Good Vibes

It was a warm Friday afternoon when I left school with my backpack on and crossed the street like I had done countless times before. I walked into a Tudor-style house on Tibbett Avenue in Riverdale, surrounded by trees and quiet streets.

Inside, I was greeted by two men who were smiling—friendly, welcoming, almost charming. But what shocked me was that they didn’t offer me a soda. They offered me alcohol.

One of them was the Headmaster of my high school, Horace Mann. His name was R. Inslee Clark. The other was a history teacher and swim coach named Stanley Kops. At the time, I didn’t know the relationship between them. It was 1975, and I was only 14 years old.

I felt flattered to be included in what seemed like “adult” company. I didn’t understand their intentions. I was too young, too trusting, and too naïve.

I accepted the drinks.

After several strong drinks, the three of us got into a car. They told me they were taking me into the city to get something to eat. But instead, they stopped at a bar and ordered more alcohol.

As I became more intoxicated and less aware, they hired two male prostitutes and brought them back to the house with us.

Back inside, the two men r***d me while the Headmaster and teacher watched. Eventually, they joined in.

At that time, Horace Mann was one of the most respected private schools in the country. It produced politicians, scientists, Pulitzer Prize-winning writers, and influential public figures. To the outside world, it was a place of excellence.

But behind closed doors, it was something else.

By then, I was already familiar with abuse.

When I was just 6 years old, my uncle had begun assaulting me. I still remember the way he threatened me—cold and cruel.

“If you tell,” he said, “I’ll cut you into a million pieces and throw you in a lake where no one will ever find you.”

Then he reminded me I was adopted.

“Your parents got you from a store,” he told me. “They’ll go back and replace you. No one will miss you.”

My parents had no idea what was happening. They were constantly fighting, and eventually they separated. My brother, who was also adopted, struggled too—anger, violence, trouble at school, constant visits to psychiatrists. My parents were overwhelmed, and there was little room left to see what was happening to me.

In 1972, I went on an overnight trip to Washington, D.C. I was 11 years old. That night, a teacher-chaperone put his hands down my pajamas after I had gone to bed.

I remember saying, “I don’t like this.”

He replied, “Just be a good boy and relax.”

Between that night and 1979, I was r***d hundreds of times by eight different faculty members at Horace Mann.

There was nowhere I could escape—not at school, not at home, and not even at church.

One of my music teachers brought me to the Church of St. Ignatius Loyola in Manhattan and pushed me to join the choir. I thought it might be a safe place, maybe even something good.

Instead, over the next two years, I was r***d and assaulted more than 30 times by a Jesuit priest and a group of monks.

They would force me to “confess my sins,” then beat and whip me under the disguise of “guidance” and “treatment.” I was often stripped and punished while other men watched—or took turns.

It happened almost every week.

Not long after I joined the choir, it became clear that a big part of why I was there had nothing to do with music. I wasn’t a child to them.

I was an object.

Everything happened behind locked doors. And people noticed. Church employees and officials would see the priest alone with me in a locked room after everyone else had left.

But instead of stepping in, they simply walked away.

I had no one.

Still, there were a few bright spots in my childhood—things that kept me alive inside.

I started playing guitar at the age of 3. By the time I was 6, I was attending after-school music classes taught by three retired teachers. They had a beautiful way of teaching, and in that brownstone, I learned piano and trumpet.

Even in the middle of chaos, I was surrounded by incredible music in New York City. Back then, I could go to Radio City Music Hall for five dollars and watch legendary jazz musicians perform.

That’s when I fell in love with jazz.

As a teenager, I began sitting in with musicians and learning from the best. After college, I started playing steady gigs. For 18 years, I played at a place called The Cajun twice a week. Music was there seven nights a week—no cover charge, no minimum.

Places like that were rare in New York City. They barely made a profit, but they stayed open because they loved music and wanted to spread joy. For me, it became something I desperately needed.

It was safe.

After high school, I attended the New England Conservatory of Music. I studied both classical and jazz, but jazz always pulled me back. I loved the energy, the looseness, the way it had structure but still allowed personal expression.

