Five Years Later: A Letter to Jade

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Greyton, 30 May 2026

Dear Jade,

Five years ago everything was still different. David and I were waiting for your arrival, full of joy and anticipation. I still find it emotional when women are close to giving birth, it simply touches my own pain, reminding me that I was there too, in a time when you were still alive and my life had not yet been completely turned upside down. A time when the future still seemed as though it would unfold the way we imagined and planned.

Now I sit here in my beautiful little studio, or nook, overlooking the mountains, with a family that now consists not only of you as a spirit child, but also of a beautiful earthly Aya, and two furry babies, Chai and Suki.

The past five years have been very, very, very hard. You are still so much a part of me; quite literally, your cells are still swimming around in my body.

I think that is one of the things I may forgive you for.

A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I had to forgive you. This came somewhat unexpectedly, because I have never really felt anger or resentment towards you. I think because you were a baby, and because a stillbirth was your path. How could I possibly be angry about that…

But your path became mine as well.

You showed me that I thought I knew darkness, but I truly had no idea. You also showed me—or perhaps are still showing me, especially right now—that I thought I knew what love was, but here too, I had no idea. Not really.

I have cursed the depths and the darkness many times over the past years. I was so ready for spring, for movement, for myself to bloom again after that deep and endless winter. But winter was not yet finished with me… and even now she is not entirely.

The remarkable thing about winter is that it appears as though nothing is happening, as though I am standing still (and for someone who loves movement, that is a great challenge). Yet underground there is abundant life. The warm earth and all the life within it, beneath the ground, rooting, grounding. Winter is actually a pure preparation for the most fertile soil.

I am still learning to trust the cyclical nature of life.

And I think that is another thing I may forgive you for: learning to trust life again after your death has been a long road. How can I trust life again—or perhaps, how can I finally surrender myself completely to life? Truly and deeply, knowing that death is inseparably connected to life. Without death there is no life, and without life there is no death.

In our society we clearly have a preference, but what if both are equally true? What if our task here on earth is to prepare ourselves for a peaceful death? What if fear of death is what prevents us from truly living? Living fully and deeply, at least.

Perhaps that is why I was never angry with you… You were so peaceful when you were born. You had the most peaceful, beautiful and loving smile on your face. As if your task had been completed—you were ready to continue on to your next adventure.

For me, however, the fear of death was deeply awakened. I still remember the first time David left the house on his own afterwards. I was terrified that he would die. I wish I could say that after five years that fear has disappeared completely, but it has not. It is much less than it was, and it remains a beautiful practice to trust life a little more each time. I hope I still have many years ahead of me to continue learning that art.

Finally, there is something about men and you—a larger theme that was set in motion through your birth. I sometimes say that you cracked my pelvis completely open.

Nothing remained hidden… not even the part of me that distrusts men. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that a deep pain became visible. A pain that has moved through my body like a parasite for years. Invisible, and at times impossible to feel.

The pain of violated boundaries. The parasite that symbolizes unhealthy masculinity (in both men and women), constantly crossing my sensitivity and my boundaries. And me, apparently unable to stop it.

The unhealthy masculine that does not take my vision and perception of the world seriously—if it is able to see or hear it at all.

And you were different, Jade. You were gentle, sensitive and steady. An example of the kind of masculinity we so desperately need in this world. And the kind of masculinity I need within my own system to create balance.

You may not be here physically, but you have set a deep and long healing journey into motion within me around this theme. In truth, you simply shone a great light onto all of my darkness.

For that, I may forgive you.

Because I have not always enjoyed it—the confrontations with myself, the struggles with my health over these years, the heaviness. Sometimes I simply want light.

And yet, as I write this, I know this is not entirely true. I can feel how all those roots, all that underground work, have made me so fertile. Not necessarily in the literal sense, but certainly in the figurative one.

This is the place I needed to come to. The place where I could finally come home—deep within my body and soul—before safely bringing myself into the world. Step by step, and only when my body, mind and soul are ready.

No pressure.

I do not need to push or perform.
The flower will bloom in its own time.

I can already see small glimpses of her now and then, and oh, how beautiful she is.

I love you, Jade.

And as much as every part of me wishes that I could hold you in my arms from time to time, I know that our journey was meant to be different.

I forgive you.

And I look forward to seeing and feeling where our journey will lead us next.

With all my love,
Mom

P.S. Before I finish, I also want to say how grateful I am that you cleared the way for Aya. The pact of your souls. I know that your death made it possible for Aya to be born safely into this world. What a gift she is. Thank you.