You intrigued me with your simple, yet affirming response. So, I’ve read a little of your words through your posts and Notes—and discovered a kindred soul of the deepest depths. See, I believe only those who have travelled down the similar path that you have been on recently, about the creation of an angel when all we wanted was a baby to hold and feed and nurture, can truly know what that exquisite pain and grief feels like. I wanted you to know my wife and I know that unique pain. And although saying that may not make any difference to you and the rest of your beautiful family as you journey on, I also wanted you to know how much I appreciate reading of your experience and grief. I am filled with gratitude for you. THAT takes a depth of courage and character that is rare in our present day and age. And in so doing so, you have gifted to me a bit of your grief and sadness—I will carry and hold it with honor in my heart because I’ve been there—I get to carry a part of your daughter through your words. Keep saying her name please; we say the name Ryan often. Come this April, Ryan would have turned 33 years old; to this day, I remember holding his stilled-life body, right after delivery, as if it were yesterday. Oddly, that is one of my most precious memories. We squeezed a lifetime of love into the few moments in which we held him—turns out, it was enough. It was perfect. Even as we desperately wanted more, so much more. 🙏🏼
I hope these words land softly for you—I could not hold them back after learning more about you and your own immense and compassionate heart.
Oh! Your words have brought me to tears!!!! Can we be family please? Do you need a new cousin? Yes. There is much we share in common, and also, I am grateful for your words of honor for the Jewish people…my father’s tribe…my bloodline.
It’s an exquisitely painful time to be alive, and to be Jewish, or queer, or brown, or trans, or Palestinian. It’s so painful to be any or all of these things and to mourn for your dead and oh-so-cherished baby.
My daughter was Anaïd. I believe she was an ancestor. When I was a little girl, I used to lay in the grass and close my eyes, and I was in Auschwitz. I saw the terror. Everyone was naked and then it all went black.
I don’t know many seven-year-old girls who lay in the grass and see such things … but that’s where I first met her. It was her time to come back. I only wish she could have stayed this time.
You have honored me. We are deeper than family now. Kindred Souls—and we recognize each other by the our shared hearts broken by the pains of the earth, and Her peoples; pains that we cannot help but feel. I shall say her name as well: Anaïd. It is such a beautiful name. I’ve no doubt she is an ancestor—and you are some form of conduit from them to the rest of us bearing witness to the tragic events of the day. That Anaïd came through you was likely no accident—it was perfectly intentional. Her short presence a testimony to her mission of Tikkum olam. Maybe she was destined to be one of the Lamed-Vov and so took some of the Earth’s suffering with her—there being so much of it right now. Maybe YOU are one of the Lamed-Vov. I have a feeling about that; about you. In thinking that is your real picture you’ve uploaded for your Substack page, you have Old Soul eyes that see things most humans cannot, and won’t.
I’d been told, and I believe this from one of my cherished teachers, that some Souls do not have to exist in bodily form for long—for them, even as short as we perceive it to be, their presence was their lifetime. They had already completed what they were expected to do; even as the teaching of their lives continue for us—through their compassion. There isn’t a single Soul, conceived or manifested, that is imperfect. Even today, my Ryan’s presence is felt—his teaching continues despite his short life here on Earth. As I suspect you already know, Ryan’s and Anaïd’s lives are eternal—we here just cannot conceive of that despite the anguish we feel upon their leaving. But at times, when the world seems at its darkest, we will be privileged to feel them. 🙏🏼
I hope this isn’t weird: but. I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Lamed Vav. About Ryan and Anaïd. And I was laying in my 8-year-old son’s bed (he’s a star seed and a miraculous being) and we were talking about making a cardboard throne for our high maintenance cat. And I kept thinking about your words. Like they were a blanket for me to wrap myself in and REST. To finally REST.
And I can’t thank you enough for this . And I don’t want it to be weird. And I don’t want to put too much onto it.