Today, I am 57 years old.

And the truth is—pain doesn’t end just because the abuse ends.

The damage stays. It affects your relationships, your ability to trust, your sense of self. There are still days when I think, “What was wrong with me that they all chose me?”

Maybe they could sense my vulnerability. Maybe they saw my hurt the way someone smells a perfume.

But I’m in a better place now. Things are calmer. Sometimes I even joke that I look forward to “normal” problems—car trouble, plumbing issues, everyday stress.

I still fight my demons. But through music, I feel free.

I’m playing for my life.

We all need something that heals us—something that brings beauty back into our world. For me, it will always be jazz. It takes me somewhere else. It gives me peace when nothing else can.

Many of the faculty members who abused me have died. The rest have been protected by old statute of limitations laws in New York State.

But the few who are still alive know who they are. And the world knows too. Their names have been published online. They live with their shame.

I still have a long way to go in my healing, but I’ve made real progress through opening up and joining support groups—online and in person.

Knowing you’re not alone changes everything.

And I would encourage anyone living with trauma or abuse to take that first step and reach out. It’s terrifying the first time. It’s scary the second and third time too.

But it gets easier. And the reward—feeling understood, supported, and less alone—is worth it.

Today, I feel in control of my life because I’m telling my story.

I’ve taken ownership.

And I hope that by sharing it, I can help someone else find their way out of the darkness too.

Postpartum anxiety hit me in a way I never saw coming.

I had heard people talk about postpartum depression, but no one really prepared me for the anxiety… or the rage… or the anger. I didn’t even know those were things so many moms experience after having a baby.

And honestly? Most days, trying to fight through all of it made me feel like something was wrong with me.

The truth is, anxiety has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I’ve always had OCD tendencies too. When I was younger, I even went to therapy because I couldn’t relax unless everything around me felt clean and “in order.”

After having my baby, it all came rushing back — but louder.

I reached a breaking point when I found myself sitting on the floor, hyperventilating and crying, feeling completely overwhelmed. I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I missed how easy our old routine used to feel.

I was exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t fix.

I felt burnt out and emotionally drained.

Even though I had been through the newborn stage before, I suddenly felt like I had no idea what I was doing.

I missed my oldest child so much, and I hated feeling like I was constantly pulled in two directions.

And on top of everything, I felt like I was failing everyone — my clients, my family, my friends… and especially myself.

One day, I finally told my husband, “I can’t do this anymore.”

The fear in his voice when he told me to hand the baby to him scared me even more — but it also opened my eyes. I realized I couldn’t keep holding everything in. I couldn’t keep trying to control everything. I needed help.

So I let go.

I opened up to my husband.

I opened up to my close friends.

I said out loud what I was feeling — and what I needed.

I started taking small moments for myself again, and slowly working on healing from the inside out.

I stopped trying to be perfect.

I stopped trying to carry everything alone.

I surrendered.

To Him.

And little by little, day by day, God began putting me back together.

There’s a song that has been on repeat for months now — “Graves Into Gardens” by Elevation Worship — and it has become a constant reminder for me that even when I feel broken, God can rebuild me.

Not every day is easy. I still feel anxiety rise up sometimes.

But when I feel it creeping in, I remind myself:

“I am the best mom for my kids. I release control. I take time for myself. I know my worth.”

Sometimes I say it in my head. Sometimes I say it out loud.

And yes — it might sound cheesy. But in those moments where I feel like I’m about to break, those words ground me. They remind me that God is still in control… and that I’m not alone in this.

So if you’re struggling too, please know this:

You are not alone.

And while I’m not a medical professional, I will always be here to listen if you need someone.

Believe me when I say… it was never only about someone loving me.

For the longest time, I thought that’s what I needed most.

I wanted someone to love me completely—
the good parts,
the messy parts,
the confident parts,
and even the parts I tried to hide.

For years, I believed love was something I could “achieve,” because it seemed like everyone around me had it. It looked so easy for other people—like love just found them.

