We moved there for my husband’s job, an amazing opportunity that we thought was the start to the rest of our lives. My family consists of my sons Walter and Henny, my husband and myself. Walter was six at the time, Henny was three and a half.

We were on our way to a friend's house for Easter brunch, when Henny was involved in a freak traffic accident, and passed in an instant. We were devastated. Left on the sidewalk, too paralyzed to think, or move, we didn’t even know what the German equivalent of 911 was to call for help. Witnesses, kind people, helped, called emergency services. EMT’s arrived and told us what we already knew, he was gone. Someone ushered us into a nearby ice cream shop to wait. An older gentleman, an EMT worker held me as I sat on the floor of the ice cream shop and cried. Whenever I tried to look at the scene, he took my head in his hands and turned me away from the window whispering “nein, nein”. He would have me focus back on his face as he repeated “alles gut” over and over. “It’s ok, it’s ok”. When I let the fear re-enter my body, even after eighteen months, I think of his face, burned into my brain whispering to me that it will be ok, and I am grateful for this angel of a man who held me like my own father.

How we survived the next few weeks and got ourselves and Henri back home to Massachusetts are days I don’t like to think about. Those first days and weeks are a nightmare that you wake up to every day, only in sleep is there a modicum of relief. Then you wake up and feel sick to your stomach again. You blame yourself, one can’t help but do that, you replay every second of the events. You torture yourself over and over again. As if to atone for the loss of your child.

We had only been in Germany for three months. We had just started this European adventure. We barely knew anyone. But our church is all over the world, and we had been attending a local congregation. Even though we couldn’t understand a word they said, we went. We made friends, and we started to build a community. They were there to catch our fall. They brought us food, got us out of our lease, returned our kitchen (in Germany you have to buy an entire kitchen when you move into a new place, people take theirs with them), found us a lawyer, helped us with official documents, spoke to the U.S. Ambassador to Germany, found us a funeral home. We didn’t have to think. They loved us as if we had been there forever.

The principal and Henny’s teachers from the international school the boys went to came to visit and give us love. I marveled at that. Henny had only been there for two months, and he was often home sick, I honestly didn’t think it would affect them much. The principal said “Oh Kacie, of course it does, we love him too, and we will never forget Henri”. They brought everything he made, now priceless gems. They mourned with us.

The airline that flew us home was alerted to our situation. As Henri was boarded on the plane, and when he was taken off at the end of the flight, the entire crew stood in silent attention for him. They gave us flowers and personally walked us through customs.

We arrived home to our local church family in Massachusetts who put the funeral together in two weeks. I didn’t have to think of anything. I made no decisions, I was not capable of doing so. Friends took Walter for play dates so that we could lay in bed and be sad. The church brought meals so we didn’t have to think about what to make for dinner. We received cards and letters from friends, acquaintances, friends of friends, strangers from all over the country, and the world who had heard. The paper in Leipzig ran a story on him that got picked up here at home and was run in our local paper. The whole neighborhood knew. Walter’s local American school reached out and checked in with cards, letters, toys for Walter, food, hugs, and help. Everyone who loved Henny, who loved us, came to town for his funeral. Some were family and friends who had never even known him, but who loved us enough to share in our sorrow and be there on the worst day of our lives.

After the funeral, it was a new life, what were we meant to do now?

We had sold all of our furniture, packed up anything we were keeping, stored it in the attic and rented out our home to my mother. Then suddenly we were back again, less one child, with no furniture. Life was strange. We watched Bluey every night on the couch, it was sweet and mindless and the story of that happy family made us feel a little better.

We found therapy. Individual therapists, family therapists, couples therapists. We therapized as much as anyone can dream of. Time passed. We had the luxury to take some small trips that summer, and we did. Doing something fun helped soothe our burned souls and hearts. We buried Henny in a beautiful spot and still visit him every day. We allowed ourselves to cry when we were with him, releasing the pain we tried so hard to keep from Walter.

We held Walter close, eventually being brave enough to send him back to school and let him out of our sight. We bought furniture. We changed lives, we changed careers. What we had worked so hard for, what had mattered so much suddenly had no meaning anymore. And we realized that’s ok. Our minds were forever altered, and we were on new paths, new careers that better suited our new goals- to be together- as much as possible.

It has been just over eighteen months since we lost our baby. Things are very different. When it happened, I begged other child loss parents to tell me if it gets easier. There was only one right answer for me. Frustratingly, I never got it. I always had some variation of, ”it gets easier to bear” “you will find happiness again” “your capacity to hold it all expands”. And it’s true. We are stronger now. We don’t wake every day with that sick feeling in the pit of our stomach.