But for the last month, I’ve been in agony. Feeling like everything was my fault. Researching and overthinking every possible cause of death that could have been something I had done. And many people have tried to assure me, including my doctors. Even people who are professors at the world’s greatest hospitals. But something about what you said, got through to me finally.
Jennifer, it’s not weird at all. For some unknown reason for each of us, our paths crossed. And because of our shared stories, there was a reason. My heart sings that you may have received even the slightest bit of respite from the pain that’s been in your body. Maybe with this first clean breath, healing can now continue on the path that Anaïd has made for you.
I can only speak from the experiences my wife and I went through. At first, she was worried what Ryan’s death might do to our marriage because we’d heard so many stories of marriages breaking up because they couldn’t withstand the tragic pain of loss and death. Our marriage only grew stronger; and the faster we were able to recognize what Ryan’s death meant, that his death was NOT due to anything either of us did, the more able we were to metabolize the grief we were feeling to make it something affirming. Life became more precious—and we had Ryan to thank for that. Tonight, I can say again with complete confidence: Life is precious because Anaïd and you, Jennifer, renewed that sense within my own body. And I never would have had that blessing had you not made a simple comment on my post (about the Holocaust of all things), and had I not been so curious as to read your writing and to learn all this about you. And then look at what you just did for me—made my heart both break open widely, and sing.
What just happened to you is no small thing, laying there with your son envisioning grand thrones for the royal cat (trust me, I know, I’m a cat lover too); it is no fluke. So please lean into that opening—your daughter will forever be a blessing for you. She existed her entire life inside you. How rare is that? You were the only home she knew—far from holding yourself responsible for her loss, you must now understand YOU were the only place she LIVED! You gave her that—and then upon her imminent birth, as I think is correct, her Tikkum Olam, as an innocent Lamed Vav, she understood the pain of the world, so she fulfilled her life’s mission before even taking her first breath of air. Rest now, please. Anaïd, as a compassionate and eternal soul now, would want nothing different for the one who nurtured her own life. Not that you need anyone’s permission, let alone mine, but you can let the agony of all the questions and doubts and feelings of responsibility go without loving her any less. In fact, letting that stuff, as understandable as it is, go, will only open up more space for love. Let the grief finally run over and through you—it is healthy to do so. Simply feel deeply into the sadness without the added story of needing to feel you did anything wrong. I say this from our own experience again, we, you, did absolutely nothing wrong. Anaïd’s life was pre-ordained by something more powerful than anything a human could have done, or not done. Ryan’s always been a part of our story; Anaïd will be likewise for you and yours. Always say her name. Always say you have a daughter. One day there may be a young woman whom you meet who will learn this about you and Anaïd, and thank you because she is going through the exact same thing thinking she was all alone and fully responsible. If you doubt that, this is exactly what you just offered to me. You’ll have much to give to that future young, heartbroken mother.
You are now in my life for good. And I’m so happy about that. And through you, so is Anaïd. I think Ryan may have welcomed her into the light they both returned to. So, she’s safe, and warm, and happy. And wishing the same for you. It’s okay, mom. Everything is okay. You can be sad, and with each tear, you’ll love her, and your son, even more.
Give yourself, now, the true gift of self-compassion. You are not alone. And you are loved. You are a great mom. REST deeply. And remember to hug those you love who can hug you back. Loving touch right now can be so healing! I’m sending you a virtual hug.
Ugh, I want to comment, Kert, but I don’t even know what to say. Let’s keep our friends close, I guess.
Sorry to say ‘like’ to such a brutal story but I do appreciate it keeping alive a memory we must not forget. Thank you.
My deep thanks to you.
You are a light for sharing this today, within the darkness that is happening now, people like you give me hope.
Never forget. I worked for a Jewish Family Services for 13 years, I met and heard from Holocaust survivors. I saw their sometimes tragic art.
But now, we are past never forget to never happening again while watching it happening in our own country. We will stop it, but when and at what cost?
Holocaust horrors.
Flame, ember, cinder, ashes.
