10/12/2026
🤍 A Grandmother's Grief, A Mother's Heart 🤍
Today, I want to share my story—not as Clark's mother, but as Alex's mom and Clark's grandma.
When a family experiences pregnancy or infant loss, every person in that family has their own story, their own grief, and their own way of trying to make sense of something that never should have happened.
As a mom, I delivered three beautiful, healthy children. When my daughter lost her little boy, I couldn't understand what she was feeling. I couldn't tell her I knew her pain, and I couldn't take away the heartbreak she and Matt would carry.
I'll never forget the phone call on December 23, 2025. Matt called me at work and said, “She needs you, but you need to be okay.”
I asked if Alex had lost the baby. He said yes, but reminded me that I needed to be okay for her.
Then Alex got on the phone. In a voice I had never heard before, she said, “He's gone. I lost the baby, Mom. Please come.”
I told her I would be there as soon as I could.
Looking back now, I realize Alex said “he,” but in that moment, it didn't even register. I didn't know yet that they were expecting a little boy. Several already knew, but I was supposed to find out the following week during the pregnancy announcement/gender reveal at Disney.
In that moment, whether the baby was a boy or girl was the furthest thing from my mind. All I knew was that my daughter was hurting, and she needed me.
He didn't have a name yet. Later, he would be named Clark Allen Morris. 🤍
I left work, called my sister—the person I knew could help hold us together when we were all falling apart—and went to be with Alex and Matt. We hugged, cried, and cried some more.
The next morning, Christmas Eve, Alex went to the hospital to deliver her baby.
As a mother, all I wanted was to wrap my daughter in my arms and take away every bit of her pain. But I couldn't. I had to learn how to love and support her through something I couldn't fix or fully understand.
So I tried to be there whenever she needed me.
As the months passed, I found myself walking on eggshells, afraid of saying the wrong thing. I worried about bringing up Clark too much or not enough.
Then one day, Alex said something that changed the way I approached his memory.
“It's like no one wants to talk about Clark.”
I explained that people were probably afraid of upsetting her or saying the wrong thing. But I told her that if she wanted to talk about him, I would say his name and talk about him.
And from that moment on, I made a point of doing just that.
I talk about Clark like I talk about my other grandchildren. Because he is my grandson. He is Alex and Matt's son. He is a little brother, he is a cousin, a nephew. He is part of our family.
It was hard at first. I was still afraid of saying the wrong thing, but I began to understand that staying silent wasn't always protecting the people I loved. Sometimes, remembering out loud was exactly what they needed.
I've learned so much since December 2025. I've learned that heartbreak and joy, grief and happiness, love and loss can all live together in our hearts.
I've learned that we need to talk more openly about pregnancy and infant loss. We need to make room for the babies who were here for only a moment, the babies we never got to hold, and the babies whose families are still learning how to carry their love.
And we need to remember them all year—not just during October.
As a mother, I wish I could have taken away my daughter's pain. As a grandmother, I wish I could have watched Clark grow up alongside his sisters and cousins. But what I can do is remember him, say his name, and help make space for other families to do the same.
Because babies who were here for only a moment can be loved for a lifetime.
Their lives mattered. Their names matter. Their families matter.
And their stories deserve a place in this world. 🤍
Loved for a Lifetime.