The kind of love that takes over your whole world.
The kind of love you read about in romance novels.
The kind of love that feels impossible to live without.

And I spent a huge part of my life chasing that kind of love.

But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find it.

And the more I searched, the more I started to believe maybe that kind of love just wasn’t meant for me.

What hurt even more was realizing I had been searching in the most unloving places for the exact love I wanted.

For so long, I also believed love and happiness were the same thing.
That if you had love, you had happiness too.

But that isn’t true.

Some of the most amazing people I’ve ever known had the kind of love I dreamed of… and yet, they were still unhappy.

While I was craving love, I had friends who were craving peace.
While I was chasing romance, they were searching for happiness.

And one day, I finally asked myself the hardest question:

Am I happy with my life?
Am I happy with who I am?

And the truth?

I wasn’t.

I wasn’t happy with my life.
And I wasn’t happy with myself.

It’s wild what happens when you finally stop pretending and start being honest.

That’s exactly what happened with me and my husband.

I’ll never forget that moment—because I know he won’t either.

Months ago, we finally sat down and told each other the truth.

Not the easy truth.
The real truth.

We talked until we had nothing left to say. We admitted what we had been holding in our hearts for years.

And I realized something important:

For most of our marriage, I expected a “romance novel” kind of love. For some reason, I thought that was what love was supposed to look like.

But my husband couldn’t give me that kind of love—not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know how.

And even when he tried, it didn’t change anything.

It didn’t make me feel happier.
It didn’t fill the emptiness I carried.

Because deep down… the love I was asking for wasn’t the love I truly needed.

The truth is, I spent almost my entire life searching for an unrealistic version of love.

And yes—looking back, it feels foolish.

But I know I’m not the only one who’s done it.

Because here’s what I learned:

It was never just about being loved by someone else.

It was about learning how to love myself.

And once I finally started doing that… everything else began to fall into place.

For years, I begged for someone to love me.

But I didn’t need that.

What I needed was to love myself unconditionally.

I needed to find happiness within my own life.
I needed to grow into my own independence.
I needed to discover purpose outside of marriage, motherhood, and being “everything for everyone else.”

I needed to understand that love is beautiful… but self-love comes first.

So if you’re reading this and you feel like something is wrong because you haven’t found the love you’re looking for…

Please don’t waste years the way I did.

Start loving yourself now.

I did.

I found my purpose outside of marriage.
I started putting myself first.
I started building a life I actually enjoyed.
I found happiness outside of motherhood.

And the rest finally fell into place.

Because in the end…

It was never just about someone loving me.

It was always about me loving me first.

Love yourself first. Always. 💛

It was one of those blazing summer days in 2013 when our lives changed forever.

Patrick was sitting out on our porch when he suddenly shouted for me to come outside. We were living in our very first place together — a townhouse in Fairburn. It wasn’t the nicest area, but we were young, excited, and building a life. We had just adopted June about a month earlier, and she was still a tiny puppy — barely eight weeks old.

When I stepped outside, I saw a massive red dog wandering through our street like he didn’t belong to anyone… but also like he was searching for something.

I called out to him, and he turned around. And I swear, it felt like a scene straight out of a movie — he ran right up to me with the biggest smile, as if he’d been waiting for me.

He didn’t have a collar.

And the moment I got closer, my heart sank.

He was huge — probably around 100 pounds even back then — and his body told a story no animal should ever have to live through. He had rope burns around his neck, tail, and ankles. The scars never fully went away. His nose was marked with cigarette burns. His ears had holes in them, likely from being attacked by another dog. His wounds were bloody, infected, and covered in gnats.

I couldn’t leave him out there. I just couldn’t.

So I brought him home.

Even though he seemed gentle, we knew we had to be careful. Bringing a large dog you’ve never met into your home is always a risk. But at the time, there weren’t any rescues nearby, and I knew a shelter would probably euthanize him.

Patrick and I made a plan: we’d clean him up, get him his shots, have him fixed, and then find him a safe home.

But John had other plans.

