The High Chair

(Not quite 10 years without Isaiah)

I wasn’t looking for Isaiah.

I wasn’t digging through old photos.

I wasn’t listening to sad music.

I wasn’t even thinking about anniversaries, or timelines, or what January means.

I was just… at his grandparents' house.

Just there.

And then I saw it.

The high chair.

Not broken.

Not dusty.

Not tucked away like something forgotten.

Still there.

Still standing.

Still useful.

Still… being passed down.

From grandchild to grandchild to grandchild.

Like joy has this smooth, uninterrupted lineage in our family.

And maybe it does.

For everyone else.

But for me?

That high chair isn’t just a chair.

It’s a doorway.

It’s a trigger wrapped in wood and memories.

It’s a silent sermon that doesn’t need a pulpit.

It’s a reminder that time keeps moving even when part of my heart has been standing still.

And I stood there staring at it… too long.

Too quiet.

Too frozen.

Because the moment I saw it, Isaiah came rushing in — not physically, not in flesh, not in the way I want him to.

But in memory.

And the memories didn’t knock.

They flooded.

I saw his little face.

His little hands.

His little legs.

His little cheeks.

His little everything.

I remembered that he wasn’t in that chair long.

Just until he was about two.

Because then his baby sister came.

And he “graduated.”

He moved up from the high chair like a big boy… and went to the table with a booster seat.

And I remember how proud he looked.

I remember thinking,

“My baby is growing.”

I remember how normal it all felt.

How safe it all felt.

How sure I was that I had time.

I didn’t know I was watching a scene I’d spend the rest of my life replaying.

I didn’t know that one day… a chair would be all I’d have left of certain versions of him.

Because Isaiah didn’t die in that high chair.

He passed away years after he stopped using it.

But grief doesn’t care about technicalities.

Grief isn’t logical like that.

Grief ties itself to whatever it can find.

And that high chair… that high chair is stained with “before.”

It’s soaked with the sound of laughter I don’t get to hear anymore.

And what broke me right there in that moment was this:

That chair has kept living.

It has held child after child after child.

Little legs kicking.

Little hands grabbing.

Little voices demanding snacks.

Little mouths making messes.

And my mind knows that’s beautiful.

But my heart?

My heart keeps whispering:

“Isaiah used to sit there.”

I kept staring at it, and it felt like the chair was taunting me without saying a word.

Like it was reminding me that other people get to keep watching their sons grow.

Other people get to see their boys turn into teenagers.

Other people get to roll their eyes at puberty.

Other people get to complain about sports schedules.

Other people get to take pictures before prom.

Other people get to say, “Lord, he’s getting so tall.”

And I don’t.

Because Isaiah would be in high school right now.

High school.

My son would’ve been walking the halls with a backpack.

He would’ve been taller than me… probably eating everything in sight, running through the house like a growing boy does.

He would’ve had opinions.

He would’ve had jokes.

He would’ve had friends.

He would’ve had a whole life unfolding.

But instead…

I have memories.

Instead…

I have a chair.

And I hate that.

I hate that grief has turned me into somebody who can’t just see a chair as a chair.

I hate that joy can live in the room but pain always finds a way to sit down too.

I hate that my love for my son still has nowhere to go.

And I need to say the part people don’t like.

The part that makes grief uncomfortable.

The part that makes people change the subject.

For years… I avoided little boys.

Not because I don’t love them.

Not because I don’t want them around.

But because little boys look like Isaiah in the places my heart can’t handle.

Little boys sound like him in the places my soul can’t brace for.

I’ve spent years doing this silent dance where I’m smiling on the outside, but inside I’m fighting tears because a child ran past me laughing.

I’ve spent years watching other people’s sons grow up while trying not to fall apart at every birthday party.

And it feels so ugly to say out loud.

But it’s true.

Because grief makes you flinch at joy sometimes.

It makes you want to run from reminders.

It makes you hold your breath around things that feel too close to what you lost.

And the crazy part is… I love so many of the little boys in my world.

I love them for real.

I love their energy.

Their sweetness.

Their loudness.

Their tenderness.

Their “boyhood.”

And if I’m honest?

Sometimes I live through them.

I watch them grow and I cheer for them — because somebody should.

Because life should keep thriving.

But at the same time…

They remind me of what I don’t get.

They remind me of what was stolen.

Because it doesn’t matter how much time passes…

A mother still knows what she’s missing.

And then life did what life does:

It kept going.

And the newest little boy in the family was born.

Born in June — the same month as Isaiah.

And I know he brings joy.

I know he does.

He’s innocent.

He’s beautiful.

He’s a gift.

I can see that.

I can even say that.

But I need to tell the truth:

"It’s mixed for me."

