both kids.
Beyond the physical and logistical circumstances, I became overwhelmed by the juxtaposition of loss and birth. My heart both burst with joy and bled with pain. There was abundance and scarcity. Excitement and emptiness. Hope and despair. Community and loneliness. I struggled to find a way to communicate how I felt or what I needed. I could barely comprehend that Whitney was gone and Callan was here.
I tried to still be the mother my children deserved. In doing so, I retreated into survival mode to meet their needs, leaving little to no room for mine. I juggled the similar yet conflicting schedules of a toddler and a newborn: timing nap cycles and wake windows, changing diapers one after the next, attempting to breastfeed one-handed while flipping through pages of books with the other, warming bottles and sippy cups, soothing simultaneous cries, finding developmentally-appropriate activities, exposing my toddler to new foods, and more. Unsurprisingly, stress and anxiety impacted my breastmilk supply. I began the dreadful cycle of triple feeding between nursing, pumping, and bottle feeding until I could no longer bear it and begrudgingly switched to formula.
On top of the everyday demands of caring for two young children, the mental load squeezed any time or space left in me. I washed and sanitized bottles, placed order pick-ups for more diapers, sent our niece a birthday gift, Facetimed our parents, responded to text messages from friends, and wrote thank you notes to the neighbors for the delicious meals. My obligations to others seemed to go on and on. I’d check one thing off the list and add two more.
I was fortunate to have a loving and helpful partner in John. His many efforts to assist were crucial to balance in life with two under two, but given his constraints, I continued to struggle. The need for real, dedicated space to myself to grieve, process, and heal remained.
Each day brought different joys. It also brought the same heartbreak. I felt Whitney’s calming and comforting presence all around, whether it be spotting a bright red Cardinal at the feeder while playing on the couch or hearing one of our favorite songs by The Chicks on the radio while driving around town. Because she was so important to us, it was easy for John and me to keep her memory alive with the kids by sharing stories and scrolling through photos and videos. We cherished spending time with her family, who we consider our own. Still, the hole in my heart was expanding. I needed her here with me, now more than ever.
At night, when the chaos quieted and the bright moon settled against the dark sky, grief barged in, begging for the same attention I gave my kids. Thoughts of Whitney kept my mind and body awake. I questioned everything I was doing and feeling. Sometimes my eyes closed to rest for a few hours, sometimes for none. No matter my level of exhaustion, the morning light relieved me, giving me a temporary break from myself. But, with each passing night, I felt my light dimming, leaving me lost, like a stranger in my own body.
My windowless closet became my sanctuary. Tucked behind three doors, I could sit alone and quietly sob into a pillow. I still couldn’t understand all I was feeling. The most I could do was close my eyes to breathe and be still for a moment before starting the day.
John recognized my struggle and reminded me he was there for me. He often asked what he could do for me, but I couldn’t figure out how to answer. When Callan turned five months old and Reid was nearly two, my light was almost out. I could no longer carry on, frozen in survival mode, going through the motions. I wanted and needed to feel like myself again. I went to John and finally answered his question. “Space,” I blurted out with tears pouring down my cheeks. “I need space.”
John wrapped his arms around me and we began making changes. He took full days off work so I could dedicate time to myself and to mourning Whitney. I hiked places we had hiked together. I sat near the lake where we walked, writing whatever came to mind. I drove around endlessly, listening to more songs by The Chicks on repeat. Now and then, I spent a night at a hotel, where I treated myself to spa services and in-room dining. I sought a new therapist specializing in healing after loss, who helped me embrace my grief and validate my feelings. We hired a nanny who we trusted to care for our two littles. I began seeing friends in person again, and I was comforted when they reminded me of how much they missed Whitney, too. Finally, I asked my work for two extensions on my maternity leave, which they graciously accepted.
With each change, my light burned brighter. I began to resemble the person I was before losing Whitney. Uninterrupted time nourished my mind to think and reflect more clearly. Physical distance from the four walls of my house that bound me every day gave me a fresh perspective. Space away from the kids allowed me to do things that made me feel like me. When Whitney was alive, she helped me find space and time for myself through friendship and caregiving. Without her, I needed to find a way to feel like myself again on my own.
There is no set pathway for healing. There is no model from which to move forward. My grief in motherhood journey was just that—my journey. I didn’t know how I would get through it or how long it would take. I still don’t.
Now, two and a half years since Whitney’s passing, I’m feeling more like myself every day. I’m still navigating grief in motherhood. I always will be. I’m still experiencing the gamut of emotions and learning how to find peace with whichever surface, especially during those occasional sleepless nights.
As I curl up on my favorite spot on the couch, newly pregnant with our third child, I pause to watch the snow quietly fall on the lilac tree planted in Whitney’s memory. My heart is again bursting with joy for a new baby and bleeding with pain for Whitney’s absence. And while I don’t know what the future holds, I know I will create the space to remember Whitney and to heal in this next chapter. I will continue loving and caring for myself and my family. That’s what matters most—whether we felt loved and cared for—which is exactly how Whitney made me feel.
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