You Were Bigger Than the Whole Sky
You Were Bigger Than the Whole Sky
By Nora Biette-Timons
In “You’re On Your Own, Kid,” a ballad about growing up and feeling alone, pop superstar Taylor Swift sings, “So make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it, you’ve got no reason to be afraid… You’re on your own kid, yeah, you can face this.” The song was never released as a single, and never received much specific publicity, but it immediately became a hit among Swift’s fans (known as Swifties), who admire her emotional, descriptive lyrics.
Legendary singer-songwriter Stevie Nicks counts herself among those fans. At a concert in May 2023, shortly after the death of her best friend and Fleetwood Mac bandmate Christine McVie, Nicks thanked Swift for writing “You’re On You’re Own, Kid,” saying it captured “the sadness of how I feel.” When Nicks attended Swift’s Eras Tour in Dublin, Swift played the song, and fan videos showed Nicks tearing up.
The song also inspired what’s become a global trend: the trading of friendship bracelets between audience members at each show. Many bear messages related to Swift’s discography; some make references to her personal life; some are more on the funny and crude side. Importantly, these bracelets are not for Swift herself — rather, they’re a sign of community.
The combination of friendship bracelets and the message that “You’re On You’re Own, Kid” has for some navigating grief came when Evermore’s founder, Joyal Mulheron, and her daughters went to the Eras Tour opening weekend in March 2023 — their first Taylor Swift concert ever. While waiting in line, Swifties gave Mulheron two friendship bracelets: one that read “EVERMORE” (coincidentally, also the name of one of Swift’s albums, which came out years after Evermore was established), and one with a simple “E,” for Eleanora, her daughter who died.
Months later, this symbolic exchange took on new meaning. Mulheron connected with Lexie Manion, a mental health advocate, to brainstorm ways to memorialize Ana Clara Benevides Machado, a Swift fan who died of heat and exhaustion at the Eras Tour in Rio de Janeiro in November. Reflecting on this meaningful moment months later, Manion suggested, “friendship bracelets!” It became clear that friendship bracelets were a fitting way to keep Machado’s memory alive.
Ana Machado would have turned 24 on July 22, and on that day, Evermore will remember her memory with a hashtag campaign on social media: #LoveIsForEvermore. Among the tweets will be a video honoring Machado, set to Swift’s “Long Live,” a poignant song about remembering loved ones. In recent months, Evermore has been in contact with Machado’s parents, Adriana Cristina da Silva Benevides and Weiny Machado, about this event honoring their daughter.
“For me, she will always be here, she is just traveling. She went to the ‘show of her life’ that’s how she said it. She would come back and tell me all the news about shows. We always talked about everything; we had no secrets. My BeneVIDA, Ana, my beloved daughter, my best friend who will never be forgotten. She infected everyone with her joy,” Adriana Benevides shared with Evermore. “I know that God did the best for her, but my mother’s heart suffers greatly in her absence. I always tell her, the day your heart stopped, half of me left with you, and the other half only exists. I love you daughter.”
“To me, losing a daughter was like losing my soul. The pain tears me apart every time you come to mind; it tears me apart not being able to save you; it tears me apart never hearing your voice again. My beloved daughter, I miss you so,” Weiny Machado said in a statement shared with Evermore. “I want to meet you again, but I know that I still have much to do, so I go on. It is not easy, but I continue for your sake. … Ana, you are my great love – my precious daughter – and I thank God for the wonderful time He allowed me to have you in my life.
We lost you
It has been over five years since we lost you.
When we found out we were having twins, we were so excited, overwhelmed and scared. From one of the very first ultrasounds, I was concerned that you were measuring smaller. The doctors tried to reassure me appointment after appointment and I tried to believe them and became easier as the first trimester came and went. We were in the “safe” zone of the second trimester, what could go wrong? We had a sneak peak ultrasound and found out we were having two girls! We joked about all of the tea parties and tutus in your dad’s future.
At the anatomy scan, we saw two healthy girls. You were still smaller, but I knew you were a fighter. This time you were the one who kicking your sister, Harper. Your dad and I laughed. And that was the last time I saw you. Thank you for that memory.
Three weeks later, our world came crashing down.
I immediately knew something was wrong as soon as the ultrasonographer started taking your measurements. I couldn’t bare to watch any longer and turned to your dad with tears rolling down my face. He was confused until he heard the words no parent should even have to hear, “There is no heart beat”.
