When the world paints its faces, we remember in silence

photo by ocean wahl

There are days the world feels louder than others. Days when color sits boldly on the surface of grief, when candles glow against the dark, when the living speak the names of the dead without flinching. Día de los Muertos ot the Day of the Dead is one of those days.

I first discovered the Day of the Dead after watching Coco, and something in me cracked open, the realization that I never wanted my baby, or any of my loved ones, to fade into silence. I didn’t want their memories to blur or disappear. I wanted to remember them, boldly and beautifully, for as long as I live.

And even if you do not grow up celebrating it, even if the traditions are not yours, the meaning has a way of reaching you.

Because grief has its own borderless language.
Because remembrance belongs to all of us.
Because love refuses to die, even when our loved ones do.

The Day of the Dead is not about morbidity or fear. It is not about haunting. It is about presence. It is about saying: You were here. You mattered. You are still loved.

It is about pulling up a chair for the ones who left too soon, believing that our connection to them doesn’t end. It only changes.

When you’ve lost a baby  whether in pregnancy, infancy, or childhood, there is a strange weight to remembrance. The world tends to rush you along, to tell you it’s time to “move forward,” to tuck your love into a drawer where no one can see it. 

Ceremonies for lost babies often feel either too small or painfully incomplete. People don’t know how to speak about a life that was so brief, or one that never took a breath. There is a silence around baby loss that feels like erasure.

But then comes this day, this vibrant, unapologetic day, where an entire culture declares that memory is sacred. That love continues. That absence is not the end of the story.

You might not build an ofrenda in your home.
You might not light orange marigolds or leave sugar skulls by the window.
But the spirit of Día de los Muertos whispers something universal:

You are allowed to remember your baby.
You are allowed to say their name.
You are allowed to love them loudly.

The Day of the Dead is a reminder that grief and joy can coexist. You can honor the tiny soul you lost without drowning. You can celebrate the love that remains without betraying the pain. You can speak about your baby in the present tense. You can say they are still a part of me, and mean it.

Some parents who have experienced loss may mark the day quietly.
Lighting a candle no one else sees.
Setting out a tiny object that symbolizes a life too delicate for this world.
Holding their baby in their thoughts with intention rather than ache.

Others may simply allow themselves to remember without guilt.
Without apology.
Without the need for permission.

Because this day gives us permission.

It reminds us that the dead are not gone, not in the ways that matter. That love is a bridge between worlds. That grief is simply love that has no place to go, so we create one.

A small altar on the shelf.
A memory in the heart.
A story whispered into the quiet.

If you are grieving a baby this year, whether the loss was recent or many years old, you are not alone in this day of remembering. Your way of honoring them can be as traditional or as personal as you need it to be. There is no right shape for remembrance.

Only this truth:
Your baby lived.
Your baby is loved.
Your baby is remembered.

And in this season when candles glow and marigold paths are imagined between this world and the next, may you feel—if only for a moment—that the distance between you and your little one is not quite so wide.

May your grief have space.
May your love have light.
May your remembering be gentle.

As the world honors its dead.
Quietly, lovingly, so do you.

Is there a season, or holiday, or ritual that makes you feel the distance between you and your baby shorten, even for a moment?