We have found wonderful resources for connecting with other child loss parents who can relate to everything we say and feel. We laugh now, we have things to look forward to, and sometimes…we’re even happy.

We have learned to see all the signs Henny leaves for us to let us know he loves us. We miss him wide and deep and long, and that will never change. There is sadness that will never go away. But there is also joy in the memory of him, in all his funny cute cheekiness. In the things he would do, in our favorite stories, videos and pictures of him. He is alive for us every minute of every day and always will be. Our community on both continents has remained strong, and available. Our flashbacks have grown smaller and less frequent, we have survived. We thought we would die with him, but we didn’t. And so if we must live, we will LIVE.

~ Kacie

Instagram: @waltandhenmomma

My name is Marci, I am Levi’s paternal grandmother. I was fortunate to not only be Levi’s Grammy, I am also one of his God mothers. I am here today with my son John, Levi’s dad, my wife Kathy, his other Godmother, and Anthony, Levi’s paternal grandfather also known as Pops. Here is Levi’s story through my eyes.

The news of Levi’s upcoming arrival came as a bit of a surprise to all of us. Levi’s parents were in a relatively new relationship and they were both early on in their recovery process. It came to our attention they needed our help! Without hesitation, Pops cleared out space at his house where he and John lived. They moved in Levi’s mom Alex in and turned a spare bedroom into a nursery for Levi. We had the gender reveal, the baby shower, the parenting classes. We were ready! Finally, on July 12th, 2024 Levi was born! Pops and I were fortunate to be able to see him that night and I think I can speak for him, that we both immediately fell in love. The prince had arrived!

It really was a team effort once Levi came home from the hospital. I would help out in the early morning hours a few days a week so John and Alex could get some sleep. On the mornings I wasn’t there Pops had his time with Levi. We were really great at co-grandparenting! Since we were so involved with his care it gave us the chance to create a really strong bond with him. We had his baptism in October, what a fantastic day that was! The whole family got together to celebrate Levi! My side, Pops’ side, Alex’s side along with our church family and friends. Levi was such a happy baby, his smile would light up his whole face along with my heart. We had the perfect relationship. He loved to be held and I loved holding him, he loved to eat and I loved feeding him, he loved napping and I loved holding him while he napped, I loved to give him a million kisses and he let me! I absolutely adored him. I actually started to feel a little guilty at how much I loved him. Did I love him more than I loved my own children? But it wasn’t that, it’s just a different kind of love. I’m older now, I can appreciate how fast the time goes and how quickly they grow. While Levi was in my care nothing else mattered. He got 100% of my attention. Dishes could wait, laundry could wait. Everything would get done when he want home to his parents.

Levi was a skeleton for Halloween last year and he got his face painted at trunk or treat. We got to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas with him, what a great addition to our family he was. Levi’s personality really started coming out now. He had an ice cream truck exersaucer that he loved to jump in. Even when he was sick he would be bouncing away! His favorite song was I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas. It took 4 plays on repeat to get Levi from Pops’ house to mine. Levi got to celebrate his daddy’s 27th birthday with a surprise party in February. Levi loved to grab his daddy’s ears! There was nothing like watching my son be a father to Levi. I could see the love in his eyes for him, truly special. Levi was growing and hitting his milestones.

Then everything changed in an instant. March 10, 2025. Pops was in Florida for work and Kath and I had an early morning flight to Aruba. We had just landed and checked into our hotel room when I got the call from Pops. Levi had gone down for a nap and flipped. He was unable to flip back and suffocated. I couldn’t believe it, I was in total shock. He had to be joking, but I knew he would never joke about that. I was frantic! How could this be? He can’t be gone! I’m supposed to take him shopping for clothes on Friday! They have to save him! I have to get home to see my son. It was such a horrible feeling not being able to comfort my son on the worst day of his life. It was the worst day of my life too. We did make it back late that night. Aruba and back in a day. The following days are just a blur of disbelief and shock. I had never felt grief like this before. Totally encompassing and gut wrenching, I’ve never wanted to change one thing so badly! We were fortunate to have so much support from family and friends. One of my neighbors Megan Dunn is on the board for the Massachusetts Center for Unexpected Infant and Child Death and she got me in touch with Shelly. Shelly was so helpful. She let me rant and rave and talked me off the ledge on one of my many walks. She found a therapist for me that took my insurance. I was in no state of mind to do this myself so having her as a resource during such a difficult time made such a difference. Shelly also got me in touch with the Roberts Program at Boston Children’s Hospital where Levi is part of a study they are doing on unexpected infant and child death. While his death was an accident they look into genetics and other factors that may have played a role. I also had the opportunity to talk with a fellow grandmother Lisa who is here today. She unfortunately lost her granddaughter in 2017. Talking with Lisa was so comforting to me. She knew how I was feeling without me having to put it into words. To see your child face such a devastating loss and not be able to help them is just heartbreaking.