It was obvious he’d never lived inside before. One day, I found him sitting on top of a nightstand like he had no idea what furniture rules were. Another time, he jumped through a window screen just to “let himself out.”

Still… little by little, he grew on us.

And June? She fell for him completely.

Before we knew it, we realized he already had a name.

John.

Because how could we not? We already had June — and together they were Johnny Cash and June Carter.

During the vet process, we got news that changed everything. John had heartworm. Without treatment, it would kill him. The treatment cost thousands, and without it, he’d probably never get adopted.

That’s when Dr. Billy Watts did something we will never forget.

He offered to treat John at no cost.

And after everything, John was cured.

That’s when we stopped pretending we were “finding him a home.”

He was already home.

John was officially ours.

In his younger years, he was… a lot. He chewed a remote. He destroyed a windowsill. He once peed on Pat’s side of the bed and his recliner. But somehow, none of it mattered — because John had this way of filling a house with love that made you forgive everything.

And when Riley stayed with us, John became something even more special.

He didn’t just love Riley — he protected him like Riley was his own child. Every night Riley was with us, John would quietly do his rounds, checking on him again and again while he slept.

They were best friends.

Riley once said John was the most faithful dog he had ever known — and he wasn’t wrong.

When we moved into our new home, John and June grew even closer. They were inseparable. They’d gross us out with their long licking sessions, but they were always together — like an old married couple.

John made June calmer.

June gave John comfort.

They completed each other.

Then Georgia was born.

And I’ll be honest… we were nervous.

You hear horror stories about family dogs reacting badly to babies. And with Georgia’s health issues, we didn’t know how they would handle it.

But on the very first night, John climbed onto the couch, leaned over, and gently stuck his nose into her bassinet.

It was love at first sniff.

Georgia was his girl.

And he was her good boy.

Every single day, he stayed near her. Every night, he slept beside her until Pat got home from work. In almost every photo I took, John was right there — always in the background, always watching.

He got fussed at for licking her too much, but he couldn’t help it. That was John — love poured out of him like he didn’t know how to hold it in.

One night, while Pat and I were watching TV, John suddenly jumped up and ran into Georgia’s room.

Not even a second later, her pulse ox alarm went off.

He knew.

He always knew.

And when we moved her bed to the floor, John would go outside to potty and then run right back to her room as fast as his big body could carry him.

He still adored the boys too — even as they became moody teenagers who mostly stayed in their rooms. John would sit outside their doors, whining, just hoping to be included.

John loved everyone.

He never met a stranger.

And every person who met him fell in love with him the same way we did.

He was huge, but gentle.

Protective, but sweet.

He seemed to sense exactly what your heart needed — and he gave it without hesitation.

He especially knew what I needed.

If I cried, he came running.

If I yelled, he got upset.

He slept at my feet every night.

He followed me into the bathroom like it was his job.

And if Pat was being too playful with me, John would get offended like, “Sir… relax.”

He was the definition of a good boy.

The perfect dog.

When we first brought him in, some people told us we were crazy.

“He might bite your kids.”
“You never know with pits.”

But that wasn’t John.

Not even close.

John was the nanny dog. He watched Georgia for me constantly. He let the boys lay on top of him. He loved hugs. He loved kisses. And as he got older, he became my sweet old man — slower, calmer, and even more affectionate.

When Dolly came into our lives, it was chaotic at first. June doesn’t always love new dogs in the house.

But one day, I watched John outside with Dolly — teaching her how to play, where to sniff, and how to be a dog.

And I got choked up.

Because in that moment, I wondered…

Was he preparing her?

Did he know his time was getting close?

And honestly… I think he did.

Last night, John went to a corner of the yard and wouldn’t move for hours.

Pat went out and helped him up, and even though he was clearly in pain, John still walked inside.

They say dogs find a safe place when it’s time.

John didn’t go to his bed.

He went straight into Georgia’s room… and laid down next to her bed.

That’s when I knew.

Something was wrong.

When Pat helped me get him into the car, John vomited. At the vet, the doctor told us John had a tumor on one of his internal organs. It had ruptured and filled his abdomen with blood.

