Penny came into this world one year ago today. She weighed less than a can of Coke and was three and a half inches shy of a $5 footlong. She seemed impossible. But she wasn’t. I saw her with my own eyes, touched her with my hands. She was incredibly real, which makes it so much harder that she’s not here.

Jenny and I would have thrown her quite the birthday party. Party City wouldn’t know what hit them. Jenny would have decorated to the nines. I would have toiled for hours making her a cake. She wouldn’t have remembered one iota of it, but we would have. Our iCloud would have runneth over with first birthday photos. We would have looked back on them years later, remembering the day, wishing she was still that little girl.

I’d love the chance to even make one more memory with her. What I’d give to be back in the NICU. I’d do it all over again. I’d take the anxiety, the pain, the fear of the unknown. I’d relive it all for one more moment with my baby girl. My lucky Penny.

Grief is horrible. There’s no two ways about it. It comes in waves, sure, but it also comes in typhoons. At times it hits you like a hurricane, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. You slowly clean the debris and rebuild, just in time for the waters to rise again.

The memories are what keep you afloat. The hope is what keeps you rebuilding.

On January 1st, 2023 we got a new dose of hope. On the very first morning of the new year, we found out that Penny is getting a little brother.

After getting the green light from Jenny’s doctors, we started trying to conceive again in November of 2022. We knew it was a long shot to try naturally, but we had a few months before our insurance would cover another round of IVF, so we gave it the ol’ college try. And here we are, 14 weeks into a new pregnancy. I guess Sandra Bullock was right, hope does float.

This amazing news brings with it a whole slew of emotions. We’re beyond excited, but incredibly nervous. We hold out hope that everything will go well, but we can’t help but worry that there might be complications. And while we’re so incredibly happy to be welcoming a new child to our family, we’re also reminded of those who aren’t here by our side. 

After losing Penny, I didn’t think grief could feel any worse. Five weeks ago I was proven wrong when we lost my dad. Losing a parent is a completely different kind of pain, and while it brings me comfort to think he’s with Penny, it doesn’t make it any easier that they’re both not here. It breaks my heart that Penny and my dad won’t be here to greet this new little bean. His life would have been much richer with them both in it.

We’re headed to a nature museum in a bit. We feel most connected to Penny when we’re surrounded by nature. We see her in a flower, hear her in a bird song, we feel her in a breeze. We keep the ones we’ve lost alive in our hearts, in our memories, in our stories. 

Happy Birthday, Penny. We miss you every day, and love you more every minute.


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We've moved our NICU story and memory book to a dedicated space for our sweet girl:

Letterstopenny.com