a page from gio and carter
When Your Child Goes to Heaven First
For the families who know a love that never ends, even when it looks different than we planned.
The word "baby" means something a little different to every parent who finds this page. For some of you, the loss came before you ever got to hold them. A heartbeat that went quiet too soon, or a diagnosis during the pregnancy that changed everything. For others, it happened in those tender early weeks at home, or after months of milestones and laughter and a whole life you had already begun to imagine. And for so many of you, the child you are missing was a toddler, a teenager, or a grown adult who will always and forever be your baby. There is no age limit on that word, and there is no ranking in this kind of grief. This page is for all of you.
Since we shared Jack's story, so many of you have reached out. Parents in the thick of it, simply looking for someone who understands. We are so honored that you trust us with something so delicate, and we read every single message. We still love hearing from you, and we always will. The truth is, Gio and Carter are still walking through their own grief, and some days they do not have the words they wished they had. This page is a way to be here for you on those days too. It holds the things we have learned, so that whenever you need them, day or night, they are here waiting for you, with so much love.
a quick note before you continue
If you are here, something unimaginable has happened, and we are so deeply sorry. We wish more than anything that you did not need this page. Please know that everything we share here comes only from living it ourselves, not from any training or expertise. We are just a mom and a dad who love our son with everything we have. So please hold these words gently, and lean on your doctor, your counselor, and the people who love you most to carry what we cannot. You were never meant to do this alone, and you are not alone now.
from gio
Three Things I Wish I had Known
Before anything else, I want to say something about coming home. There is a particular kind of silence that meets you when you walk back through your door without your baby. The house is the same, and somehow nothing in it will ever be the same again. For me, coming home without my Jack was the moment the overwhelming loss truly took over. The world kept moving, and I could not understand how. If you are standing in that silence right now, or dreading it, I want you to know that what you are feeling is not too much. It is the size of your love.
These are not rules, and please do not read them as a list of things you are supposed to be doing right now. They are just the quiet things I wish someone had known to place gently in my hands in those first impossible days.
Let people help, even when it feels easier not to
In the beginning, the people who love you will desperately want to help, and most of them will have no idea how. Let them bring the meals. Let them drop things on the porch. You do not need to host anyone, write thank you notes, or manage a single person's feelings right now. None of that matters. Your only job is to keep breathing, and to let yourself be carried for a little while.
Give yourself permission to not be okay, especially in front of people
There will be so much pressure, most of it invisible, to hold yourself together. To be strong, to be gracious, to make everyone around you a little more comfortable. You do not have to do that. Grief is not something to perform beautifully for an audience. It is something to feel all the way through, in whatever shape it takes, on whatever day it comes.
Let something of theirs stay near you
For me, it was his bear lovie. I kept it close so I could still find his smell, still feel a little of his joy, still hold the thing he reached for every single day. It did not make the grief any smaller, and it was never meant to. It just let me hold onto something he loved, which somehow felt like holding onto him.
from carter
To the one holding everyone else up
I want to talk to the dads for a minute. The ones quietly handling the logistics, answering the texts so she does not have to, standing in the hospital hallway holding it together because someone has to. For me, the hardest part was not just the sadness. It was the anger. I kept going back over everything, certain there was something I should have seen, something I should have done, some way I should have been able to save my son. I was Jack's dad. Protecting him was supposed to be my job, and grief kept telling me I had failed at the only thing that mattered. If you are carrying that same weight right now, I need you to hear this from someone who has stood where you are.
The anger is part of the grief, not a failure of it
You may feel a rage that surprises you. At the situation, at the unfairness, at yourself most of all. I spent so long believing that if I had only done something differently, my beautiful son would still be here. I want to tell you gently what it took me far too long to understand. You did not fail your child. Loving your baby was never the same as being able to save them, and the fact that you could not change what happened is not a verdict on you as their father. The anger is deep love with nowhere to go yet. Let it move through you. It does not make you weak, and it does not make you any less their protector.
Find the people you can talk to freely and the places that make you feel most connected with your child
One of the hardest parts is how quickly the world keeps going. People mean well, but they often stop saying your child’s name because they are afraid of hurting you, and the silence can end up hurting even more. You need people who are not afraid to go there with you. For me, that was a few close friends who would still bring Jack up, who let me talk about him without flinching or changing the subject or needing me to be okay. That kind of friend is worth more than I know how to say.
You also need a place that is just yours. For me, it was the golf course. Out there I could breathe, and in the quiet stretches between shots, it was only me and Jack. That became where I talked to him, most of it out loud, some of it just in my head, all of it between him and me. It was the place I felt closest to him.
Find your version of both. The people who let you keep saying your child’s name, and the place where you feel nearest to them. Then go there as often as you need to, without a single apology for it.
Let her be near you in it
There will be a strong pull to make the pain stop, even just for a night. For a lot of us that looks like a drink, and then another, or anything that promises to take the edge off for a while. I understand it more than I wish I did. But numbing the grief does not move it out of you, it just buries it somewhere it can do more damage, and it slowly walks you away from the one person who actually understands what you lost. The bravest thing I did was let myself feel it instead of drowning it, and saying the hard things out loud to my wife even when I did not have them figured out. You do not have to carry this perfectly. You just have to carry it honestly, and never do it alone.
from our community
What we have learned, with help along the way
We are not writing this part as experts, because we are not. We have simply spent a long time learning how to carry this, with the help of people who do this work and who sat with us when we did not have the words. These are the things we come back to on the hard days, the ones we wish someone had said to us early and often. Please do not read them as instructions. Read them the way we mean them, as a hand on your shoulder from people who understand.
There is no right way to grieve your child, and there is no timeline
You may find yourself wondering if you are doing this wrong. If you are too sad, or somehow not sad enough, or stuck, or moving too fast. None of those things are real. Grief after losing a child does not follow stages or a schedule, no matter what anyone implies. It moves in waves, it circles back, and it can sit beside joy in the very same day. However yours is showing up, it is not a mistake.
Your spouse may grieve differently and that is okay
Two people can lose the same child and grieve in completely different languages. One of you may need to talk, the other may go quiet. One may want to keep their things exactly as they were, the other may not be able to walk past the room. This difference is one of the loneliest parts, and it is not a sign that anything is wrong between you. Naming it out loud, even just saying "we are grieving differently and that is okay," protects you both. You do not have to grieve in sync to grieve together.
Let support in early, before you think you need it
Many parents wait until they are barely holding on to reach for help, because in the beginning survival takes everything. If you can, let someone in sooner. A grief counselor who specializes in child loss, a support group of parents who truly understand, your doctor, your faith community. Reaching out is not a sign that you are weak. It is one of the bravest and most loving things you can do, for yourself and for each other.
Jack’s Friends in Heaven
We would be honored to hold your children close in our hearts, knowing they are with Jack in heaven. If you would like to share them with us, we will pay a special tribute.
for grieving parents
Resources & Support
You were never meant to do this alone, and you are not alone now.
Jack went to heaven first.
One day, we will see him again.
Until then, we are here for all of you.