Because I can feel joy… and grief… in the same breath.

I can celebrate… and ache… in the same moment.

I can smile… and feel that deep sting right behind it.

Because every new baby is proof that time moves forward.

And every new baby is also proof that Isaiah isn’t coming back.

And I’m still working through holding him.

I’m still working through reconciling my head, my heart, and my tears.

Because my head says, “This baby deserves pure love.”

My heart says, “But I miss my son so bad.”

And my tears?

My tears don’t ask permission.

They just show up.

And I feel guilty even writing that.

I feel guilty even admitting that it takes time to hold him.

Because people think grief should be “over” after a certain number of years.

But grief like this doesn’t end.

It doesn’t disappear.

It just becomes part of you.

It becomes the background music of your life.

Some days it’s quiet.

Some days it’s screaming.

And this January makes ten years.

Ten years since Isaiah passed away.

Ten years since I last got to touch him.

Ten years since I last got to hear his voice.

Ten years since I last got to be his mother in the physical way mothers are mothers.

Ten years of carrying a love that has nowhere to land.

And yes — I believe in God.

Yes — I trust God.

Yes — I know heaven is real.

But faith doesn’t cancel grief.

Faith doesn’t erase the ache.

Faith doesn’t stop a high chair from making you collapse inside.

If anything, faith just gives you somewhere to take the pain.

Because sometimes the only prayer I have left is:

“Lord… you know.”

You know what it’s like to watch other people’s children grow.

You know what it’s like to smile when you want to scream.

You know what it’s like to miss what could’ve been.

You know what it’s like to love somebody you can’t reach.

And maybe that’s why the chair feels so heavy.

Because it doesn’t just remind me of Isaiah.

It reminds me of all the versions of him I never got to meet.

The teenager.

The high schooler.

The young man.

The version of my son that time promised me…

and then taken away.

So yes.

I stood there staring at that high chair.

And I remembered.

And I cried —inside -- not the cute kind.

The real kind.

The kind grief pulls out of you when it wants to remind you that you’re still human.

The kind that says:

“I’m still your mother.”

Even if the world doesn’t see him.

Even if the chair has been filled by other children.

Even if the years keep turning.

I won’t get his high school pictures.

I won’t get his football games.

I won’t get his graduation day.

I won’t get to complain about homework or curfews.

I won’t get the pleasure of watching my son become who he would’ve become.

Instead…

I face the high chair.

And I carry the love anyway.

And if I’m honest, sometimes the hardest part about grief isn’t the day you lose them — it’s every day after, when the world keeps moving like nothing happened. Bills still come. People still laugh. Babies still get born. Birthdays still get celebrated. The sun still rises like it didn’t just witness your life split in two. Everybody keeps talking about what’s next, what’s coming, what’s new… and you’re standing there trying to understand how the world could possibly keep spinning when the person you loved isn’t in it anymore.

Because that first day — that day you lose them — people show up. People call. People check on you. People send food. People cry with you. People say all the right things, or at least they try. But it’s after… when the cards stop coming, when the phone gets quiet, when everyone goes back to their routine — it’s after when the real grief shows itself. When your loss becomes your private language. When your sadness becomes something you carry in your purse like your keys. When you learn how to smile in public and fall apart in the car.

And you start realizing grief isn’t a moment. It’s a life.

A life where you learn how to keep functioning with a missing piece.

A life where you learn how to be present in rooms where you feel absent.

A life where you keep loving someone you can’t hold.

So there I was… standing in front of a high chair trying not to fall apart. Trying to act normal. Trying to swallow the lump in my throat and keep my composure like I’m not a mother with a hole in her heart. But grief doesn’t care about your composure. Grief doesn’t care who’s watching. Grief will take one look at a high chair — and turn it into a memorial.

Because somehow love like this still lives in you… even when the person you’re loving isn’t here to receive it.

And that might be the cruelest part.

Because my love didn’t die when Isaiah died.

It didn’t pack up and leave.

It didn’t shrink.

It didn’t “move on.”

It’s still here.

Still mothering.

Still remembering.

Still reaching for someone who can’t reach back.

Instead, I’m left with a high chair… and time.

And time is disrespectful, because it keeps moving forward even when your heart is stuck in reverse.

So when people see me smiling, let them understand this: I am not “over it.”

I have simply learned how to carry it.

Because losing Isaiah didn’t just change my life… it changed the way I look at life. It changed the way I love. It changed the way I breathe. It changed the way I hold other people’s joy with trembling hands. And still, somehow… I’m here. Still standing. Still believing. Still mothering in a way most people will never understand.

And if you take nothing else from this… take this:

My love still lives. And so does my grief.