We went home, in shock, and just cried. I felt sick. I don’t understand what happened or why it happened. I don’t think I ate or showered for days. I didn’t want to be pregnant anymore, feeling your sister kick and move was a constant reminder of what we lost. The next 17 weeks were a struggle. Grieving for you and trying to stay strong for Harper felt impossible to balance. I hated carrying your lifeless body but then I came to realize as long as I stayed pregnant, I had you with me. On your birthday, your sister stole the spot light and was whisked away to the NICU, so your father and I didn’t have proper goodbye like we had hoped. I wish that entire day went differently. We should have welcomed both of you into the world.
As time goes on, Harper asks more questions about you. She knows she has a very special guardian angel keeping her safe. She tells Aubrey, your younger sister, all about you.
When I look at Harper and Aubrey, I can’t help but think what you would have looked like and how you should be here playing and giggling along with the two of them.
Some days are easier and some are harder, but not a day goes by that we don’t think of you and miss you.
Our time was cut entirely too short but I am so grateful for every day I had with you and blessed that you chose me to be your mom. You helped me to become a mother and not take those little moments for granted. You were and will always be so loved. We miss you tremendously, Brynn.
Love,
Mommy
Protecting Students Abroad
Grief, it doesn’t change in size…
Your life is a box, and this grief is a box inside that box, and it’s occupying a large portion of it. And as life continues, the bigger box gets bigger and that grief, it doesn’t change in size. It’s still there, but there’s just more room in your life, other aspects of it.”
— Chris
You can’t stay in the dark place
I don’t even know where to begin.
In 1987, when I was 20, I was in a bad car accident. My 3-year-old daughter, who was with me, was shaken up and had two black eyes, but otherwise seemed all right. Someone called my parents and my mom took me to the hospital. I was 38 weeks pregnant.
The hospital staff did a cursory exam and told me everything was fine, in spite of the bruise developing across my large belly. Go home. Rest. You’re fine, they advised. I did as I was told. But the next morning, I knew everything was not okay. I called my doctor, who had me come in immediately. He examined me and said the baby no longer had a heartbeat. I was sent to the hospital for an ultrasound, which confirmed the worst. My full-term son, Jonathon, who was perfectly healthy the day before, was dead.
The decision was made to induce labor. I was in shock, not understanding what was happening. Was I really going to have to endure labor and delivery to bear a child who would never take a breath? I was sobbing and in great pain. I kept telling the nurses that the baby was coming now—I could feel it—but they said it was just pressure and that I needed to relax. I’m sure they thought I was just young and hysterical, which I was, but I knew my body, and I knew the baby’s arrival was imminent.
Within minutes the doctor delivered my son and the nurses took him. They weighed him and cleaned him and did all the things they do with a brand new baby. It would have seemed totally normal if not for the deafening silence in the room. Unable to comprehend what was happening, I couldn’t stop shaking. The nurses piled heated blankets on me, gave me some medicine and told me everything would be fine. They wrapped my son in a blanket and laid him in my arms. He was beautiful, with dark hair and a round face. He was perfect, in fact, except he wasn’t breathing and never would. I would never know what color his eyes were, what his voice would sound like, how tall he would be and so many other things.
I couldn’t understand why a loving God let this happen. Why this baby boy would not get to grow up, and why I had to suffer such excruciating pain. I wouldn’t understand for years.
The nurses said they needed to take my son to the morgue. So I did as I was told and handed him over. They repeated the litany of intended comfort that grieving parents routinely hear: that everything is going to be okay, that things happen for a reason, that my baby was in a better place, and that God never gives us more than we can handle. So I went home and picked out a casket and an outfit to bury my son in. And after the funeral, I changed my clothes and moved on like I was expected to do.
Just a few minutes ago, while typing this, I realized that this is the first time I have told this story in any detail. And it all came back to me as if it happened yesterday. There are people who know I lost a son, and I have discussed some of this with my daughters, but I never walked through it in my mind the way I’ve done just now.
Looking back, I never questioned what I was told to do or how I was “supposed” to feel. I just did what people said I should and I thought it was okay. But now, this very minute, I realize it was not.
I had thought I didn’t deserve to grieve, that I wasn’t permitted to feel great loss. Maybe because my pregnancy was an accident, maybe because I was going to give the baby up for adoption? I had chosen a lovely couple to raise him and we had discussed how he would grow up and what kind of relationship we wanted to maintain. Because of that, I felt I didn’t have the right to grieve my son’s death. But I didn’t want to share the loss with them either. I felt guilty for not being able to give them the child they wanted, and selfish for wanting to keep the pain all to myself.
I have lived with these feelings for 28 years.
Thirteen months after my son’s death, I gave birth to my second daughter. I needed her, longed for her. She soothed my soul. Later on, I had twins—in all, four daughters who brought love and joy into the world. They were my breath and the beat of my heart. I raised them by myself for the most part and watched them grow into beautiful young women with children of their own.