Even if we attempted surgery, it would have been incredibly risky. And there was a strong chance they would find more tumors during the operation.

If that happened, they would have euthanized him on the table.

And even if the surgery somehow succeeded, the cancer was aggressive. He might have had only six months left.

I felt like I was losing my dad all over again.

I wasn’t ready.

It was too soon.

But I also think John knew I was getting stronger. Georgia had Dolly now. The boys were grown. His job was done.

He protected us for as long as he could.

And now it was my turn to be strong for him.

When they brought him back to me, he wasn’t awake for long. He could barely lift his head, but he did just enough to rest it on my arm.

I held him.

I told him it was okay.

That he was the best boy.

That we would be okay.

I asked him if he was tired.

And he rolled onto his side and started to snore.

That’s when I knew it was time.

I know this story is long. And I know some people will say, “It’s just a dog.”

But John wasn’t just a dog.

He was family.

For nine years, that sweet boy was there for every Christmas. He licked every tear. He watched our babies. He loved every guest who entered our home.

For a while, he even got to be Dr. Watts’ greeter at the vet office when he was boarded.

John was the kind of dog that led the way — the older dog in Homeward Bound, teaching the others how to live, how to love, and how to be good.

He chose us.

And we did everything we could to make sure he lived an amazing life.

He was more than an animal.

He was more than a dog.

And he is already missed beyond words.

Telling Georgia this morning that her guardian won’t be here anymore absolutely shattered me.

So tonight… hug your fur babies.

Give them the extra treat.

Hold them a little longer.

And when you decide to bring a new pet into your home — rescue and adopt.

And never judge a book by its cover.

Because John proved every single day that love can come from the most unexpected places.

The night I was taken away from my mother, you’d probably expect my biggest fear to be losing my home.

But honestly?

What I was most afraid of losing was the one steady thing I had in my life—school.
T.A. Sims Elementary wasn’t just a building to me. It was my safe place. My routine. My comfort. My escape.

That night, I was lucky enough to stay with my brother. And I made one thing very clear: I was not going to be separated from him. No matter what.

Even as a kid, I didn’t know exactly what my future would look like. I didn’t know what I wanted to “be” when I grew up.

But I did know this:

I was going to become something… and I was going to make sure my brother and I made it out together.

A Report That Captured My Reality

The night my brother and I entered foster care, a report from the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services described me like this:

“Michael seems to be very well spoken and intelligent. He was concerned about being able to return to his school. He inquired if he would still get to be in talented and gifted classes at his new school.”

Reading that today still hits me.

Because I remember exactly how worried I was—not about where I’d sleep, not about what would happen next—but about losing the one constant I trusted.

My life had always been unstable. Some days we didn’t have enough food. Some days we didn’t know where we’d end up. And most days, I was worried about my brother, James… and about staying safe.

But school?
School was consistent.

And even at that young age, I knew it mattered. I knew it was my way out.

School Was My Safe Haven

T.A. Sims Elementary was more than a school.

It was where I could count on getting two meals a day.
It was where I felt protected.
It was where I could breathe.

I took pride in being a GT student. I worked hard for good grades. I loved earning awards. I loved being seen as “the smart kid.”

But at home, none of those certificates made it onto the fridge.

I tried my best to be great at everything, hoping that if I succeeded enough, maybe life would eventually change.

Still… there were moments when my real life at home couldn’t stay hidden.

The Harry Potter Costume I’ll Never Forget

One day at school, we had a dress-up day based on book characters.

I only had one choice: Harry Potter.

The night before, I ran around the house trying to put something together, because I wanted to win. I wanted to be recognized. I wanted to feel proud.

So I showed up wearing:

A pair of glasses I found

A black trash bag with a hole cut in it as a cape

A stick as my wand

And that morning, a teacher even used a brown marker to draw the famous lightning bolt scar on my forehead.

At first, I was excited.

But once I got around other kids, that excitement turned into anxiety.

People asked why I was wearing a trash bag.
They didn’t know who I was supposed to be.