I’ve been looking forward to this walk since I found out about it, it’s a way to honor him. While I am still completely devastated over the loss of Levi, I am trying to remember all the love he gave to me. The last time I saw him is embedded in my mind. Kath and I had him at our house for a few hours because we were going away and wouldn’t see him for 5 whole days! When I brought him home to his parents I have him the usual kiss and headed for the door. As I got to the door I thought I better get another one. Alex was holding him in front of the fridge and I went back over to him. He reaches for me and I gave him a final kiss. I just had no idea it would be the last one I ever gave him. I wouldn’t trade the pain for the love. We had a lifetime of love squished into his 8 short months and I know I will see him again. Thank you again for giving me the opportunity to tell you about Levi.

- Marci S

Instagram: @fortheloveoflevi_

My name is Lisa Mancuso, I am the grandmother of Mackenzie Nalen. Mackenzie was born on February 4, 2017. She was a beautiful baby, a happy, smiling, precious little bundle of joy.

At around 1 month old, Mackenzie developed a slight cold. The pediatrician assured my daughter that it was just a little cold and that her lungs sounded clear. At each checkup, the pediatrician again assured my daughter and son-in-law that the cold just had to run its course, and that Mackenzie’s lungs sounded clear. Mackenzie never developed a fever, only slight congestion.

On the morning of May 6th, my son came by for a visit. I was still in my pajamas sipping my morning coffee when my phone rang. I saw it was Jessica calling, and when I picked up the phone, all I could hear was my daughter hysterically screaming that Mackenzie stopped breathing and that the paramedics had her. At that moment I felt the blood drain from my body. My son and I raced out the door to the hospital, but sadly, Mackenzie passed away before we got there. She had died of streptococcal bronchopneumonia. Mackenzie was 3 months, two days old.

The day Mackenzie died, my life changed forever. I went into a complete state of shock. Instead of helping Jessica with feeding and changing Mackenzie and babysitting, I was helping her plan a funeral. As parents, we always want to protect our children, help them and when something goes wrong, help fix it. But this was something I couldn’t fix. As a grandmother, I felt guilt, guilt that I’m living a full life and Mackenzie didn’t. Guilt that I had a birthday coming up and Mackenzie would never have one.

As the days turned into weeks and then months, my emotions were all over the place. And for any grandparent that has gone through this, you grieve for the loss of the baby and you grieve for your child who suffered such an unimaginable loss.

People don’t know what to say and that’s okay. Grief is unique and each individual grieves in their own way. It’s also okay to ask for help, which is what I did. I went to counseling and read all I could about grief and loss. Then one day, I stumbled across the MA Center for Unexpected Infant and Child Death website. It was here at the 2019 Walk that I met Alex. I wanted to get involved with the center, to volunteer my time and support families who have suffered the tragic loss of a child. Alex, Shari, and Maxine are the most compassionate people I have ever come in contact with. I am an advisory board member at the center and it is here where I feel I can offer support. I offer support not only to the families but also to the professionals who come into contact with these families at the time of a child’s death so that they are better equipped to show empathy and compassion towards them.

For any family who has recently gone through this, the days won’t always seem dark. There are some brighter days ahead. My entire family has been there, supporting us from day one. My daughter is working her way through nursing school and Mackenzie’s big brother Landon loves to share the dreams he has about Mackenzie, which always puts a smile on my face. Each year on Mackenzie’s birthday, we have a cake for her and sing happy birthday.

Your children will always be remembered. Though their lives were cut short, they lives did matter.

~ Lisa

July 9, 2019, marks a day that shattered my world into a million pieces. I am Candice Wilcox, and I want to share my journey as the mother to my angel baby, Aiden Anderson Privott.

Our story begins on 2/25/2019, a day filled with joy as we discovered we were expecting our miracle baby, Aiden. The path of pregnancy, however, proved to be a delicate balance between beauty and nightmare. I soon learned that there's no safe zone in pregnancy; loss can turn the most joyous experience into a heart-wrenching reality.

