By Daphne Bach Greer 
It was a Sunday evening. I was alone, scrolling through Netflix, searching for something, anything, to fill the quiet. Then I stumbled upon a documentary I had no clue existed, called All the Empty Rooms. After reading the description, my heart immediately went out to all the parents who contributed to this film, and to the man behind it, Steve Hartman, whose compassionate heart radiates in every frame.
One statement he said hit me like a freight train: “What we need to talk about is the child that’s not here anymore.” Period. Powerful truth.
Curiously, I started watching. Then I turned it off, unsure I was emotionally prepared for what I was about to feel.
I sat there imagining Lydia’s room, how it used to be. Still holding a secret longing of regret from moving from that house, because if I hadn’t, her room would still be intact to this day. I have no doubt about it. Being forced to move made me face her bedroom, the scariest thing I ever had to do.
Seventeen years ago, my then-counselor suggested I go in there a little bit each day—five minutes, then 10 minutes the next day, as much as I could bear. I didn’t go into Lydia’s room for nearly a year. I just couldn’t face it. The pain was overwhelming.
When it came time for me to conquer her room, my caring counselor suggested I take a pen and paper and write down everything I saw, everything I touched—just document it all. She told me it might be a magical experience where I would feel so close to Lydia. I was petrified. But she was right. To this day, I can still envision every detail, grateful for this experience.
I turned the documentary back on. Watching it brought all of that flooding back. CBS reporter Steve Hartman, who worked on this CBS broadcast about the empty bedrooms of children killed in school shootings, took on something so heavy, so powerful.
The photographer, Lou Bopp, had never done a project like this before. He gently and gracefully captured the beauty and personality of these children through pictures of their bedrooms. The photos. The bedspreads. The artwork. The dirty laundry. The stuffed animals. Treasures still underneath beds, untouched.
These parents, anxious yet willing to share their children, are nothing short of brave. Beyond brave.
Her name was Hallie; she was 9. Her name was Gracie; she was 15. So many precious children. These families are sharing their children and their lives, hoping to impact other families, hoping that somehow, their unimaginable pain might provide insight and prevent another parent from joining this club no one wants to belong to.
Some moments absolutely pierced my heart. Steve Hartman held a phone in his hands, watching a video of a little girl getting her hair done. The tears fell from everyone sitting around the table. The pain in these parents’ hearts is palpable. You can feel it. You can almost touch it. It’s right there. There’s no hiding it. There’s no camouflage.
One family has a stuffed animal that plays their daughter’s voice. Oh, I would give anything to have that.
The photographer respectfully removed his shoes before entering each room. He also shared something profound, that he takes pictures of his own daughter every morning, just to capture the moment and see her grow, because you just never know.
Child loss. People like to tune it out. Go numb. It’s easier to try to ignore it than to feel the pain of the reality. But these families are confronting the unimaginable and bringing it to the forefront. They’re immersing themselves in a surreal world they never knew existed, merging grief with purpose.
Their children’s hairbrushes. Leftover toothpaste. Artwork. Crayons. Makeup. Photographs of the last things they touched.
The filmmakers did their best to grasp and capture the enormity of the echoes of absence. A job well done.
To every family who has faced that empty room, thank you for this documentary. Thank you for reminding us that our children’s rooms are sacred spaces, reflections of lives that mattered, that continue to matter.
This is a picture of Lydia’s room, exactly how she left it before she went to heaven. I will always have it. A sacred space, frozen in time, full of color and life and her beautiful spirit. And now I know I’m not alone in treasuring that photograph like the precious artifact it is.
In memory of all the children who are gone. Rest in peace, sweet souls. Your rooms, your stories, your lives, they will always matter.
Originally published on the author’s Facebook page
Learn about Steve Hartman’s documentary here:
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