Seventeen

Surviving the unthinkable

A few days ago, I realized my daughter Sarah’s seventeenth birthday was approaching. Most seventeen-year-old girls would be talking about their plans, counting down the days, making sure no one forgot. A mother wouldn’t have to remember that her child’s birthday was coming—she would be reminded constantly. But Sarah isn’t here to remind me. Sarah died one week after she was born.

Today is Sarah’s birthday.

Seventeen years ago, she entered the world far earlier than expected. In the middle of the night, something didn’t feel right. I was just over 24 weeks pregnant, trying to convince myself that discomfort was nothing more than nerves. By early morning, Alex was driving me to the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, and within a minutes of arriving, a young resident told me I was in labor. I remember feeling his fear more than hearing the words he said.

Sarah Abigail Vindman was born later that morning. She was impossibly small but so perfect. She had my red hair, her father’s nose, and my crooked pinky fingers. We spent our days in the NICU, arriving early and staying until evening, learning the rhythms of machines and monitors, reading to her, starting at her tiny face. Every night I read On the Night You Were Born, even though I could barely get through it.

For a week, she held on. The prognosis was uncertain, but she was steady…until she wasn’t. One week after choosing to resuscitate her at birth, we made the decision to withdraw life support. The NICU staff grieved with us. I still remember how quiet they became, how carefully they treated us, how deeply they seemed to feel the loss of a baby they had known only briefly.

I think about them from time to time. I wish I could find that resident, those nurses, that entire NICU team, and tell them: we are okay.

Not okay in the sense that everything healed or resolved. We will never be the same. We grieve Sarah still, and we always will. But we learned how to live again. We found joy. We built a life that carries her with us, even as it moves farther and farther away from the time when she was with us on earth.

I wish I could thank them for their care, their tenderness, their presence during the worst week of our lives and tell them as horrible as it was they truly made a difference. I would want them to tell our story to other families facing their own darkest hours, and say confidently and honestly: This will change you forever but you can survive it.

After Sarah died, grief rearranged everything. If you’ve even experienced that kind of grief, I know you know. Relationships shift. Some grew deeper, some stretch in different directions, some can’t withstand the weight. Everyone grieves differently, on different timelines, along different paths. Learning to just be after loss means accepting that there’s no single “right” way through it.

There are no shortcuts. As the saying goes, the only way out is through and it sucks. But then, almost without noticing, your heart grows strong enough to carry both grief and happiness at the same time.

This is what I want to say today, especially in a world that feels unbearably heavy: no matter where you are on your grief path, you will be okay.

Not unchanged. Not untouched. But okay.

Today, on Sarah’s birthday, I remember the baby I lost while honoring the life that came after her. I remember the fear and the kindness, the devastation and the love. I let myself feel the sadness, because the sadness is proof that she was here. I honor her by getting up each day, by choosing to live, and by allowing joy to exist alongside grief. That is how I carry her with me always.

Let’s Keep Moving Forward, Friends 💚