His name is Macen

I had never written a eulogy before—let alone one for my son.

I’ve been to funerals. Too many in recent years to count. I knew what a eulogy was supposed to say. But how do you write one for your child, who never lived outside your body?

Macen was stillborn. The day I went in for my scheduled C-section at 40 weeks and one day, within minutes we learned he had passed the day before.

The rest of that month isn’t even a blur, its missing.

My C-section had significant complications, which left me bed bound longer than most people are postpartum. For the first time in years, I had plenty of time. But that time felt debilitating.

I had to get out of our house. Every room held empty spaces—spaces I had prepared for our child. I say child because we didn’t know if we were having a boy or a girl until after delivery.

We ended up going on a pilgrimage to Lady Fatima, a religious site outside Lisbon, Portugal—a place known for hope and healing. We visited about 14 churches, where we lit candles in each one for Macen. In typical fashion, I lost my phone in an Uber on day two, which left me with very little to distract myself during the quiet moments. Funny, my attempt to run and distract myself from my thoughts left me with more empty space.

On that trip, I was forced to confront life. I slowly started writing Macen’s eulogy.

A little over a month later, I read it aloud at his service. A meaningful day, but an exhausting one.

I’m sharing it here because Macen’s life felt like such a blur—gone before it began.

Posting it here feels like another way to keep his name in this world.

I also hope it gives other parents permission to write a eulogy for their stillborn child—to put words to a life that was real, loved, and worthy of being remembered.

………………….Here goes nothing.

Margaret Atwood once said, “In the end, we’ll all become stories.” And what is a eulogy, if not a story?

As Macen’s mom, I have a few stories to share. While his time was limited, there are still stories to tell. Some I’m proud of, some I’m ashamed of, some I would shout from the rooftops, and some are reserved quietly for my heart. Glass half full or half empty—it’s a tale as old as time.

Like every story, his has a beginning.
Macen’s story started in quiet hopes, in whispered dreams, even before the moment I first learned he existed. His story is one of miracles, of joy—of bravery and courage.

For years, I rejected the idea of having children—a well-crafted defense mechanism meant to keep me safe. Medically, I was warned of high risks  for myself. But those fears slowly melted away, replaced by quiet hopes. Hopes that whispered on the wind and twirled through my thoughts. Hopes sparked by dreams of exploring this world with Cory and our child. Hopes that our world will grow bigger, not smaller. Expanded, not restricted. 

And from the very beginning, he was loved.

He was wanted.

He was imagined into a whole life full of firsts I will always carry with me—his first cry, his first steps, the sound of his laughter. Even the simple, mundane moments we so often take for granted.

I like to think about those imagined moments sometimes. I imagine inviting him to do ordinary things—like walking to get coffee together (and I’m pretty sure he’d take after Cory and drink two cups a day)… or taking a walk in the rain, because he will undoubtedly inherit a little of my chaos.

I’d talk about tomorrow like I knew it was coming. And for a few brief moments… I’d allow myself to believe it because Macen taught me courage. Which is quite funny to say, because I’m not afraid of the typical things. I haven’t seen my debit card in months, I always have cracks in my phone, lord knows the last time I even locked a door, sorry Cory, I’ve never fretted saying what’s on my mind, sorry again Cory. But that’s because those traits come naturally to me, carefree unbothered. The type of courage Macen gave me, is knowing I did everything within my power and it still not being enough.and being brave enough to face the next day, this courage I never had before Macen. 

Even though I never got to watch him grow outside of my body, he changed me. He made me a mother. He taught me a kind of love that doesn’t depend on time, or milestones, or memories made in the usual ways.  His life, though brief, was not small. It was infinite in its impact.

There are also parts of this story that are heavy—moments of fear, of questioning, of wondering. Wondering why he had to leave the world so early, wondering what I could have done differently. The moment we learned he was gone. These are the stories I carry with quiet hands—the ones that don’t always have answers. Or the space yet, to share them. 

But they exist alongside the love—and the love is louder. Because Macen’s story is, above all else, a love story.

He will always be my son. Not in the past tense, but in every tense. In the way I breathe, in the way I see the world, in the way I hold space for both joy and grief at the same time. Because of Macen, even in this impossible time, I cannot hate this world—and I’ve tried, but it’s impossible because it’s the same world that gave me my beautiful son. 

I may not have years of memories with him, but I have something just as powerful: the certainty that he was here, that he mattered, and that he will always be part of me.

And so I tell his story—not because it is long, but because it is meaningful. Not because it is complete, but because it is his.  So thank you, thank you for letting me share his story. 

And in the end, if we all become stories, then I will spend my life making sure Macen’s story is never forgotten. And how powerful it is—that someone’s soul can fill a room with love, and bring all of us together, without ever speaking a word.

In his story, I imagine his life goes on, even when ours came to a halt that January day. I believe he’s in Heaven, being rocked by my nana, surrounded by her sisters. No one, loved babies more than my nana. At her feet is a cradle handcrafted by my father, who is probably nearby baby-proofing Heaven. His father isn’t far behind, shaking his head and keeping him company.

My Gandy is off finding Macen his first baseball mitt, alongside his brother and brother in law, already debating what position he’ll play in every sport—except golf, which they’ll remind him is a sissy sport. Some things never change. My uncle will be whispering stories of striking it rich out West, filling Macen’s head with dreams like one of the lost boys from Neverland.  Then, waiting patiently, with eager hearts, are Cory’s great-grandparents and his papaw Larry. Ready to join in and share the love. And all the while, Cookie will be by his feet. As one of the families I worked with reminded me, Cookie was always good at watching over little boys. 

And in between all of that love—being held, being rocked, being surrounded—I like to think Macen slips away sometimes… carried on the wind, exploring the world the way he was meant to. Because no doubt, he inherited my Gypsy soul. Taking journeys none of us have ever taken before. 

And all around them are countless other family members and loved ones, waiting patiently, eagerly, lovingly. 

At the funeral of the mother of a dear friend, her father got up and delivered a beautiful eulogy. Her father mentioned, he does not understand why she was taken, but he has faith. At the time, I was confused. What would be the best test of faith, but the loss of one’s life partner? 

The hand he was dealt, how could he not have fear or disbelief? 

However, with the loss of Macen. I now understand. 

Prior heartbreaks make sense now. 

Unexpectedly losing my father in my 20s, shook my world. Now I see why, he was needed elsewhere.  My father, Always prompt and prepared, he was needed there to welcome Macen. Along with other loved ones, they were needed to welcome Macen. Because the earthly world just wasn’t prepared to host the most beautiful perfect little boy. Because even in Heaven, it still takes a village. And he has one. So now. I don’t understand but I have faith. Faith that my sweet perfect boy was needed elsewhere. 

That is his story. Still going on. 

For today is not goodbye.

And I promise that when I get where I’m going, the first thing I’ll look for is Macen.Because when I look at my glass, it doesn’t matter if it’s half full or half empty—
because of Macen, there is water in my glass.