Atlas: A Year Without You, But Never Without Your Love.1843
One year ago, Atlas was still here with us.
That sentence feels both comforting and cruel. Comforting, because it brings back the memory of a time when his laughter filled these walls, when his small footsteps echoed down the hallway, when his smile could brighten even the darkest of days. Cruel, because it reminds us that those moments now live only in memory, and not in the present where we long to hold him again.
It feels impossible to believe that nearly eight months have passed since he left. Time has marched on, but in our hearts, it feels as though the world stopped the day we said goodbye. The house is quieter now. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses down on you, that makes you ache for noise, for chaos, for the sound of Atlas calling out or running to us with his endless energy.
The days are heavier without him. Morning light doesn’t feel the same. Nights stretch longer, lonelier. Our arms, once so full with the weight of him, now ache with a longing no hug can ease. It is an emptiness that no words can truly describe, though we try, again and again, to capture it—if only to make sense of the unbearable.
Atlas filled our lives with laughter, energy, and love that seemed endless. His presence was like a fire—warm, radiant, and impossible to ignore. He had a way of entering a room and shifting its atmosphere instantly. His stubborn spirit could challenge us, yes, but it also taught us. He reminded us of resilience, of strength, of holding on when life felt overwhelming. And his joy—it carried into every space, into every heart.
Losing him has left a wound that feels bottomless. Some days, the grief is so sharp it feels like we’re breaking all over again. It comes suddenly, like a wave, crashing into us when we least expect it. A toy tucked away in a drawer, a shirt still faintly carrying his scent, a photo that catches us off guard. Other days, the grief is softer, more like a weight that simply never lifts. We carry it with us into every conversation, every plan, every quiet moment.
There are days we wonder how to keep going. How to wake up, to breathe, to carry on with this life when such a vital part of it is missing. And then there are days when we find strength—not in the absence of grief, but in the presence of his memory.
We think of his smile, that mischievous grin that could melt even the toughest of moods. We remember his stubbornness, how he never backed down, how he insisted on doing things his way. We recall his love for adventure, for laughter, for simply being alive. Those memories don’t erase the pain, but they carry us. They remind us that Atlas’s story is not just about what was lost—it’s also about what remains.
Atlas may be gone, but his love still lives inside us. It’s in the way we speak his name, in the way we tell his story, in the way we cling to each other as a family. It’s in the little habits we keep alive—lighting a candle at dinner, setting out his favorite toy on his birthday, whispering goodnight to the stars as if he might hear us.
His love is there in our resilience, too. In the way we find the strength to keep moving forward, even when the weight feels unbearable. In the way we allow ourselves to laugh again, to smile, to live—not because we’ve forgotten, but because Atlas would want us to.
There’s a line we hold onto: “Grief is just love with no place to go.” That’s what we feel every day. Our love for Atlas didn’t vanish when he did. It remains, vast and powerful, and sometimes it feels like too much for our human hearts to hold. But we carry it anyway, because to carry his love is to carry him.
We’ve learned that grief and love walk hand in hand. That one does not exist without the other. And so, as much as the grief hurts, we know it is also proof of how deeply we loved—and how deeply we were loved in return.
His story, we’ve realized, is not about an ending. It’s not about loss being the final word. Atlas’s story is about the way love outlasts even the deepest loss. It’s about legacy—not the kind written in books or carved into stone, but the kind etched into hearts. The kind that lives on in the way we treat others, in the compassion we extend, in the joy we allow ourselves to embrace even through sorrow.
When we see the sun break through heavy clouds, we think of him. When we hear children laughing, we remember his voice. When we feel a sudden rush of love for no reason at all, we know it is him, reminding us that he is not gone, not really. His body may have left, but his spirit—his light—remains.
One year ago, Atlas was still here with us. Today, he is not. But the truth we hold onto is this: Atlas will always be here, in the way he changed us, in the way he continues to inspire us, in the way his love fills every empty corner of our lives.
We are learning to live in this new reality—a reality where grief is constant but so is love. Where tears fall often but so do moments of laughter when we remember something he said or did. Where loss is real, but so is the unbreakable bond between us and him.
And so, while we ache for him with every heartbeat, we also carry him forward. Into our conversations. Into our celebrations. Into every tomorrow we are blessed with.
Atlas’s story doesn’t end here. It continues—in us, in those who knew him, in those who hear his story and are reminded of the power of love.
Because love, when it is this deep, this true, never dies.
"Please Keep Praying for My Baby Boy".1101
A Battle for Every Breath: My Son’s Journey After Open Heart Surgery
There are moments in life that shake you to your very core. As a parent, nothing prepares you for watching your baby go through something that seems far too heavy for such a tiny body to carry. My son is only five months old, and already he has faced more battles than many of us will in a lifetime.
