It's the one thing that seems entirely impossible when you’re in the presence of death: living. The sun’s rise and fall, a pattern infuriatingly unfazed by the shattering of your world, feels inconceivable at best when you've only just entered the valley.

And yet, steady and quiet as the rhythm of our breath, time carries us forward.

Hello, Norah began as a solution to a problem: we needed a single source of answers for the many well-intended questions of our loved ones during my pregnancy with Norah. Inspired by several blogs of families with similar experiences, I decided to start our own. Posts were generally simple summaries of our day-to-day life and it was easy to share updates whenever we had appointments, which due to our high-risk situation was often multiple times a week. 

As time moved on, the purpose of the blog began to shift. It moved away from comments on our weekly activities to an introspective exploration of what it means to move forward. After Norah’s death, Mom’s death, and Lora’s birth I was no longer sharing the intimate details of existing in death's living room; I was sharing what it looked like to live.

I continued the blog based on expectations that I’d created for myself when it started. My marketing brain had gone wild, creating plans that were exciting and sensible from a business standpoint – but didn't account for the one thing I didn't know (or allow myself) to expect – change.

Grief is not a one-note tune. It’s a symphony, ebbing and flowing to its own wild and unexpected rhythm. There’s a safety in the familiarity of it. Grief is love, so the comfort it brings isn’t surprising. For Norah and August, my grief often feels like the one tangible connection to my babies in heaven. 

Whenever I didn't post as often as I had in the past, I felt as if I was failing my dead children, allowing them to be forgotten. 

I didn’t understand what it meant for grief to evolve. I had assumed any change in my grief would reflect a change in the connection to my children, the possibility of which sparked a primal, maternal fear.

But nothing stops time. Not fear. Not death. 

Hello, Norah had evolved. My grief had evolved. 

Acknowledging it? Well, that took some time. And lots of therapy. 

I was so panicked about stewarding my childrens' stories well that I was blinded to the powerful legacy their lives have already been creating. Countless connections have been built with other hurting families, our story acting as a lighthouse to help them navigate through their own dark journey. 

Our children are leaving a legacy of hope.
And that is entirely God. 

This realization has taken months for me to accept: the purpose of Hello, Norah has shifted from me to you.

Looking back, this shift in purpose was clear years ago, but my heart fearfully looked the other way. In the wake of miscarrying August it became clear that I needed space for my soul to catch its breath. The past few months have been intentionally quiet. When I chose ‘Revival’ as our word for 2020, I never pictured revival being found through months of silence. 

But God. 

I needed to understand that nothing I do will change my connection to my babies. I needed to understand that their legacy and the impact they have on this world has very little to do with me and everything to do with God. 

I am not burdened with being the sole protector and steward of my childrens’ life stories and legacies.

I am not burdened with the responsibility of intricately managing if, when, and how our story points to hope.

I am not burdened with how everything we have created to honor our children may or may not evolve.  

I am responsible for my obedience to God.

That means treasuring and nurturing relationships — with God, with my family, with you. That means, listening, discernment, trust, and love. That means responding to the restlessness in my soul, honoring the urgent ache that has once again risen to share our story with the world. That means doing so with revised, God-led intention. 

God has taken what started as a simple solution to a problem and turned it into a vessel for hope. 
All I need to do in response is show up.

That may look like saying yes and it may look like saying no. It may be sharing and it may be silence. It may be a writing a book, starting a podcast, sharing a post, or being fully present in a quiet conversation over coffee (or zoom, or both). Maybe it's as simple as Emily P. Freeman puts it: "Taking the next right step."

I don't know what this year will look like, but I'm going to show up. For God, for myself and my loved ones, for you.

Maybe you're feeling a restlessness in your bones too. After 2020 I think we're all left longing for something more, something better.

So what would showing up mean for you? Maybe it would look like taking a social media break, going for a walk, or making a therapy appointment. It could be as big as a job change or as simple as remembering to take a deep breath once in a while.

Whatever it is, I pray that God empowers you to do so fearlessly.

We're not 'showing up' in order to earn the chance to meet God. He's already here.
We're showing up to take the next step on an oftentimes intimidatingly foggy path, walking hand-in-hand with the One who built it.

And the best is yet to come.