The Day I Named My Sons

A Reflection on Belonging

Yesterday was one of the happiest days of my life.

A long and important chapter in our family story came to its conclusion. There were flowers, celebrations, cake, gifts, laughter, and the presence of people who had walked beside us during a significant journey. We spent time together outdoors, sharing gratitude for what had been achieved and for the family we had become.

It was a day I had imagined for a very long time.

Yet alongside the joy, something else was stirring.

On the same day, my GP confirmed that I had entered menopause.

One event marked a beginning.

Another marked an ending.

At the time, I did not realise how deeply those two experiences would become connected.

The celebration was beautiful. I was surrounded by people I love and respect. One particularly important person in my life was there, someone who has witnessed much of my journey and whose presence felt both comforting and significant. Seeing my children celebrated, loved, and supported filled me with gratitude.

But after the celebrations ended and life started returning to normal, something inside me continued to churn.

Both yesterday and today, I found myself eating chocolate repeatedly.

At first, I thought I was simply excited or tired.

Then I thought perhaps I was overwhelmed.

But neither explanation felt quite right.

The feeling was deeper than exhaustion.

It felt as though something inside me was boiling, trying to find a way to be expressed.

I also became aware of a sadness that arrived as the house grew quieter and family routines shifted again. The intensity of the celebration gave way to ordinary life, and in that quieter space I could suddenly hear emotions that had been waiting patiently underneath the noise.

Last night, the tears came.

Not because the day had been sad.

Not because I regretted anything that had happened.

The tears came because something that had remained buried for many years finally felt safe enough to emerge.

As I lay in bed, I found myself thinking about two children I had lost many years ago.

For most of my adult life, those losses had remained attached to the circumstances that surrounded them.

Fear.

Pressure.

Judgement.

Pain.

Trauma.

For many years, I carried those stories alongside the losses themselves.

What I realised for the first time was that I had never fully separated the children from the circumstances.

I had carried the stories.

I had carried the guilt.

I had carried the questions.

But I had not fully allowed myself to simply love the children.

Last night, something changed.

I gave them names.

Sky.

River.

Two boys.

As soon as I named them, the tears began to flow.

It felt as though they had been waiting years for recognition.

For years I carried guilt about Sky. A younger version of myself had been frightened, overwhelmed, and trying to make sense of circumstances that felt larger than she could hold.

With time and compassion, I can now see how unfairly I judged that younger version of myself.

She was doing the best she could with the resources, understanding, and support she had at the time.

She survived.

She coped.

She kept going.

Yet the guilt remained until I was finally able to see Sky not as a tragedy or a regret, but simply as a child I had loved and lost.

River carried a different story.

There were complicated circumstances and realities that felt impossible to navigate at the time.

For years I believed that because the situation was complex, my grief was somehow less legitimate.

Yesterday I realised how untrue that was.

Love and grief do not disappear because circumstances are complicated.

Love and grief do not disappear because there was relief.

What surprised me most was realising that relief and grief can live side by side.

I could feel compassion for the younger versions of myself who were doing the best they could.

I could feel relief that certain struggles had ended.

And I could also grieve the children who never had the opportunity to stay.

None of those feelings cancelled one another.

They simply existed together.

As I continued reflecting, my tears flowed, and I became aware of a deeper thread running through my life.

Themes of loss.

Themes of separation.

Themes of belonging.

Themes of adoption.

Stories of family members who were lost, separated, absent, or never fully known have shaped parts of my life in ways I am only beginning to understand.

And yet yesterday was a day about permanence.

About belonging.

About saying:

"You are here."

"You are family."

"You stay."

Perhaps that is why my heart reached backwards as well as forwards.

Perhaps before it could close one chapter, it needed to gather together every child who had touched my life.

The children I have raised.

The children I have loved.

The children I have lost.

The children I never had the chance to know.

Yesterday I realised that menopause was not simply an ending.

It was a threshold.

A moment of looking back across an entire reproductive life and acknowledging every part of it.

The dreams.

The heartbreaks.

The births.

The losses.

The unexpected blessings.

The children who arrived in different ways.

The children who did not stay.

As I reflected on the names, I noticed something else.

They all belonged to the same landscape.

Sky.

River.

Sea.

Star.

Rain.

Different journeys.

Different stories.

Yet connected.

The sky holding the stars.

The rain feeding the river.

The river flowing towards the sea.

A family constellation.

A reminder that love is not measured only by presence.

Some children are carried in our homes.

Some are carried in our memories.

All leave their mark upon our hearts.

Yesterday began as a celebration of one child becoming mine forever.

It ended with me acknowledging every child who has shaped my journey into motherhood.

For the first time, I allowed myself to name my sons.

For the first time, I allowed myself to grieve them.

For the first time, I allowed myself to love them separately from the circumstances surrounding their loss.

And something remarkable happened.

The chocolate was no longer needed.

The tears were enough.

The grief I had carried for years was never asking for answers.

It was asking to be seen.

And once it was seen, it could finally flow.

🌿

Dr Maliheh Taheri
M.A.L.I. Neuro-Somatic Practice

To protect the privacy and confidentiality of others, some personal details and identifying information have been altered, combined, or omitted. What remains is the emotional truth of this reflection. ❤️