Grace, Grief, and Golf
This weekend is one of my favorite weekends of the year! It marked The Alana Marie Projects’ 7th annual golf outing — the one day each year where friends, family, and even strangers gather to honor our daughter Alana. A day that was born out of grief, but over the years has grown into something so much bigger: a celebration of her life, a fundraiser for families walking through pregnancy and infant loss, and a reminder that love never dies.
But this weekend also holds something else — something quieter, harder to say out loud. We’re nearing one year since we lost a baby we had prayed and waited for — a baby we had already started choosing names for. We hadn’t completely decided on a first name, but we knew the middle name would be Gwendolyn, in honor of my late grandmother. It’s strange how grief timelines blur — how you can feel so far from a moment and yet so close it aches.
This weekend, joy and sorrow walked side by side. And I’m learning that’s okay.
When Grief Is Quiet
On May 22, 2024 — what would have been Alana’s 10th birthday — we had an ultrasound scheduled. That timing felt like a special gift. For a day that has held so many emotions over the years, this felt like a glimmer of redemption. We were filled with hope and anticipation, thinking maybe this year, May 22 would carry a new kind of memory.
But the appointment brought news we never expected: the baby wasn’t growing or developing properly, and the doctor gently shared that the pregnancy would likely end in miscarriage. And so, for the next two weeks, we carried that news silently — holding onto hope while preparing for what we feared was ahead.
Eventually, we received confirmation: our baby didn’t have a heartbeat. We scheduled a D&C for the following Monday. But over that weekend, I began to experience what felt like labor — intense cramping, bleeding, and clots. I called the hospital, and they still recommended I come in for the procedure.
Even in that heartbreak, we were met with compassion. The nurses and staff at the hospital cared for us with such compassion — from the moment we arrived to the moment we left. They spoke softly. They acknowledged our baby. They treated us like more than just a procedure. They treated us like grieving parents. I will never forget the way they held space for our pain — without rushing us, without brushing past the significance of what we were going through. Their presence made one of the hardest moments in our lives just a little more bearable.
At my follow-up appointment, the doctor shared the results from the genetic testing. Our sweet baby had Trisomy 16 — a chromosomal abnormality that normally ends in miscarriage. I also asked if they were able to determine the baby’s gender. The doctor paused and asked if we wanted to know. Without hesitation, I said yes. She told me what I already felt in my spirit: our baby was a girl.
In that moment, I was calm. Antwon even said I took the news exceptionally well. But as the days passed, the weight of it settled in differently. I found myself thinking about both of our recent losses — including the miscarriage earlier that year — and wondering if that baby, too, had been a girl. We’ll never fully know.
One of the hardest parts of this miscarriage was how quiet it felt. We hadn’t shared the news publicly, so when we found out I’d need a D&C, we told family and a few friends. And those who knew showed up in such thoughtful ways — through meals, messages, and care packages that reminded us we weren’t alone. But still… the grief felt different. Quieter. With Alana, the whole world grieved with us. This time, it felt like we were carrying the weight of it more privately — even from our boys.
To this day, we haven’t told them. Not because we’re hiding it, but because we just haven’t found the right words yet. We didn’t want to overwhelm them with a kind of grief they weren’t ready for. And maybe one day we’ll sit down and tell them about the babies we never got to meet. Maybe when they’re older, and we feel more peace about how to say it. But for now, we carry that part quietly — tucked into the sacred space between what we hoped for and what we’re still healing from.
A Familiar Kind of Heartbreak
After losing our daughter Alana in 2014, we knew we wanted to support and be a resource for other families walking similar paths. What began as a quiet ache in our hearts eventually turned into something tangible. In 2018, we started The Alana Marie Project to encourage, empower, and support families who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. What began as a way to honor her life has grown into a mission to walk alongside others in theirs — offering comfort, community, and hope in the midst of unimaginable loss.
We never imagined that the very community we formed would become the one carrying us in 2024. After experiencing two miscarriages within the first six months of the year, we found ourselves back in that familiar space of heartbreak — and this time, it was our community lifting us up. Through prayers, messages, and quiet acts of love, we were reminded that we were not alone.
The second miscarriage — the one from June — took a toll on me in ways I didn’t expect. My body felt foreign. I gained weight. About six months later, I developed acne so severe it felt like I was reliving puberty. I was exhausted — physically and emotionally — and frustrated that even when the bleeding stopped, the healing still had so far to go.
And yet, here I am — one year later — slowly starting to feel like me again. It hasn’t been easy, and it’s certainly not finished. But I’m getting back on track. And I’m embracing that healing isn’t about going back to who you were — it’s about honoring who you are now.
Still Trusting
If there’s one thing this past year has shown me, it’s that God’s grace really does meet us in the mess. Not just in the Sunday-morning kind of way — but in the 3 a.m. tears, the aching silence after an ultrasound, the slow return to routines when everything inside feels heavy. His grace showed up in the form of friends who checked in without needing answers. In nurses who offered compassion without rushing me through it. In a husband who held space for my grief, even when his own heart was breaking.
And it showed up in whispers — moments of worship when I didn’t have the words, but somehow still felt held. Verses that reminded me I was not forgotten. A quiet knowing that even though this road felt long and lonely, God was walking every step of it with me.
I’ll be honest: I’ve wrestled with God a lot this year. With the questions, the what-ifs, the aching desire to understand. But what I’ve found is that God’s grace isn’t something we have to earn — it just is. And even when we can’t see the purpose, we can trust the presence.
This season has stretched my faith, but it hasn’t broken it. In fact, I think it’s deepened it — made it more real. Less about answers, and more about the quiet assurance that God is still good, even here. Even now.
This past year has taught me that we can plan our lives, dream beautiful dreams, and pray bold prayers — but we must remain open to the truth that God’s plan may look different than we hoped.
And that’s hard.
I’ve wrestled with the desire to raise a daughter here on this earth. It’s a longing I’ve carried for over a decade. But I’ve also come to the quiet realization that maybe — just maybe — that’s not part of the story God is writing for me. And while that thought still breaks my heart some days, I’m learning to hold space for both grief and trust.
It takes a different level of faith to say: Even if God doesn’t answer my prayer the way I dreamed… He is still good. And I still trust Him.
There’s freedom in that surrender. Not because the pain disappears, but because I’m no longer carrying it alone.
As I sit and reflect on the weekend we just shared — our 7th annual golf outing in Alana’s honor — my heart is full. Thank you to every person who showed up, donated, prayed, sponsored, volunteered, or simply said her name. You continue to help us turn our pain into purpose. Your love helps us honor not just Alana, but every baby gone too soon.
One of my favorite parts of the outing has become the Tutu Challenge — something we added a few years ago. We always imagined that Alana would’ve been a tutu-wearing, sparkle-loving little girl. So, in her honor, golfers can choose to wear a tutu at a marked hole and have one stroke deducted from their score. It’s fun, lighthearted, and meaningful!
P.S. If you’re carrying the weight of an unanswered prayer, I want you to know this: it’s okay to feel disappointed, confused, or even heartbroken about it. It’s okay to grieve what you hoped for. And it’s still okay — more than okay — to trust God at the same time. Faith doesn’t mean ignoring your feelings; it means bringing them to the One who can handle them all.
If you’re walking through your own loss, I created something for you — a free guide with gentle reminders and encouragement for grieving parents. Just a few simple truths I’ve clung to myself, shared from my heart to yours. You can download it below — and I pray it brings comfort on the days you need it most.