And even though I ended up in the winners’ photo… I felt two things at once:

Proud… and embarrassed.

That day, I realized something that stuck with me:

No matter how hard I tried to hide my home life, people were starting to notice.

And it hurt, because school was the one place that felt safe—and suddenly, even that felt invaded.

Life at Home: Growing Up Too Fast

At home, I wasn’t just a kid.

I was a caretaker.

I walked my brother to school every day—even if it made me late.
I tried to find ways to get him food for the weekend.
Sometimes I sold small things at school just so he could eat.

And any money I earned?
I had to hide it from my mom, because it wasn’t safe.

Even basic things weren’t safe.

Our weekend meals were usually chicken sandwiches from Church’s Chicken.
And anything valuable in the house could disappear at any time.

One Christmas, I received a guitar from a giveaway. I was so excited. For the first week, I played it late into the night. I didn’t even know what I was doing—but I was learning.

Then one day I came home, and it was gone.

My mom said it was stolen.

But someone else in the house told me the truth:

She had sold it.

Adoption Changed Everything

When my brother and I were adopted, it was the best thing that ever happened to us.

It gave us stability. It gave us safety. It gave us a future.

And even though life finally became calmer, my drive never left me.

I still wanted to achieve. I still wanted to grow. I still wanted to make something of myself.

I remember the day my new parents sat me down and told me something I didn’t even realize I needed to hear:

“You don’t have to be James’ parent anymore. You get to be a kid.”

I was 13 years old.

And I felt relief like I’d never known.

A Childhood I Finally Got to Live

After that, I started doing everything I had always wanted to do.

I joined sports.
I joined UIL.
I joined band.
I stayed focused on school.

My parents did their best to give me an entire childhood in the five years I had left before college.

James and I traveled.
We experienced the world.

I visited six different countries.
I went to summer camps.
I tried sports and activities I never could’ve imagined as a younger kid.

The Teachers and Parents Who Shaped Me

Today, I credit my success to two things:

The experiences I lived through

The love and dedication of my parents

They pushed me to reach beyond anything I ever thought was possible.

I was also deeply influenced by my teachers at T.A. Sims, and later at Poetry Community Christian School. They helped shape my passion for education.

They helped me become a teacher.

And eventually… an assistant principal.

But my greatest teachers of all were my parents.

They taught me that effort matters.
They taught me that honesty matters.
And they taught me that you don’t rise because life is easy—you rise because you refuse to quit.

One time, I wrote an essay at the last minute. I got it back with a “100” at the top.

My mom found it on my desk.

The next day, she took it back to the teacher and asked them to lower my grade—because she knew I could do better and expected more from me.

That lesson stayed with me forever.

Giving Back to the Students Who Need It Most

Now, I’ve spent my entire career working in Title 1 schools.

I do it because I know what it feels like to be that kid.

I’ve had countless students whose stories remind me of my own. And sometimes, the most powerful moments aren’t big speeches or assemblies.

Sometimes it’s a small conversation in the hallway.

A lunch table check-in.

A moment where a student realizes:

“Someone sees me. Someone cares.”

And I hope that as time goes on, my influence can keep growing—so I can keep helping students believe in the future that’s waiting for them.

My husband Brayden and I had just started a brand-new chapter.

We moved from Washington to Idaho and settled into an apartment in downtown Boise. Everything felt exciting — new streets, new coffee shops, new faces, and the thrill of building a life together in a city we were still learning.

We’d been married for three years, and while we both knew we wanted kids someday, we were perfectly happy with just the two of us for the time being. We figured we’d focus on life, careers, and adventures… and maybe start a family closer to 30.

But life had a very different timeline.

One cold day in November 2021, we got the kind of news that instantly changes everything: Brayden’s job was being eliminated.

Then the very next day, we got another surprise — one that hit even harder.

I was pregnant.

For a moment, we were completely stunned. The timing felt impossible. Losing a job and finding out we were expecting at the same time wasn’t exactly the plan.

But almost immediately, our hearts shifted.