I delivered my beautiful son, Aiden, on 7/10/2019, but he was sleeping. The days that followed were grueling, filled with anger, shock, disbelief, and a shaken faith. Despite delivering to one of the best hospitals in Massachusetts, my birth story was far from reassuring. From the heartbreaking news of no heartbeat to my discharge, disappointment and disgust lingered.

The pain of birthing a child who will never cry, laugh, or open his eyes is indescribable. Imagine being on a labor and delivery floor surrounded by celebration while you mourn your worst day. Returning home empty-handed, your breast milk flowing with no baby to nurse—it's a unique agony. The challenge of facing a waiting room with other pregnant women after your loss is excruciating.

For those who encounter a loss mom, choose your words wisely. Phrases like "you can have another baby" or "it was God's plan" may unintentionally deepen the wounds. The journey to conceive is often unknown and arduous. Although I stand before you as a rainbow mother my pregnancy after loss was not easy.

Our dreams for Aiden were abruptly taken away, and many nights were spent pleading for the pain to subside or to join him. The strength attributed to me is merely survival. Therapy became a refuge, and the daily routine, a battleground.

In September of 2019, I found solace in a healing circle with Propa City. Initially nervous and questioning, today I stand before you acknowledging that Propa City saved my life and organizations like the Massachusetts Center for Unexpected Infant and Child Death continue to heal me. I have created a tribe that I have named my loss sisters, united by grief, they have been my strength and reason to persevere the last four years. My family and friends, your prayers and unwavering support kept me afloat when I was ready to surrender.

In this space today, surrounded by understanding hearts, I share not only my pain but also my gratitude for the lifelines that have sustained me. Thank you for being here, for listening, and for being part of my healing journey.

~ Candice W.

My name is Maile Madigan. I’m Lia’s mom. I’m here because on September 13th, 2018, our daughter Lia died suddenly of SIDS when she was 5 months old.

As I thought about what to say today I felt torn between some very conflicting narratives that I could share. Do I talk about Lia’s death? About my grief, my suffering, my pain so you know you’re not alone? I could give you examples of how much it hurts deep down my core. A level of pain that is more than I ever thought possible.

Or I could tell you about Lia’s life, her laugh, her chubby cheeks, her amazing relationship with her brother Carter, the moment we found out she was a girl and we felt overcome with joy that we’d get to raise one son and one daughter. I could recount her magical birth on April 17th, or the moment she met each family member, the way her cousins obsessed over her, or the times they played boisterously around her while she fell sound asleep on the blue sea mat on our floor in the midst of the chaos and love. I could tell you how much I loved nursing her and rocking her to sleep in my arms. How perfect each finger and toe was. I could share with you about the adventures that we took together in her 5 months here on earth or the way it felt to kiss her soft cheeks and know that the love of a parent is unlike anything else. A level of love that I never knew possible.

Or I could share with you who I am now, standing before you as an entirely different person from who I was the day before my daughter died. I will never be the same person again and part of my grief journey has involved letting go of who I used to be. The struggle of viewing the world in an entirely different way than I once did. The vail has been lifted and we no longer get to think everything turns out ok because for us it didn’t. A level of change that I never imagined possible.

Or maybe I talk about how much has shifted in the last 3 years since I first came to this walk. The shift from being unable to image the sun having the audacity to rise again to welcoming a sunny day as an opportunity to get outside and be in nature with my two beautiful living children. I actually remember the first time I noticed color again after Lia died - obviously I knew things had color but I literally didn’t see it until one day I did - I noticed the bright greenness of the leaves. Not because I stopped missing Lia, but because I was starting to learn how to hold my pain and simultaneously be present in the world around me. A level of hope that I never dreamed possible.

So as I debated with myself about which version to share, I realized I don’t have to choose between my pain and my love. Sometimes I despise it and other times I welcome it, but no matter how I feel about it, my pain AND my love are mine, because my relationship with my daughter is uniquely mine. That can feel lonely at times, but at other times it feels special and oddly comforting to me. The way that I carry my grief and the way I connect with my daughter may shift as the years pass but I know now that I get to carry it with me forever and even death can’t take that away.

For me, surviving grief has been about learning to live joyfully and heartbroken all in the exact same moment. But that’s not how it was at the beginning.

I sat right there where you are, 5 weeks after Lia died. I remember during my first walk that the words of the mom giving the opening remarks impacted me but I couldn’t remember any of what she said. In fact, I don’t know that I really remember any words that anyone said to me for months after the ER doctor looked at me and said we did everything we could.