This week has been one of the hardest chapters in our story. He recently underwent open heart surgery—an operation we dreaded, but also knew was necessary to give him the best chance at life. We prayed, we cried, and we handed him over to the doctors, trusting their skill and God’s mercy.
The surgery went well. The doctors told us his heart was doing good, that they were pleased with how he had come through such a difficult procedure. On Thursday, there was even more good news: they were able to remove his breathing tube. For the first time in days, I could see my baby’s face without so many machines covering it, and I felt like I could finally exhale.
But joy and relief were short-lived.
The Call No Parent Wants
This morning, the phone rang. On the other end was a doctor’s voice, steady but heavy with the kind of news no parent ever wants to hear. My son had struggled overnight, his tiny body not strong enough yet to breathe fully on its own. They had to put the breathing tube back in.
Hearing those words felt like the ground shifted beneath me. Just when I thought we were turning a corner, we were pulled back into the storm. I sat there in silence for a moment, the words echoing in my mind, before the tears came. It felt like starting all over again.
The Fragility of Hope
In the world of pediatric heart surgery, progress is measured in baby steps—one stable heartbeat, one steady breath, one good lab result at a time. Parents learn quickly to celebrate every tiny improvement. Removing the breathing tube had felt monumental, like a light at the end of a long tunnel. But when it had to go back in, it reminded me just how fragile my baby’s body still is, how uncertain the path to recovery can be.
It’s not that his heart isn’t doing well—the doctors are confident in the repairs made during surgery. It’s his little lungs, his body adjusting, his strength that still needs time to grow. They reassured me that setbacks like this are not unusual, but reassurance doesn’t erase the ache in my chest when I see him lying there, fighting for every breath with the help of a machine.
A Parent’s Helplessness
The hardest part of being a parent in these moments is the helplessness. I can’t fix it. I can’t take away the pain or breathe for him. All I can do is sit beside his bed, hold his tiny hand, whisper words of comfort, and pray that he can feel my love surrounding him.
I watch the monitors constantly—every flicker, every number, every rise and fall of his chest. I listen for the rhythm of the machines and find myself timing my own breaths with his. My life, my entire being, feels tethered to those monitors now.
I sing softly to him, even when I know he can’t fully hear me through the tubes and wires. I hum the lullabies I sang when he was still in my belly, hoping that deep down he recognizes the sound of my voice, that it brings him some sense of peace.
The Power of Prayer
Through all of this, what has carried us is prayer. The messages, the texts, the calls—all the people lifting my son up in their hearts and voices—mean more than I can ever say.
When I posted the first update about his surgery, I was overwhelmed by the love we received. Friends, family, even strangers prayed for my little boy. And I believe those prayers are what carried him through the operating room, what helped him survive when his body was so weak.
Now, I find myself asking again—pleading—for those prayers to continue.
Please pray that his lungs grow stronger. Pray that the doctors have wisdom in every decision. Pray that his little body finds the strength to fight through this setback. Pray that the breathing tube can come out again soon, this time for good.
The Rollercoaster of the NICU
Anyone who has lived this life knows it is a rollercoaster. One day brings hope, the next brings fear. We learn to hold tightly to good news, to let it soak into our hearts, because we know how quickly things can change.
But even in the hardest moments, there are glimpses of grace. A tiny hand that curls around my finger. A moment of calm when his chest rises steadily. A kind nurse who whispers encouragement. These small mercies remind me that we are not alone, that God’s hand is in every detail, even when I can’t see it clearly.
Holding On
My son is only five months old, but he is already my hero. His strength amazes me. His fight inspires me. He has taught me more about resilience and faith in these months than I’ve learned in a lifetime.
I hold onto the hope that one day soon, this hospital room will be behind us. That I’ll be able to take him home, away from wires and machines, to a room filled with love and laughter. I dream of holding him without fear, of watching him grow stronger, of celebrating the milestones every parent longs for.
Until then, I will keep showing up every day, holding his hand, praying over him, and believing in the miracle of healing.
A Final Plea
Thank you to everyone who has prayed for my son so far. Thank you for carrying us when we are too weak to stand, for sending love when our hearts feel heavy, for reminding us that we are not alone.
I ask you now: please don’t stop. Please keep praying for my little boy. He is fighting, but he needs every prayer, every bit of love, every ounce of strength that we can send his way.
He has already overcome so much. I believe with all my heart that he can overcome this too. With God’s grace, with the skill of the doctors, and with your prayers, I believe we will see him smile again soon—stronger, healthier, and ready to live the life he was meant to live.