We didn’t sit in fear for long. We went into “parent mode” overnight. Brayden found a new job quickly, we started budgeting, signed up for birthing classes, and began looking for a home. We reached out to friends and family for support, and slowly, the anxiety turned into something else…

Excitement.

Love.

And a deep sense of purpose.

We were having a baby girl.

And we couldn’t wait to meet her.

💛 A Pregnancy Full of Hope

Pregnancy moved fast — and surprisingly, it was easy. We bought our first home, prepared a nursery, had two baby showers, and chose her name: Miclaine.

By the end, everything was ready.

The car seat was installed.

The hospital bags were packed.

We were counting down the days.

🕊️ The Night Everything Changed

At 39 weeks, on a warm July night, I noticed something that didn’t feel right.

I hadn’t felt Miclaine move much since dinner.

I tried everything — juice, jumping jacks, running around the house — anything to get her to respond.

Nothing.

I called the hospital and they gently reassured me that it was probably fine… but encouraged me to come in, just in case.

Brayden stayed calm. He even prayed out loud, asking that our feisty girl was simply giving us a hard time before making her grand entrance.

But deep down, I knew.

Something was wrong.

He dropped me off at the hospital doors while he parked, and I ran inside to labor and delivery.

Within minutes, I was hooked up to monitors.

And then… silence.

Dopplers turned into ultrasounds.

Nurses turned into doctors.

And eventually, the words that no parent should ever hear were spoken:

“We’re so sorry. Your daughter no longer has a heartbeat.”

💔 A Pain That Words Can’t Hold

I remember screaming. I remember begging it not to be real.

I remember asking why.

And we never got an answer.

I turned to Brayden and asked him, “What are we going to do? How can we live without her?”

The grief was instant and unbearable.

Brayden was shattered too, but he somehow found the strength to carry both of us through the nightmare. He called our family and told them to drive from Washington to Boise immediately. He found a cemetery, made arrangements, handled details no parent should ever have to think about — all while making sure I stayed alive through the trauma.

He couldn’t protect his little girl anymore.

So he protected me.

🤍 Holding Her for the First and Last Time

The most meaningful moment of my life came after my C-section.

Brayden saw Miclaine first, and I remember hearing him gasp.

Then they placed her in my arms.

She was warm. Beautiful. Perfect.

I pressed her cheek to mine, and even now — almost three years later — I swear I can still feel it.

She had long dark hair, thick eyelashes, full cheeks, tiny fat fingers, and the sweetest face.

A perfect blend of me and her dad.

Miclaine Marie Miller.

Forever our baby girl.

🌙 Grief… and a Mission Born from Love

Nothing prepares you for leaving the hospital without your child.

Nothing prepares you for planning a funeral, burying your baby, boxing up a nursery, and trying to keep breathing afterward.

In the middle of that darkness, I started a foundation called Miclaine’s Mission.

It creates free gift boxes for grieving parents — filled with personalized items and grief resources, offering comfort in a moment where comfort feels impossible.

Stillbirth pain doesn’t disappear.

But being reminded that your child mattered can mean everything.

🌧️ Trying Again… and Losing Again

After receiving the “all clear” from my doctor, Brayden and I tried for another baby immediately.

We weren’t the same couple anymore.

We weren’t content with “just us.”

We were desperate to be parents.

Conceiving came easily — but staying pregnant did not.

Over the next year and a half, we experienced loss after loss:

a chemical pregnancy

a missed miscarriage at 9 weeks

an ectopic pregnancy

IVF… and another missed miscarriage at 9 weeks

Five consecutive losses.

We were exhausted.

Defeated.

And completely heartbroken.

🌿 When Adoption Became the Answer

Brayden and I had talked about adoption early in our marriage. We always knew it would be part of our family story — we just didn’t know when.

After everything we went through, we felt pulled toward it.

We attended seminars, talked to adoptive families, researched agencies, prayed, and eventually started the process through a local agency called A New Beginning in February 2024.

By April, we were officially in the waiting pool.

And we were told to guard our hearts — because the average wait is around two years.

