Liane is a licensed therapist living in Denver, Colorado with her husband. She lost her first born daughter, Jemma, in September of 2023 one hour after her birth. Exactly a year later, she became pregnant with Jemma’s little brother. Lev was born in May of 2025 and only lived for 5 hours after birth. Two children with completely different scenarios and diagnoses, but two children who were wanted and desperately loved. . Liane Cooper is writing under a pseudonym. You can find more of her words here.

This week has been difficult
for no particular reason.

Well, that’s not true–
my children are dead.
That’s the reason.

But some weeks are harder than others.

Some days it feels like there’s an anvil on my chest,
crushing me
and rendering me motionless.

Or it’s like there’s a giant palm
pressing me downward
from the crown of my head,

with no ground beneath me
to be cradled by.

Just bottomless, unending loss
wrapping me in darkness.

In the midst of this darkness,
there is no future.
The past is evanescing.
And the present is thick.
Thick with grief.

Grief, a blanket.
My companion.
My truth.
My cocoon.

It isn’t her I’m angry with.

She is love.
She is connection
to what I can no longer touch.

She touches each of us,
her touch a golden thread
hemming us in–

separate,
and together.

How I wish
she had waited
to show up on my doorstep
with boxes and bags,
making my home her own.

But now that she is here,
I would never have her leave.

She is more than a friend.
She is me.
And I am her.

She feeds me.
She clothes me.
Her aesthetic is harsh,
but breathtaking.

I think I’m the only one
who can see
the depths of her blues
and the sparkle
of her uncut diamonds.

It isn’t her I’m angry with.
It’s the storm that put her here–
the storm that took them
and gave me her.

No, I’d never have her leave.

But what I wouldn’t give
to never have known her.

At least,
not yet.