Already in those first 5 weeks, I had sat my 3 year old son down to tell him his sister died and she was never coming back. I had arranged a funeral, donated my daughters heart valves, paid ridiculous hospital bills, called friends to share the unfathomable news, gone to a terrible therapist who gave uncomfortable platitudes and talked about moving on (definitely not what I was looking to do). I drank a million grapefruit-flavored seltzers, ate my weight dried mangoes, and consumed meals that friends and family put in front of me because at some point my husband Dan and I decided we were going to live, even if there were many moments we felt like we didn’t want to. I had flipped a table at Dunkin Donuts out of pure rage. I had screamed at family members for harmless blunders and been forgiven for lashing out. I had spiraled into a web of question asking, silently screaming “why” inside my head, only to realize it was all outside of my control. I had been unable to focus or concentrate with my brain permanently changed by the grief fog. Dan and I had walked the streets of Watertown at 3am aimlessly and desperately trying to make sense of something that will never make sense. I spent hours numbly sitting on the couch having no idea how we went from feeling so busy to having no way to fill the empty time that extended before us. I had cleared out Lia’s bedroom to turn it into a painting studio, made a video collage of Lia pictures set to music, printed portrait photographs to put up around the house, and spent hours with time just passing by that I currently couldn’t tell you what I did. We were wrapped in love by our community of friends and family who stepped up in absolutely amazing ways. Yet nothing anyone said or did could bring our baby girl back. She wasn’t just gone on that one day in September, she was gone from all the moments in the future too. Those first 5 weeks and many weeks after that were gut wrenching torture that, as I stand before you now, I cannot believe we survived.

It has now been 3 years and 5 weeks. Which any grieving parent will tell you is still very early in my journey. But after those 3 years and 5 weeks, I stand before you a different picture than what you would have seen here 3 years ago. I’m definitely not going to tell you that I found some reason or purpose for my loss because you don’t have to grow into a better person from grief - you were a perfectly good person before all this. I know I would trade any kind of personal growth to have my child back. Sometimes there is no meaning, no greater purpose.

But I will share that I’m no longer desperately combing grief books for answers about how to survive. I don’t actually have an answer for you, I just know I am surviving. I didn’t survive because I’m particularly strong (although people love to say that), I survived because in the end it was all I could do. I did it one minute at a time until the minutes didn’t feel so excruciating.

I’ve found things that make it just a little easier to carry. I’ve found community in connecting with other parents who experienced loss (some of whom are here right now). I’ve gone to grief groups, tons of therapy (finally found a good one), I’ve reconnected with dance, I’ve tried acupuncture and massage because grief takes a real toll on the body physically, I’ve spent more hours than I can count walking in the woods with tears streaming down my face. I’ve written about my trauma, my memories, my connection. I’ve made photo albums, written a rhyming children’s book about the Adventures of Carter and Lia. I shared articles with my family to guide them and help them understand that I don’t need them to fix this (they can’t) but I need them to acknowledge my pain and remember my daughter with me. I needed to tell my story over and over and over again until my brain could believe that it was real. I was fortunate to have people in my life who could sit and listen to the horrific details without flinching and awkwardly shying away. My friends and family surrounded me like a herd of elephants does after a mother loses her baby elephant, using their physical presence as support and never pushing the mom to move away from her baby until she’s ready.

Now when I see an outfit that was Lia’s or a toy that she once played with I think of Lia and I feel the tight pain in my chest but I feel something else too - I feel connected to her. I’ve found ways to light candles and visit her tree that feel meaningful. I am living my life. A different one than I ever imagined but I am living it with love. I’m able to be truly joyful with my son Carter and my daughter Cora who was born 2 years after her sister died. And in the most joyful of moments, that’s when I feel Lia’s presence the strongest - I feel her with us. I imagine what it would be like if she were still with us.

What people often don’t understand is that we didn’t just lose our children in the past, we lost the entire future we should have had with them. So often I wonder what Lia would have been like now as a 3 year old - running around playing with her brother, doting on her little sister. Making our family whole in a way it never will be. It’s the job of a parent to protect our children, now we protect their memories.

I learned, that as a mother, we keep part of our child in our hearts forever - I don’t mean that metaphorically, I mean it literally - some of an unborn baby’s DNA circulates into the mother’s bloodstream while she’s pregnant. Most of the DNA leaves after the baby is born but some cells remain forever in the chambers of our hearts. So each of my 3 children is with me always.

I love that I got to talk about Lia and share her with all of you today. I want to thank you for listening and I want to thank the Massachusetts Center for Unexpected Infant & Child Death for hosting this beautiful event. I walk for my daughter and for all of your children, maybe they’re hanging out together somewhere laughing that we’ve all come together too.

~ Maile M.