In this episode of the Always Andy's Mom Podcast, I'm joined by Taylor, a grieving father who shares the story of his son, Ray, who was stillborn late in pregnancy.

Taylor talks about the moment fatherhood became real for him — feeling Ray kick for the first time — and the joy and anticipation that followed a healthy 20-week scan. Then, at 27 weeks, everything changed. Ray's heartbeat was gone. Taylor and his wife went through labor and delivery knowing there would be no living baby at the end, followed by precious time holding their son and saying goodbye.

Taylor speaks openly about the emotions that came next: the anger that surprised him, the fear that the world no longer felt safe, and the weight of realizing that some things cannot be fixed. As a father, he felt the pressure to stay strong, even while grieving deeply himself.

One of the most moving parts of this conversation is how Taylor found healing through an unexpected outlet. At the suggestion of his wife, he taught himself how to crochet using yarn that had been purchased for Ray. What started as a simple way to stay busy became a form of connection and comfort. With each stitch, Taylor found a way to honor his son, quiet his thoughts, and give his grief somewhere to go.

Today, Taylor continues to crochet — creating hats, keepsakes, and donations — each piece carrying love, remembrance, and Ray's presence forward.

This episode is a powerful reminder that grief doesn't disappear, but it can transform. Healing sometimes comes not through words, but through the work of our hands.

What comes to mind when you hear the word miracle?

For so many of us who have lost a child, that word can feel complicated. We prayed. We begged. We hoped with everything in us—and the miracle we were asking for did not come. This week's episode gently asks us to reconsider what a miracle might look like after unimaginable loss.

I knew the day Andy was killed in a car accident that I was praying for a miracle. I begged as the paramedics worked, believing with everything in me that he could be saved. But Andy could not be revived, and the miracle I was asking for did not come.

Today's guest, Renee, knows that place of longing well. She is the mother of Patrick, who died at the age of 29 after a fall while hiking in the mountains of Colorado. When Patrick went missing, Renee prayed for a miracle too, holding onto hope until he was found.

Now, four and a half years later, Renee offers a powerful and unexpected reflection: she believes the grief journey itself is a miracle.

As bereaved parents, continuing to live after the death of a child can feel impossible. And yet, somehow, we do. We wake up. We breathe. We carry our children with us in new ways. We persevere.

This episode is a gentle, thoughtful conversation about grief, resilience, faith, and the quiet miracles that can emerge even after devastating loss. It is an offering of companionship for anyone navigating life after child loss—and a reminder that survival itself is something extraordinary.

This episode of Always Andy's Mom is a replay of a Christmas Memories Livestream—created as a place of reflection, remembrance, and gentle presence during the holiday season.

In this episode, Gwen and I read Christmas memories shared by parents from around the world within the Always Andy's Mom community. These stories speak to the deep love that remains after loss and the complicated emotions that often surface during Christmas—joy intertwined with longing, tradition mingled with grief.

Together, we paused often. We spoke children's names. We honored moments both ordinary and sacred: gifts unwrapped, traditions remembered, laughter recalled, and absences deeply felt. This is not an episode about fixing grief or finding silver linings, but about allowing memory and love to coexist with sorrow.

Christmas after loss is rarely simple. This episode offers a place to slow down, to breathe, and to remember that grief is not something to overcome, but love continuing to move through our lives.

As always, the episode closes with Andy's voice—a steady reminder that love endures.