One day, when my second daughter was about five months pregnant with her first child, I got a phone call. Something was wrong with the baby. The doctors weren’t sure what, and my daughter was understandably scared. She lived in another state, so I cut short a business trip and flew there that day. There was a series of tests and an excruciating wait for answers, none of which were encouraging. My daughter and her husband decided to continue the pregnancy, knowing their son would have complications, but not sure to what extent.
Two months later I got a call saying the baby was coming. It was too soon! I hoped for the best but anticipated the worst as I again flew to her bedside. As she struggled to breath, I prayed that she and the baby could hold out a bit longer to give him a better chance at life.
But it was time. They rushed her to the operating room and I called my oldest daughter. We waited together on the phone in silence, praying that we’d hear a baby cry or that a nurse would come out and calm our fears. “Wait! Wait!” I cried out at one point. “I heard a cry. Maybe everything will be okay.” When a nurse did emerge, I asked if that was our baby and was he all right. “No ma’am,” she replied. “He has been delivered but he didn’t cry. He is on a ventilator. He was having trouble breathing and the parents requested all measures be taken to save his life.”
So while my daughter was brought to recovery, my grandson was taken to the NICU, without much hope of survival. I went to be with her. She smiled bravely and talked about how beautiful he was, and we cried a little. Eventually she was moved to a room on “the quiet side” of the maternity ward. The side where you didn’t hear babies cry 24/7 and the hall wasn’t filled with flowers, balloons and beaming parents. The side where no one ever wanted to be because doctors spoke in terms of feeding tubes, ventilators and hours, not coos, swaddling blankets and years. The side where nurses’ faces conveyed compassion, not joy.
Over the next 48 hours, we learned that the baby had a rare genetic disorder and would never breathe on his own. I realized then that because God had taken my son all those years ago, I could help my daughter now, making sure that she was allowed to feel and do whatever she needed to feel and do. So she would never have to feel the way I did.
When I lost my son, my family and friends didn’t talk about it. It was just something that happened, and you got over it and moved on. I never felt this was the right thing to do, but I was so young and traumatized that I never questioned it. It was simply what you did.
My daughter’s experience was very different, right from the start. Her doctors talked to her and her husband about their baby and what was going to happen, and they were asked how they wanted to proceed. My daughter was allowed to set her own timeline. She was able to hold her son and sing to him for as long as she wanted. No one insisted on taking him away. She got to dress him, whisper in his ear and rub his fingers and toes. We all rocked him and told him how much he was loved. Thanks to an incredible group called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, she now has the most beautiful pictures of him. And he hospital staff made her a memory box containing his bracelet and blanket.
After his death two days later, I helped with funeral arrangements. Once again, I was picking out a tiny casket. But I spoke with my daughter on the phone and described them to her could decide. I also bought several outfits so she could choose what her baby would be buried in.
Most importantly, I told her it was okay to be sad, even angry, and that she didn’t have to “get over it”—that she could talk about it as much and for as long as she wanted. I also shared with her that her arms would ache to hold her baby, and that the empty feeling was never going to go away. It would get easier to live with, but it would never disappear. And I said that even though she felt she couldn’t go on living, she could … and would.
I didn’t want my daughter to suffer as I had. And in trying to ease her pain, I gained insight into my own. I had always anguished over why my son was taken. There had to be a reason for such unimaginable tragedy. It was only with my grandson’s death that I could accept that there was no reason, no explaining the inexplicable. But in losing my own son, God had made me better able to love and support my daughter through the loss of hers. It wasn’t an explanation, but it was a great comfort.
One might think my story would stop here, but it doesn’t. Seventeen months ago, my 2½-year-old grandson died. His mom, the same daughter who lost her newborn, had put her toddler down for a nap, but he got up and somehow managed to pull a dresser over on himself, crushing his chest.
When I got to their house, five minutes away, paramedics were rushing in. My daughter was standing in the yard covered in her son’s blood, horror reflected in her eyes. This is where I have to stop because that loss is still too fresh and painful for me to go into detail about it.
But here is the takeaway for other families who have lost a child: You can’t stay in the dark place. It chews you up, swallows you, spits you out and then chews you up again. You have to know that there’s light on the other side, and that you can get there.
Yes, you’re overwhelmed, so deep in your grief that you can’t see outside of it. But it’s okay to talk about it. Don’t try to pretend that this never happened. People need to know that they can have a fulfilling life after experiencing the loss of a child. You don’t forget it. It never goes away. But you do survive.
Thank you for this opportunity to express myself. I hope my voice in some way can help others find theirs during a most difficult time.
Jen
Prairieville, LA