Build Yourself Bigger Around the Hole

A few months ago, RFK Jr. shared a reflection on grief that has lingered with me. At a memorial, he recounted asking his mother, Ethel Kennedy—who had endured profound losses—whether the hole left by a loved one’s death ever shrinks.

She replied: “No, it never gets any smaller. But our job is to build ourselves bigger around the hole. We do that by taking the best virtues and character traits of the person we lost, using discipline and restraint and practice to integrate those traits into our own character. In doing that, we make ourselves larger, the hole gets proportionately smaller, and we give that person a kind of immortality—because the best parts of them live on in us.”

At first, her words sparked frustration in me. They felt tailored to those who had lived long, full lives and left behind clear legacies of kindness, courage, or wisdom. But what about my son, Lucas? I lost him at 39 weeks to stillbirth—he never drew a breath outside my body, never spoke a word, never revealed himself through years of shared moments. The void he left is vast and uncharted. How do I grow around such emptiness when our time together was so brief?

Yet the more I sat with the question, the more I realized Lucas did show me parts of his character, even in utero. They were quiet gifts, but real.

Lucas was considerate and easygoing. Throughout my pregnancy, I experienced almost no morning sickness—a small mercy I credit partly to him. He seemed to inherit his father’s love for beef and potatoes, proudly nodding to his father’s Irish roots. Like his dad, Lucas never fussed over foods he didn’t prefer; whatever I ate, he accepted with grace, making those nine months gentler than they might have been.

He had a playful sense of humor. At our 20-week ultrasound, he turned the scan into a game of hide-and-seek. When the technician finally found him, he raised one tiny arm, flexing a minuscule bicep as if to announce, “Look, Mom and Dad—I’m strong, and I’m ready for the world!”

He was attentive and responsive. Near 24 weeks, I faced a glucose screening test. The first round required no fasting, but my levels came back slightly elevated, so a follow-up was scheduled and fasting was required.

Fasting while pregnant felt cruel—for both of us. In the exam room, as the nurse drew blood, I patted my belly and whispered, “My dear little boy, I know you’re hungry and uncomfortable. Please help Mommy pass this test. As soon as it’s over, I promise we’ll have a big feast.”

I drank the glucose solution, endured the timed blood draws, and—thankfully—passed. Starving, we stopped at Chick-fil-A on the way home. I devoured two chicken sandwiches, feeling Lucas’s quiet cooperation in every bite.

These glimpses—his thoughtfulness, his humor, his willingness to meet me in small hardships—are the virtues he left me. They aren’t grand public legacies, but they are intimate, daily ones. I can choose to cultivate them: to be more gracious with what life serves me, to find lightness in hard moments, to listen attentively when someone I love is struggling.

By weaving these traits into my own character—with intention, discipline, and practice—I grow larger around the hole Lucas left. The emptiness remains, as Ethel Kennedy said it would. But it becomes less defining. And in that expansion, Lucas lives on—not in abstract memory, but in the way I move through the world.

This is how I honor him. This is how I keep building. If this resonates with you—whether you've lost a child, a sibling, a parent, or anyone dear—perhaps it’s a gentle invitation: look for the quiet gifts your loved one left, even if they were brief. Claim them. Grow them in yourself. The hole stays, but you become bigger, stronger, and more alive around it. In that way, love endures.