An Open Letter to Myself and Mamas of Angels and Rainbows

Dear Self…

…And Every Mama Who Has Loved and Lost, and Loved Again,

There’s a quiet kind of strength that blooms in women like us. It doesn’t make headlines. It doesn’t roar. It whispers. It shows up in the middle of the night when we’re holding a memory instead of a baby, when we’re tracing due dates on calendars that never came to be, when we’re smiling for the world but crumbling inside.

We are the mamas of angels. The ones who learned that love doesn’t end when life does.

And for those of us who’ve been given another chance, to carry again, to hope again, to feel tiny kicks that come like fragile promises, we are also the mamas of rainbows. The ones who know that joy and grief can live side by side, holding hands inside one body.

I’m writing this letter for you, and for me.

Because sometimes, even after healing, the ache still lingers. Sometimes it’s a scent, a song, a hospital hallway memory that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Sometimes it’s the simple guilt of feeling happiness after heartbreak. The fear of hoping again. The question of whether it’s okay to move forward without forgetting.

Let me say this gently: it is okay.

It’s okay to still miss the baby you never got to hold, while loving the one who now fills your arms. It’s okay to light a candle for one child while kissing another goodnight. It’s okay to feel the edges of grief soften but never disappear. That’s what love does. It leaves fingerprints on your soul that even time cannot erase.

To the mama who’s still waiting for her rainbow: you are not broken. You are not behind. You are in the sacred in-between, where faith and longing meet. You have already mothered with your heart. You have already shown the world what unconditional love looks like.

To the mama holding her rainbow baby: it’s okay to still feel scared. To double-check every heartbeat, every breath, every milestone. It’s okay that joy feels like something you have to protect. You’ve been through the storm. You know how fragile peace can feel. But let this be your reminder that rainbows were never meant to erase the rain. They were meant to remind us that beauty can grow out of what once broke us.

And to myself, the woman who has walked through loss and found light again: don’t forget who you’ve become along the way. You learned to smile while your heart was shattered. You learned to pray when you didn’t have the words. You learned that motherhood doesn’t start with birth. It starts with love.

There’s a reason they call them angel babies and rainbow babies. One reminds us that love can reach heaven. The other reminds us that hope can return to earth. Both live in us, in every heartbeat, in every whispered name, in every small act of courage that gets us through another day.

So here’s to us, the mamas who have cried in ultrasound rooms and danced in nurseries. The ones who have learned that motherhood isn’t defined by how long you held your child, but how deeply you loved them. The ones who live between heaven and earth, carrying both grief and gratitude in the same breath.

May we continue to speak their names. May we honor their short but sacred lives by living ours fully. May we love without fear, hope without shame, and heal without rushing.

And may we remember that even on the days when the clouds roll in and the ache feels fresh again, we are not alone.

We never were.

With love, courage, and quiet strength,

Signed,
Jalyn