By Amy Catlin Wozniak 
I remember standing in a hospital hallway, phone in hand, when a text from my son, Ross, lit up the screen.
“Dax is here. Tell everyone, please.”
Those words undid me.
In that instant, I wasn’t just a mother anymore.
At that moment, something inside me expanded—like a door I hadn’t known existed swinging open, revealing a room in my heart I didn’t know I had. My hand went to my chest as tears surprised me, and I whispered a quiet thank you to God.
Minutes later, I watched my son holding his son with that dazed, protective awe brand-new fathers carry—time folded in on itself. Once, I had held Ross just like that—counting tiny fingers and catching a glimpse of an entire future in one glance.
Now he was doing the same.
When they placed Dax in my arms, my breath caught as his wide eyes searched the room, as if he were already taking stock of everything.
Wanting every moment I could get with him, I flew back and forth between Iowa and Ohio whenever I could, to watch him grow.
With Dax, my heart opened wide.
Two years later, Dax’s little brother, Slayde, joined our family.
If Dax brought wonder and wisdom, Slayde brought laughter—a way of being in the world that felt playful and bold.
But things had changed. I had changed.
Just as with Dax, a new room opened in my heart when Slayde arrived—but this time, it wasn’t empty. Grief was already there, filling the space with a weight I hadn’t expected.
Between Dax’s birth and Slayde’s, our family learned how joy and loss can coexist when we lost my stepson, Ryan, in a tragic accident.
During that time, the trips to Iowa slowed. I didn’t meet Slayde until he was nine months old.
When I did, I adored him. His laughter lit me up, and joy returned—but it didn’t rush in the way it once had.
Grief had rearranged my instincts. It taught me to hold joy a little farther from my chest—just in case.
Then, just as we were tiptoeing into the holiday season in 2024, we welcomed another grandson—Ryker.
I spent the week after his birth in South Carolina with my stepdaughter, Madison, helping in those tender, sleep-deprived early days of new motherhood. I reassured her when she second-guessed herself, and marveled at her mothering instincts—all entirely her own.
One night, I offered to stay up with Ryker while she caught up on much-needed sleep. I rocked him against my chest, his tiny body settling easily against mine, his breathing slowing into that soft, steady rhythm babies have when they feel safe. The warmth of him, the weight, the newborn scent—sweet and familiar—rose up and wrapped around me, grounding me in the moment.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt safe too.
Not because grief was gone, but because it wasn’t in charge.
In that quiet, as Ryker slept against my heart, I realized how carefully I had been loving—leaving just enough space to protect myself if grief came knocking again. But rocking him there, breathing in that soft baby scent, I stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. Grief had shaped me, yes—and always would—but it would not lead me anymore.
Holding him there, I made a decision I hadn’t known I needed to make: to stop holding back. To love these boys God had given me wildly and wholeheartedly, without reservation.
And when I kissed Ryker’s soft head one last time before boarding the plane home to Ohio, my heart cracked wide open.
Somewhere between that hospital hallway and a quiet night rocking Ryker, I realized something unexpected: some of us have learned to step into new love cautiously because the pain of loss and grief whispers warnings, urging us to stay just guarded enough to survive.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—loving with one foot planted, holding joy loosely, sensing your heart expand, but then stopping short, unsure if it’s safe to step all the way in.
But I’m learning this: our hearts are more resilient than we ever imagined, and we can choose to step forward—even if we must do so carrying the pieces of our broken hearts in our bare hands.
Because rooms built by love don’t need the space to be perfect, they simply need us to enter.
And when we do, God fills those places—generation after generation—with new beginnings, bold ideas, tiny masterpieces, soft baby smells—and love that asks us to open our hearts again and again—not because it’s safe, but because it’s worth choosing.
by Britt LeBoeuf 
by Vicki Bahr 