🌈 Two Weeks Later… Everything Changed

In mid-May 2024, we said yes to our first synopsis.

It was a young mom in nursing school who wanted a better life for her baby boy.

We tried not to get too excited.

Then, two days later — the day after Mother’s Day — I got a call that I will never forget:

“The birth mom chose you.”

I was stunned.

We had been waiting only TWO weeks.

She didn’t want interviews.

She didn’t want to meet other couples.

She knew.

And she was being induced in four days.

🍼 A Nursery in a Matter of Days… and One More Miracle

Brayden rushed home from work.

We cried, laughed, hugged, and prayed.

We started preparing our home at lightning speed.

But there was one more detail…

We had just found out we were pregnant.

On Mother’s Day — the day after we said yes to the synopsis — we learned we were expecting another baby.

A baby girl.

Suddenly, our childless home was about to become a home with TWO babies born less than six months apart.

It didn’t feel real.

👶 Meeting Callum Cooper

We met our son’s birth mom a few days before his birth.

She was soft-spoken, kind, and calm.

She told us she originally planned to raise him herself, and I’ll be honest — we were terrified she might change her mind.

But she didn’t.

She was confident, peaceful, and sure.

She had named the baby Cooper.

We had always loved the name Callum, so we chose to honor her by making Cooper his middle name.

Callum Cooper.

🏥 A Birth Full of Healing

Callum was born at the same hospital where Miclaine was delivered.

It was painful. Emotional. Triggering.

But it was also full of signs that we weren’t alone.

The night before he was born, a photographer approached us in the waiting room. She had overheard our story and asked questions.

Then she paused and said:

“Wait… are you Miclaine’s mom?”

I don’t think anyone has ever asked me a sweeter question.

She attended our church. She knew about Miclaine’s Mission. She had been praying for us for months.

She later gave us family photos for free.

One of many moments where we felt Miclaine and God’s presence so clearly.

💛 The First Cry We’d Been Waiting For

When Callum’s birth mom was ready to push, I was allowed in the room.

I stood beside her through the entire process.

And when I heard his first cry…

My heart cracked open in a way I didn’t know was possible.

It was the sound I had prayed for with Miclaine — the sound I never got.

But I got it now.

I cut his umbilical cord.

Brayden held him.

And when Brayden first held him in our hospital room, a huge rainbow appeared outside the window.

A sign.

A reminder.

Miclaine was still with us.

🏡 Coming Home as a Family

When it was time to leave the hospital, I expected heartbreak for Callum’s birth mom.

I had heard adoption described as both a wedding and a funeral.

But that wasn’t our story.

There was peace.

There were happy tears.

The adoption was open, and she knew this wasn’t goodbye forever.

She knew how deeply we already loved him.

And we walked out of the hospital with our son.

🌸 Two Babies. Two Miracles.

Callum was an easy baby — calm, content, smiley.

Even now, almost one year later, he is still our peaceful little boy.

And in October, he officially became ours legally.

In the courtroom, he smiled, clapped, and banged on the table like he was celebrating right along with us.

Just weeks later, he became the best and tiniest big brother.

His little sister, Remy, was born.

She is the opposite of Callum — spirited, stubborn, and full of fire.

The first month was chaos.

But now, we’ve found our rhythm.

And we don’t go a day without feeling overwhelmed with gratitude.

Lately, Callum has started holding Remy’s hand. He crawls over to her when she cries and tries to put her pacifier in her mouth.

Watching them together feels like witnessing something sacred.

🌟 A Family We Never Expected… But Were Meant to Have

Our path to parenthood has been full of heartbreak.

This is not how we imagined building our family.

We wish Miclaine was here.

Always.

But we also believe with our whole hearts that Callum was meant to be ours — and that Miclaine led us to him.

We will teach Callum and Remy about their big sister in heaven.

We will honor Miclaine’s life.

We will be honest with Callum about his adoption and show him how loved he is — by us and by his biological family.

And we will keep sharing our story so other families walking through loss and adoption feel less alone.

Because love doesn’t end.

It transforms.