Mother’s Day Weekend (May11)
Personal Reflection
I wasn’t going to write this.
Sharing this part of my life with the world is anything but easy.
I’m a private person. Most of the people closest to me didn’t even know what I was carrying—emotionally or physically. Truthfully, I could have gone the rest of my life without ever saying these words out loud.
The blog was never meant to be public. It was supposed to be a book, written under a pen name, with no direct connection to me. A quiet release of the pain that was swallowing me whole. A private way to process what happened, for me—and only me.
But a voice kept whispering, louder than my fear:
“This is not just for you.”
This is for the women who are drowning in grief. For the ones trying to find their way back to the light. For the ones standing at the edge of their rope, wondering how they’ll survive one more day.
So this Mother’s Day, we honor the mothers who are often forgotten—
those who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss.
Whether you only imagined meeting your baby or held them as they took their last breath, your motherhood is real. You are seen. You are remembered. You are not alone.
The Story Continues Here….
Here lies Kelani Deionne-Rochelle Robinson.
My daughter.
My heartbeat.
My second chance that never got to take her first breath on her own.
As the world prepared to celebrate Mother’s Day…
I was preparing to attend my daughter’s funeral.
While everyone else was planning brunches, surprise gifts, and matching outfits for photos,
I was preparing to see my 1 pound, 3 ounce baby girl in a casket the size of a shoebox.
Let that sink in.
A casket…
the size of a shoebox.
That’s what we were given to honor the life I carried for 26 weeks.
That’s what we were given to say goodbye.
The funeral home brought her two hours late.
Two hours.
Two hours of waiting.
Two hours of praying she would show up so I didn’t collapse before she even arrived.
Two hours of pacing the floors, hands clenched, heart already shredded.
Two hours that reminded me again: nothing about this would be fair.
Not even her farewell.
And when she finally arrived…
when they carried that tiny casket into the sanctuary—
carefully, quietly, like she weighed more than the world—
everything else disappeared.
I saw her box.
And I broke all over again.
I was in a room full of people.
People who showed up.
People who cried with me.
People who wanted to make it better.
And yet, I have never felt more alone in my life.
Because no one else was her mother.
No one else had heard her heart beat from the inside.
No one else had whispered promises to her through hospital walls.
No one else had held her as she died.
Grief can be loud.
But it’s also the quietest, loneliest place I’ve ever known.
And then… there was the church.
Being inside a sanctuary felt like salt in a wound.
Not because I didn’t believe in God—
but because I did, and I couldn’t make sense of how He let this happen.
Every verse, every worship lyric, every whispered “He’s still good”…
it all felt like betrayal.
I didn’t want promises.
I didn’t want comfort.
I wanted her.
And I couldn’t have her.
Here lies Kelani.
And here I am.
Still standing.
Still shattered.
I type these words with tears in my eyes and a hole still burning in my chest—a full year later.
They say time heals.
But what it really does… is teach you how to carry the grief without drowning in it.
And even now—aching, angry, still undone—
I know this:
This is my motherhood story, too.
And I will not let it be buried with her.
The Story Between Storms 
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