A Letter to Hops.
Tomorrow marks the 14th anniversary of a profound loss in my life – the loss of our first child, whom we named Hops. (Hops is the nickname we chose to give the fetus when we discovered we were expecting.) It’s a day filled with a mix of sadness, reflection, and a yearning for what might have been. In an attempt to process my grief and honor Hops’ memory, I decided to write this letter. It’s a deeply personal message, but I felt compelled to share it publicly in the hope that it might resonate with others who have experienced similar losses and perhaps offer a glimmer of hope and healing.
To our little Hops,
It’s me again, Dad. It’s been a while. Time has a way of slipping through our fingers, but you’ve been on my mind a lot lately. Tomorrow marks the anniversary of our loss, a somber reminder of a path not taken, a dream left unfulfilled. It’s been 14 years since we discovered we’d never be able to meet you, never be able to hold you, or experience the love you would have brought us. The day we had to say goodbye before we ever had a chance to say hello.
It’s strange to miss someone who never fully existed, isn’t it? Yet, the human heart has a capacity for love that transcends the boundaries of time and space. I dreamed of making memories with you long before you were even a possibility. I envisioned our adventures, both big and small, the silly songs we’d sing, the stories we’d share. I dreamt of all the adventures we would have gone on and the memories we would have made, and the imaginary adventures we would have gone on each night as I read to you. They’re all imaginary now, trapped in a moment unknown by time. You and all the dreams I had are now nothing more than wishes lost to time. I didn’t know I could love at the capacity you inspired when we learned we were going to have you.
But life, as it often does, had other plans. And so, I never gave myself the chance to properly grieve you, to mourn the loss of those imagined memories. I had to be there for your Mom, to be her support during that difficult time. So I set my emotions aside and blocked them.
Now, after all this time, those emotions are resurfacing. I’m feeling every emotion now that I deserved to have then. A deep sadness, a yearning for what might have been, for the laughter and the tears, the triumphs and the struggles we would have shared.
I wonder what you would look like, sound like, what passions would have ignited your spirit. Would you have inherited my love for art and science, or your Mom’s passion for music and writing? What would your personality be like? You’d be 13 years old by now, a teenager navigating the complexities of growing up. My brain, with its insatiable curiosity, craves answers, seeks to understand. But with you, my dear Hops, there are so many unanswered questions. Impossible questions for answers I’ll never know.
And so, I must let go. I must release the dream of you, the what-ifs and the might-have-beens. I’ve held on for so long, clinging to those imagined memories. But it’s time to let go, to find peace in the unknown. I have to let you and the unfulfilled memories I had planned go so that I can create memories with your siblings, and be the present and supportive dad they deserve.
I feel I should let you know that your Mom and I, while we tried, we aren’t together anymore. We made it 14 years after we lost you, a bittersweet testament to the enduring power of love and loss. It’s ironic that the last time I wrote to you, I was letting you know we had broken up, assuring you it wasn’t your fault. It’s still not. I sometimes wonder, had you been born, would I have lost myself so much? Would I have failed as hard as I did with your mom and siblings? Would I have been a better husband, a better father? Would I have lost as much as I have? These are questions I may never have answers to, and perhaps that’s okay.
Writing to you now, after all this time, feels like finally acknowledging the depth of my grief. It feels like I’m giving myself permission to mourn not only the child we lost, but also the father I might have been, the husband I might have remained. It’s a painful process, but I know it’s necessary. I’m grateful for the love you inspired in me, Hops. Even though our time together was brief and imagined, that love was real, and it shaped me in ways I’m only beginning to understand. I’ll never forget you.
Perhaps, by letting go of these what-ifs, I can finally start to heal this part of me. Perhaps, by acknowledging the pain of your loss, I can find a way to honor your memory and move forward with a more open and accepting heart.
I sit here where I laid you to rest 14 years ago. I hope you like the spot I chose. This time of year the area is bathed in a golden glow when the sun sets. Its like nature itself is offering a gentle comforting hug and healing light. As I sit here next to you, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, I allow myself to feel the full range of emotions that arise. Let the tears flow, as they come. Let the memories surface, both the joyful and the painful. This is my time to connect with you, to honor your memory, and continue my journey of healing.
Goodbye, my sweet Hops. You will always hold a special place in my heart, a reminder of the dreams we shared and the lessons I’ve learned. Until we meet again, in whatever form that may take, know that you are loved, you are missed, and you will never be forgotten.
I love you to the moon and back, buddy.
Dad
Find support
If you’ve experienced the loss of a child, no matter the circumstances, please know that you’re not alone. Reach out to a friend, family member, or professional for support. Your grief is valid, and healing is possible. And if you don’t have anyone to turn to, for whatever reason, please feel free to reach out to me as well. Sometimes, sharing our stories with others who understand can make all the difference.
I’ve talked about the tole of miscarriage from a man’s perspective here.
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