Today is January 8th, 2026. Eight months exactly since our daughter was born. Eight months since we held her, loved her, and said goodbye. It’s a special day. A magic day. Bittersweet. Heavy and cold.
We find ourselves thinking about what eight months means. Sitting. Bidding. Crawling. Maybe even standing up, starting to walk—Sebastiaan was a fast walker, standing early. Discovering everything. Trying to eat everything. Nothing would be safe. Nothing. God, we miss that so much. We miss what we were never given the chance to experience.
We miss the exhaustion. The heavy boobs full of milk from sleepless nights. We miss being over-worried about every little thing—every cold, every flu. Does she eat enough? Does she poop enough? Does she burp enough? All the rashes. Maria creating special creams for her delicate skin. Making perfect baths—Sebastiaan would want to share his hot baths with her, but Maria would definitely make sure the temperature wasn’t his too-hot kind, but perfect for Saoirse. Just right. Then putting her on Sebastiaan’s chest afterward.
We would have taken care of every detail. Every physical need. We would have loved it.
But for some reason—no, not for some reason. Because it IS painful. It IS raw. And it’s beautiful at the same time. But it’s distant now. Not so fresh anymore, though it still is fresh. This is the first time we’re daring to speak about the vision of having Saoirse here, truly being her parents in all the exhausting, wonderful, mundane ways.
There’s something about crossing into 2026 that’s shifted things. It was just eight days ago that the year changed, but suddenly she’s “last year” now. That agreement we all make—that the year is changing—it’s nothing special really. But still, it feels different. Something is moving. Time got magically stretched even though it was just days ago. We want to keep her with us, moving forward into this new year. And yet… she stayed there. Her memories are there, in 2025. We are here, in 2026.
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard. Why this feels different than the other monthly milestones.
Eight months. That’s almost a whole pregnancy. Nine months ago, Saoirse was still in Maria’s belly. That’s crazy.
We’re planning to go to Poland soon to visit Maria’s grandmother, who is at the edge of life. She’s strong—she’s always been strong—but weaker every day. The flame is getting smaller. There’s confusion now, a loss of time and place. It’s a different kind of death approaching. A slow one.
And we realize: death has become our friend. Somehow. Maybe because death came and sat on our chest for so long that we needed to make friends with it. We had to. It’s not scary anymore. Definitely not scary. There’s something magical about it, actually.
Maria really wants to talk with her grandmother about how she’s looking at death, to have this opportunity while there’s still time. Because Saoirse is on the other side now. And for Maria, there’s this feeling that part of her is there too. On the other side. With Saoirse. With what’s coming.
Eight months. Almost a whole pregnancy. A whole lifetime. No time at all.
We carry her forward, even as we move into a year where she never drew breath. Even as we befriend the death that took her and approaches others we love. Even as we miss every single thing about the life we never got to live with her.
Our beautiful girl. Our Saoirse.