Char, haunt all children.
That is one of the most poignant haiku’s I’ve ever read. Thank you for sharing that.
Remembrance released
free to try tikkun olam.
Oy, lest we forget.
Okay, that did it. I’m joining in on the fun (relatively speaking since we’re talking about heavy topics):
~~~~~~~~
to repair the world
start within; spread kindness to
all our relations.
Touched by your touché.
Ken, kindred kin. Key: Kindness.
Deep bow as thank you.
Deep bow received in
Namaste and Ubuntu.
I am ‘cuz you are.
Thank you. 🙏
You intrigued me with your simple, yet affirming response. So, I’ve read a little of your words through your posts and Notes—and discovered a kindred soul of the deepest depths. See, I believe only those who have travelled down the similar path that you have been on recently, about the creation of an angel when all we wanted was a baby to hold and feed and nurture, can truly know what that exquisite pain and grief feels like. I wanted you to know my wife and I know that unique pain. And although saying that may not make any difference to you and the rest of your beautiful family as you journey on, I also wanted you to know how much I appreciate reading of your experience and grief. I am filled with gratitude for you. THAT takes a depth of courage and character that is rare in our present day and age. And in so doing so, you have gifted to me a bit of your grief and sadness—I will carry and hold it with honor in my heart because I’ve been there—I get to carry a part of your daughter through your words. Keep saying her name please; we say the name Ryan often. Come this April, Ryan would have turned 33 years old; to this day, I remember holding his stilled-life body, right after delivery, as if it were yesterday. Oddly, that is one of my most precious memories. We squeezed a lifetime of love into the few moments in which we held him—turns out, it was enough. It was perfect. Even as we desperately wanted more, so much more. 🙏🏼
I hope these words land softly for you—I could not hold them back after learning more about you and your own immense and compassionate heart.
Oh! Your words have brought me to tears!!!! Can we be family please? Do you need a new cousin? Yes. There is much we share in common, and also, I am grateful for your words of honor for the Jewish people…my father’s tribe…my bloodline.
It’s an exquisitely painful time to be alive, and to be Jewish, or queer, or brown, or trans, or Palestinian. It’s so painful to be any or all of these things and to mourn for your dead and oh-so-cherished baby.
My daughter was Anaïd. I believe she was an ancestor. When I was a little girl, I used to lay in the grass and close my eyes, and I was in Auschwitz. I saw the terror. Everyone was naked and then it all went black.
I don’t know many seven-year-old girls who lay in the grass and see such things … but that’s where I first met her. It was her time to come back. I only wish she could have stayed this time.
You have honored me. We are deeper than family now. Kindred Souls—and we recognize each other by the our shared hearts broken by the pains of the earth, and Her peoples; pains that we cannot help but feel. I shall say her name as well: Anaïd. It is such a beautiful name. I’ve no doubt she is an ancestor—and you are some form of conduit from them to the rest of us bearing witness to the tragic events of the day. That Anaïd came through you was likely no accident—it was perfectly intentional. Her short presence a testimony to her mission of Tikkum olam. Maybe she was destined to be one of the Lamed-Vov and so took some of the Earth’s suffering with her—there being so much of it right now. Maybe YOU are one of the Lamed-Vov. I have a feeling about that; about you. In thinking that is your real picture you’ve uploaded for your Substack page, you have Old Soul eyes that see things most humans cannot, and won’t.
I’d been told, and I believe this from one of my cherished teachers, that some Souls do not have to exist in bodily form for long—for them, even as short as we perceive it to be, their presence was their lifetime. They had already completed what they were expected to do; even as the teaching of their lives continue for us—through their compassion. There isn’t a single Soul, conceived or manifested, that is imperfect. Even today, my Ryan’s presence is felt—his teaching continues despite his short life here on Earth. As I suspect you already know, Ryan’s and Anaïd’s lives are eternal—we here just cannot conceive of that despite the anguish we feel upon their leaving. But at times, when the world seems at its darkest, we will be privileged to feel them. 🙏🏼
🥹
I hope this isn’t weird: but. I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Lamed Vav. About Ryan and Anaïd. And I was laying in my 8-year-old son’s bed (he’s a star seed and a miraculous being) and we were talking about making a cardboard throne for our high maintenance cat. And I kept thinking about your words. Like they were a blanket for me to wrap myself in and REST. To finally REST.
