Four Months Later: Swimming in Different Currents
An update from Maria & Sebastiaan
Dear friends who have been following Saoirse’s story,
It has been four months since we last updated this sacred space dedicated to our little selkie. Four months since we last held Saoirse’s beautiful, perfect body. We miss her with every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of every day.
Time moves strangely in grief. Some days feel endless, others disappear entirely. But we promised to share this journey authentically, and today we want to tell you where we are now—how we’re learning to swim in this ocean of love and loss, each in our own way.
The Ocean Has No Rules
One of the most profound discoveries of these months has been realizing that grief has no manual, no timeline, no “right way” to navigate it. Everyone swims in the same ocean of loss, but every swimming style is completely different.
Even the two of us—partners in this journey, parents of the same precious daughter—find ourselves moving through these waters in entirely different ways.
Maria: I think I’m free diving. I stay so much underwater because there, my daughter belongs. And when I come out, I don’t want to be here so often. So often, I want to be under water.
For me, talking gives me the possibility to stay connected to the outer world. To explain, to analyze. Talking is my way of clearing my thoughts with words. Sometimes I need to tell the story again and again—what others might call “looping the trauma”—but this is how I process, how I work through what happened.
Sebastiaan: For me, these last four months have definitely been a roller coaster. I’ve lost myself, found myself, lost myself again. Sometimes things trigger emotions that well up in my body—I don’t know where they need to go. I feel them building into stress, then I get grumpy, then comes an outburst of tears, and I think I’ve moved a step further in the process. But I’m still not sure how to tap into the process itself.
My swimming style has been more like floating. Staying in one spot, sometimes drowning for a bit, then getting up again trying to maintain a steady course. It doesn’t always work. Often I wake up and feel like the day is too much, and it’s just the beginning.
I need more silence. Words don’t come easily in talking—they come in silence, and they can come in writing, though I haven’t written much these last four months.
We’re learning that both ways work. There’s no good or wrong way to grieve. Sometimes our different styles help us mirror and learn from each other. Sometimes they create distance. The conversations can be difficult, but overall, they’re good. We’re both trying to get where we need to be, just in our own time and our own way.
New Life in Our Healing
In the midst of this deep grief, we’ve welcomed new life into our home—two beautiful souls who we believe Saoirse would have loved dearly.
First came Bilbo (his name was Rambo before, but he’s definitely a Bilbo—like Bilbo Baggins from Lord of the Rings, the traveler). He’s a giant German rabbit who lives in our garden, fluffy and so incredibly soft. He’s very gentle with children, and Saoirse’s cousin Imara loves him too. We can imagine Saoirse touching him with her little hands, those beautiful hands we kissed so many times.
Then we drove over 1,000 kilometers to Poland to rescue a dog from a shelter in the Polish mountains. She’s six months old—a little bit older than Saoirse would be now—and there’s something special about her connection to our daughter. Maybe we’re being fanciful, but it feels like these two souls have some connection we can’t fully explain. She was called Rosa but we found a name more suitable and called her Diuna.
Maria: This little dog has so much energy that I’m forced to take care of myself—I have to walk her in the forest. And every time I go into the forest, I feel Saoirse’s presence. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but I can feel her. I can feel how sometimes she holds my hand. Sometimes she comes in the way of a butterfly or birds. Sometimes it’s just the wind, but I can really feel her presence in everything. I’m grateful for that. We are in touch.
But it’s still very difficult. I wish so badly that she could really be here in her physical body with us. There’s not even one second when I don’t think or feel her.
Returning to the Hospital: A Sacred Reunion
Today we had a profound experience—we returned to the hospital where Saoirse was born and where she spent her precious days with us. We met with Dr. William, who welcomed Saoirse into this world, and the beautiful nurse who wrote Saoirse’s diary in both English and Dutch so we could both understand.
Maria: The moment we walked into that big corridor, the flashbacks came back—not traumatizing ones, but very intense, very deep. I remembered especially the moment when my parents arrived the night before Saoirse passed away. They drove 12 hours nonstop from Poland when we told them Saoirse most likely wouldn’t survive. They’re in their seventies, but they just got in the car and drove through the night.
The nurses allowed them to come into the intensive care unit even though it was restricted. Sebastian was pushing me in a wheelchair through that corridor—it was so empty, half-dark, around 11:30 at night. And there were my parents coming toward us. It was such a big scene, and today it all came back.
But seeing the medical staff again was like seeing family. The nurse who wrote Saoirse’s beautiful poem didn’t need to be there for us, but she chose to stay beyond her shift because she wanted to be there. They weren’t strangers—they were the people who spent the most time with our daughter when she was fighting for life.
Sebastiaan adds: It was intense, definitely. But also clarifying. They wanted to make sure we understood everything that happened during those days, that we had no more questions, that everything was clear. Dr. William told us it was just bad luck—that the pregnancy was fine and this happened at the very end, with no explanation.
We are eternally grateful to these white angels who gave us the possibility of a deep, nourished grief. They helped us wash Saoirse’s body, change her diaper, create the beautiful molds of her feet and hands that now rest on our bedroom altar. They treated us not like one of thousands, but individually, with such grace and love and compassion. We’ve never been treated like that in our lives, especially not by medical services.
Thanks to them, the start of our grief—the moment when we let Saoirse go—was so supported, so held. We were in a bubble of love during the most devastating time of our lives.
The Bigger Picture: A Different Understanding
While Dr. William explained what happened as “bad luck,” we find ourselves understanding Saoirse’s journey through a different lens—a more spiritual perspective that brings us comfort and meaning. This is a story for another time, but it’s important to know that we don’t see our daughter’s brief time with us as random or meaningless. There’s a deeper understanding that we’re still exploring, one that honors both the medical reality and the sacred mystery of why some souls visit us so briefly yet leave such profound impact.
Family Complexity and Overwhelm
Beyond the grief itself, we’re navigating the complexity of family dynamics and expectations. Sometimes other people’s dramas and issues feel like too much to bear on top of everything else. When you’re already drowning, additional waves—no matter how well-intentioned—can push you under.
We’re learning to protect our energy, to say no to what doesn’t serve our healing, and to focus on what brings us closer to Saoirse and to each other.
Our Promise to Keep Going
This journey has no map, no destination—just the constant ebb and flow of grief and love intertwined. We’re massive initiations, learning about ourselves, about each other, about the world. Our perspectives have completely changed.
Some mornings the sea of grief is stormy and turbulent. Some evenings it’s quiet and reflective. Through it all, we hold tight to each other and to the precious moments we shared with our daughter.
We carry Saoirse with us in every tear that falls, in every memory we cherish, in every moment of unexpected grace. The waves will never stop coming, but with time, we hope to become more skilled sailors.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, where sky meets sea, our little selkie swims freely, guiding us forward with the love she brought into our lives.
Her heart beats with ours forever.
Our Deepest Gratitude
We want to express our profound gratitude for all the support we have received during this impossible time. The love, the messages, the financial help that allowed us to honor Saoirse with dignity—every gesture of kindness has meant more than we can express.
Your support has held us when we couldn’t hold ourselves. You have helped us create lasting memories of our precious daughter and begin our healing journey. We are overwhelmed by your generosity and love.
Thank you for continuing to swim alongside us in this ocean. Thank you for seeing Saoirse, for speaking her name, for allowing her story to touch your hearts.
Thank you for helping us ride these waves.
With endless love and gratitude,
Maria & Sebastiaan
In loving memory of Saoirse Ronya Frida Castenmiller
Our little selkie, our forever daughter
“Between the sea and shore, in the space between worlds, there you’ll find me.”