This is a follow-up to Taylor’s original story, which you can find here.
“On August 22, 2018, my husband and I became parents for the very first time to a 7lb 8oz, perfect baby boy, Finn Benton Pope. My husband loves to say Finn was born with a comb-over, boasting the most perfect head of hair atop a baby so flawless it felt unreal. But beneath that beautiful hair, none of us knew, a hidden danger was quietly waiting to strike.
On July 23, 2019, when Finn was just 11 months old, he woke screaming in the middle of the night. Despite our frantic attempts to soothe him, he went limp in my arms. The next hours were a blur: an ambulance ride, a care flight, a week-long ICU stay. Doctors discovered that Finn had suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. His perfect brain, deprived of blood for too long, had sustained irreversible damage. Our baby boy—our world—was gone. Our hearts shattered. Our hopes and dreams felt stolen. Life without Finn seemed impossible to imagine.
The weeks that followed were a haze of grief so deep it touched every fiber of our being. We barely left our bed, praying to sleep through the nightmare only to awaken to it again. Yet, in the midst of our despair, we were surrounded by an extraordinary community. Friends and family rallied, honoring Finn’s life through a large softball tournament in our hometown, celebrating the gift he had been to everyone who knew him. And then, just two months after our devastating loss, we were blessed in a way we hadn’t dared to imagine: I became pregnant again. This new life, a surprise from God, became our beacon of hope—our little girl, whose name we knew immediately would be Finley Blake.
The pregnancy itself went smoothly, but it brought its own struggles. Carrying Finley forced me to confront the unbearable reality of life without Finn while simultaneously preparing to welcome a child who was not him. My husband, still grieving deeply, struggled to feel excitement, and at times I feared I might lose him too. Yet, from the very first doctor’s appointment, I sensed that Finley would arrive on a significant day—June 2nd, her dad’s birthday. In my heart, I felt this shared day would forge a special bond between them.
On June 2nd, we arrived at the hospital for induction, only to discover that labor had already begun on its own. Finley, our moon throughout the pregnancy—the light in our darkness—was ready. At 9:42 p.m., she was born, perfectly healthy, on her dad’s birthday. My husband was overcome with emotion, the scene stirring memories of Finn, and it took him days to connect with Finley. I, on the other hand, cradled her immediately, feeling life return to me. Her bright eyes, so like her brother’s, looked straight at me. She needed me—but God knows, I needed her even more.
The first days were relentless. I couldn’t sleep, watching her chest rise and fall for seventy-two hours straight. Anxiety and intrusive fears swirled constantly in my mind. Even though genetic testing showed no risk of Finn’s aneurysm, we opted for a CT scan while still at the hospital. The hours waiting for results were excruciating. The nurses, who knew our story intimately, held us together when panic threatened to consume me. When the scan came back clear, peace finally settled over us—just a small glimmer in the storm of our grief.
Throughout this entire journey, my husband and I found a balance in our shared heartbreak. When he faltered, I was strong; when I crumbled, he steadied me. Finley’s arrival revealed that balance once more. At home, as he began to bond with our daughter, my heart broke all over again—this love for Finley was a painful reminder of Finn. Every quiet moment, every soft breath as I rocked her to sleep, echoed with the void left by her brother. Loving Finley meant reliving moments with Finn that we could no longer have, and yet, it was a bittersweet reminder that our hearts could still expand.
One pivotal moment etched in my memory was when my husband approached me during a particularly fragile moment. As I held newborn Finley, he shared unprompted that she had brought him joy and purpose again. In that instant, I knew we would be okay.
When Finley was six months old, we moved back to our hometown, leaving behind the home that had been filled with Finn’s presence. It was one of the hardest decisions, yet necessary to continue our healing. Being closer to family and friends offered support that made parenting after loss possible. The new home included a sunroom, which we dedicated to Finn—a space where his memory would remain part of our lives, easing the sorrow of leaving our old home behind.
The journey of parenting after loss continued to challenge us, especially as Finley reached milestones that Finn never would. A friend who had experienced child loss once told me that the weight lifts after the surviving child surpasses the age the lost child would have been. For me, that moment came on Finley’s first birthday. The overwhelming fear that had shadowed us since Finn’s passing melted away as we celebrated her life fully and joyfully. Seeing her shy, glowing face amid the celebration, I finally believed we get to keep her—we get to love her every day.
Recently, we went on our first family vacation, a trip I had dreamed of sharing with Finn. The beach was beautiful, yet bittersweet. But Finn, as always, found a way to be present. On our last morning, as we posed for family pictures, a rainbow appeared in the sky. Holding Finn’s photo next to it, I captured the moment—and later, others saw his face in the rainbow. In that moment, I knew he was there with us, as he always is.
When we first lost Finn, I heard that joy and pain can coexist. Since then, I’ve sought to test that truth, and I’ve found it to be real. Today, joy does outweigh the pain most days. Finley, our moonchild, our hope, our rainbow, fills the parts of our hearts that we feared would remain dark. She is everything we needed—a fiery, demanding, beautiful baby girl whose spirit ignites ours, giving us reason to look forward, not just behind.
