There are moments in medicine that take your breath away—not in awe, but in sorrow.
As an OB/GYN, I have the sacred privilege of welcoming new life into the world. I witness joy, transformation, and the beginning of stories yet to unfold. But sometimes, heartbreak finds its way into those stories. And when it does, it changes you.
Recently, grief knocked the wind out of me. A young mother—so full of life, love, and hope—passed away after a fierce battle with illness. She was someone whose strength and spirit touched everyone around her. She gave life—as a mother. She shaped lives—as a teacher. She loved deeply—as a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend, and so much more words cannot pretend to fully encompass. Her presence made rooms warmer, burdens lighter, and hearts feel seen. She was the kind of person whose goodness stayed with you long after a conversation ended. And now, she is gone.
I am grieving. I ache. But this is not about me.
My grief is not what matters. That is the least important part of this. This is about her.
Her courage. Her life. Her legacy. Her love. Her family. Her story—one that ended far, far too soon. What I feel is just a whisper of what those closest to her are going through. And it’s for them, and for her, that I write this. With reverence. With deep sorrow. With hope that somehow, words can hold space for the unspeakable.
There is no easy way to hold a loss like this. It defies explanation. It feels unfair, senseless even. There are no words that make it okay when someone so young, so loved, is no longer here.
This isn’t about the details. Those belong to her family, and I hold them with deep respect. But I needed to write this—not for answers, not for attention—but because I need to grieve. And because I know I’m not the only one who has sat in silent pain, wondering how the world keeps spinning after such a loss.
Grief, I’ve come to understand, is the echo of love. It’s the space someone once filled, still aching with their absence. And when it hits us, it brings questions we can’t answer: Why her? Why now? Why like this?
In my work, I often speak the language of medicine—diagnoses, treatments, outcomes. But there’s no medical term that captures the weight of a young life lost. No chart that reflects the depth of a family’s sorrow. No protocol for a shattered heart.
To those who are grieving—whether silently or out loud—I see you. You are not alone. There is no timeline for mourning, no right way to carry the weight. But I do believe this: we honor those we’ve lost by remembering them, by speaking their names in love, by living in a way that reflects their light.
I think of her family often. Her child, her partner, her family, those who knew her best. I hold space for their pain, even from afar. And I send quiet prayers for peace to find them, somehow, in time.
To anyone reading this who is carrying sorrow—please let yourself feel it. Cry if you must. Rest if you need. And when you’re ready, remember: grief may break us open, but it can also let light in.
May every tear be matched, someday, by a memory that brings warmth.
May every loss remind us how deeply we are capable of loving.
And may those who are gone never be forgotten.
May her gentle soul, rest, in perfect peace, and joy everlasting.
With a heavy heart.