On the morning of January 5th, 2017, I walked into my daughter Alice’s room and froze. She was lifeless, her tiny body cold to the touch. In a whirlwind of paramedics, police officers, and urgent voices, my husband and I clung to each other, our hearts breaking, whispering the same desperate prayer over and over: “Please, God, give her back.” We knew deep down what the kind officer would soon say: “I’m so sorry… she’s gone.”
Alice’s arrival into our lives had been anything but easy. My pregnancy was grueling—I was sick every day, throwing up constantly, and I often doubted myself as a mother before I even met her. But her birth was the opposite. It was fast, empowering, and filled with a sense of purpose I had never known. I felt laser-focused and determined, knowing I could do whatever it took to bring her into the world safely. When I held her for the first time, looking into her bright little eyes, she felt familiar—as if I had always known her. My husband and I stared at her in awe, our hearts overflowing with love for this tiny, perfect being. She was so small, yet somehow felt immense.
During her first bath, Alice cooed at the nurses and met their eyes with a smile far beyond her age. She had a presence that was both gentle and knowing. I remember the quiet moment the day she was born when my husband Dallas ran home to grab something, and it was just Alice and me. A soft glow spilled from the bathroom, the door barely ajar. She lay on my chest, and we simply existed together, taking in every detail, every breath. Time itself seemed to pause, and I knew I would treasure that moment forever.
Alice was just shy of five months old when she was taken from us, yet she filled every corner of our world. She was radiant, brilliant, and beautiful, smiling at less than two weeks old and sharing that joy with everyone she met. She loved being swaddled, enjoyed her pacifier, and was mesmerized by music from the very start. Singing to her, I would watch her eyes light up as she cooed along, and sometimes in the mornings, I found her quietly singing to herself in her crib. I dreamt of the music we would share as she grew, of piano lessons, of a lifetime of connection through song. When she passed, I feared that connection was lost—but I soon discovered it had only grown stronger.
The day Alice died, our home was flooded with love and grief. Family and friends surrounded us—parents, siblings, grandparents, friends—all drawn to support us in our unimaginable sorrow. My mom, sisters, and husband took turns carrying me, feeding me, helping me navigate a world that suddenly felt unbearable. Each day was measured in small increments: one day at a time, sometimes one second at a time. The outpouring of love was overwhelming—meals, blankets, keepsakes, handwritten cards, prayers, and flowers filled our home. Even in her short life, Alice had touched countless hearts, and that love enveloped us when we needed it most.
I have been singing since before I could remember. I wrote my first song in third grade with my best friend and never stopped. In 2015, my niece Margot was born with Trisomy 18. She was tiny, fragile, and had multiple heart defects. Holding her one night, I sang a song I had just written for her:
“Hold on, hold on,
you’re safe in my arms
Someday I’ll hold you once again
I will long for you
Until heaven”
That song connected me to a community I had never expected to join—the infant loss community. The women I met there welcomed me with open arms. Many people who heard the song assumed it was about Alice, and after her passing, it took on a new, even deeper meaning for me. But I knew I needed to write something uniquely for her.
Overwhelmed with love and grief, I wasn’t sure how to capture Alice in words. Then one day, a melody came to me, accompanied by the phrase, “You live on, you are the song.” As I sat down to write, the words poured out effortlessly, a testament to the bond we shared that death could never sever.
Grieving is intensely personal, and I learned that there is no “right” way to navigate it. My husband returned to school just days after Alice’s funeral, keeping busy to cope. I took a break for a semester, honoring my need to step back. Seeking therapy was invaluable, helping me discover exactly what I needed to heal, one fragile step at a time.
Singing and writing Alice’s song brings me closer to her than anything else ever could. When I sing, I truly feel her presence, especially when I sing the song written for her. For a fleeting moment, we are together again. Through music, I keep her alive. Every note carries the joy and love she gave me. Sharing that music with the world is like sharing Alice herself, spreading hope and connection in her memory.
Alice is more than a memory—she is the music in my soul and the song in my heart. Her presence motivates me to create, to share light and love through music. Even in sorrow, she reminds me that joy can be found, and that beauty exists even among trials. No matter what I sing, I know she is there, guiding me, inspiring me, and reminding me that love endures. She is my song, always and forever.
