The Depth of Us

Dearest Raya,

This week, I received the commissioned piece I asked Reg to create.

I asked her to paint me while I was pregnant with you.

She had been messaging me throughout my pregnancy—sending encouragement, reminding me that I could do it, that we could do it.

This was how she described the painting:

“I see you diving in water — as most see it as deep and dark, but what it actually is, is the depth of different emotions and colors in the experience — a mix of joy, excitement, pain, and hope. And you dove into it bare and ready to soak in all of it. Moving forward, each time the world gets noisy, you dive back into that warmth and that victorious part of your life — the one that changed you forever. The ocean floor represents the world of Hiraya — golden, full of color and love.”

What a beautiful way to represent our journey together, my love.

I miss you every day.I miss being pregnant with you.

The most painful part of being sliced open on that operating table is knowing I didn’t get to take you home. I didn’t get to care for you. I didn’t get to bring you home alive.

That truth hurts so deeply.

While other mothers get to nurture their babies, I carry this emptiness instead. It hurts to see them—not because I resent them, but because I long for what I lost.

I only got to see you in the NICU while I was lying in my hospital bed.

Seeing you in that incubator broke me. I wish Mommy could have taken all your pain away.

I wish my love for you had been enough to keep you alive.

Earlier today, I showed our photo to a friend—and something inside me shattered. I don’t think I’m ready to look at our picture together yet. It still hurts too much not to have you by my side.

My love for you is infinite, Raya, and Mommy misses you every waking hour.

There are nights when I cry myself to sleep because I miss you so much. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never fully recover from this pain.

At first, I felt hopeful when my doctor and I talked about treatments—about trying again. But now, my love, I don’t think I can get pregnant again.

I’m scared.

What if something goes wrong?

What if my amniotic sac breaks again?

What if the baby doesn’t make it?

There are so many what ifs, Raya.

And I don’t think I can survive losing another child.

Even with treatment, there are no guarantees.

Having reproductive immune failure is exhausting.

It’s heavy. It’s frightening.

It asks so much of a mother who is already broken.

My love, if you can hear me—please know that everything I feel comes from loving you so deeply.

You changed me forever.

You showed me the depth of love, pain, courage, and hope all at once.

I carry you in every part of me.

In every fear.

In every prayer.

In every breath.

I love you always and forever,

Mommy 🤍