And I can’t thank you enough for this . And I don’t want it to be weird. And I don’t want to put too much onto it.
But for the last month, I’ve been in agony. Feeling like everything was my fault. Researching and overthinking every possible cause of death that could have been something I had done. And many people have tried to assure me, including my doctors. Even people who are professors at the world’s greatest hospitals. But something about what you said, got through to me finally.
THANK YOU.
Jennifer, it’s not weird at all. For some unknown reason for each of us, our paths crossed. And because of our shared stories, there was a reason. My heart sings that you may have received even the slightest bit of respite from the pain that’s been in your body. Maybe with this first clean breath, healing can now continue on the path that Anaïd has made for you.
I can only speak from the experiences my wife and I went through. At first, she was worried what Ryan’s death might do to our marriage because we’d heard so many stories of marriages breaking up because they couldn’t withstand the tragic pain of loss and death. Our marriage only grew stronger; and the faster we were able to recognize what Ryan’s death meant, that his death was NOT due to anything either of us did, the more able we were to metabolize the grief we were feeling to make it something affirming. Life became more precious—and we had Ryan to thank for that. Tonight, I can say again with complete confidence: Life is precious because Anaïd and you, Jennifer, renewed that sense within my own body. And I never would have had that blessing had you not made a simple comment on my post (about the Holocaust of all things), and had I not been so curious as to read your writing and to learn all this about you. And then look at what you just did for me—made my heart both break open widely, and sing.
What just happened to you is no small thing, laying there with your son envisioning grand thrones for the royal cat (trust me, I know, I’m a cat lover too); it is no fluke. So please lean into that opening—your daughter will forever be a blessing for you. She existed her entire life inside you. How rare is that? You were the only home she knew—far from holding yourself responsible for her loss, you must now understand YOU were the only place she LIVED! You gave her that—and then upon her imminent birth, as I think is correct, her Tikkum Olam, as an innocent Lamed Vav, she understood the pain of the world, so she fulfilled her life’s mission before even taking her first breath of air. Rest now, please. Anaïd, as a compassionate and eternal soul now, would want nothing different for the one who nurtured her own life. Not that you need anyone’s permission, let alone mine, but you can let the agony of all the questions and doubts and feelings of responsibility go without loving her any less. In fact, letting that stuff, as understandable as it is, go, will only open up more space for love. Let the grief finally run over and through you—it is healthy to do so. Simply feel deeply into the sadness without the added story of needing to feel you did anything wrong. I say this from our own experience again, we, you, did absolutely nothing wrong. Anaïd’s life was pre-ordained by something more powerful than anything a human could have done, or not done. Ryan’s always been a part of our story; Anaïd will be likewise for you and yours. Always say her name. Always say you have a daughter. One day there may be a young woman whom you meet who will learn this about you and Anaïd, and thank you because she is going through the exact same thing thinking she was all alone and fully responsible. If you doubt that, this is exactly what you just offered to me. You’ll have much to give to that future young, heartbroken mother.
You are now in my life for good. And I’m so happy about that. And through you, so is Anaïd. I think Ryan may have welcomed her into the light they both returned to. So, she’s safe, and warm, and happy. And wishing the same for you. It’s okay, mom. Everything is okay. You can be sad, and with each tear, you’ll love her, and your son, even more.
Give yourself, now, the true gift of self-compassion. You are not alone. And you are loved. You are a great mom. REST deeply. And remember to hug those you love who can hug you back. Loving touch right now can be so healing! I’m sending you a virtual hug.
🙏🏼