Our new school yearbook stirred up unexpected grief

Yearbooks are like mirrors that give us a glimpse into the past. As a teacher, I love looking at them. During the school year, I’m so focused on the daily ins and outs of teaching my students that I often feel like I’m on autopilot. Sitting down with that year’s yearbook gives me time to relive many moments from school and soak in the memories. Plus, it’s always been fun to see what my children have been up to while I’ve been focused on my class.

This year, I’ve had an even harder time living in the moment. Since the death of my 9-year-old daughter Austen, who last summer passed away from complications of Dravet syndrome, I’ve relied on school to keep my mind off of missing her. I thought that the busier I stayed, the less it would hurt.

I was wrong, of course. Pushing down my grief allows it to build up, and then, like a volcano, it explodes when the pressure gets too high. Usually, I can hold that off until I’m lying in bed at night, alone with my thoughts. But every once in a while, it spills out at less opportune times.

A few days ago, I was handed my new school yearbook.

Recommended Reading

March 4, 2025 News by Marisa Wexler, MS

Stoke, Biogen team to advance zorevunersen for Dravet patients

This year, I didn’t flip through the book to see what Austen and Atlas, her 11-year-old brother, had been up to during their school days. Atlas has moved to a different campus in the district, and Austen passed away a month before school started. I also couldn’t bring myself to search for pictures of my students. Instead, I turned straight to the very last page, which was reserved in memory of my girl.

It wasn’t a shock. I knew there would be a memorial page for her this year. The teacher in charge of the yearbook had asked me to help pick out photos of Austen, and I even gave final approval for the text as well.

The page is full of photos of Austen at the beach, as a baby with her stuffed bunny, in her Halloween costume here at school, and of me and her during a soccer game. It talks about how she was a cherished and loved student here at school, and how good of a friend she was to anyone who met her.

It’s a perfect tribute to my girl, and I will cherish it forever. But something about seeing it there, in print, in a physical book, got to me. I started crying, and once I started I couldn’t stop. The floodgates had been opened; the dam had been breached.

I cried the rest of the day at school and in the car on the way home. I cried myself to sleep and woke up the next morning still wanting to cry. But I collected myself, got dressed, and went back to work. I can’t stop — I have a classroom full of preschoolers who depend on me each day, and three more children at home who need me as well. If I stop, I feel like I’m letting them down.

For now, the yearbook has been put in a wooden chest along with other special items of Austen’s, including last year’s yearbook. Maybe this summer, when I have some time alone, I’ll pull it out. Maybe then, through what I’m sure will be many tears, I’ll be able to look back and soak in some memories. And I’ll always know that this school loved my girl — just as much as she loved it.

Note: Dravet Syndrome News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Dravet Syndrome News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to Dravet syndrome.

Print This Article