A person writes in a lined notebook with a orange pen, with a cup of tea or coffee, and a patterned black and white bandana on the table.

Amy E. Butterworth

Tracing the threads that connect us

Meet Amy

Amy E. Butterworth is a mother and writer whose work explores the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of love that reaches beyond death.

After her daughter died, writing became both refuge and reflection—a way to make sense of the unimaginable while remaining open to wonder. Her work considers how sorrow and beauty coexist, how meaning is shaped in the wake of death, and how the stories we tell help us endure, heal, and find our way forward. 

Amy lives in Massachusetts with her husband and their two living children.

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My Body Exonerated

What began as a journal entry became my first-place submission in the Unsealed Writing Challenge. A reflection on the birth and death of our daughter, and the enduring impact she has had on my relationship with my body.


What began as a journal entry became my first-place submission in the Unsealed Writing Challenge. A reflection on the birth and death of our daughter, and the enduring impact she has had on my relationship with my body.

Read My Body Exonerated

The Essay

The Conversation

In this Unsealed Conversations podcast, I talk with host Lauren Brill about Cindy Sue’s birth and death, what came after, and the ways her life continues to shape mine.


Listen to the Conversation

Unexpectedly, the hardest part came when our ten-year-old son asked to read the essay about my body. A video reflection on what it means to share the truths we usually keep private —and to let the people we love read them.

Read The Hardest Reader

The Reflection

A woman with blonde and brown wavy hair, wearing a light blue shirt, sitting at a dark wooden table with a silver Dell laptop, a white mug, a notebook, and a pen, in front of a floral wallpaper background.

“Grief has run through my life like thread through fabric: at times gossamer, thin and barely there, other times weaving, thick, clumsy, darns across the rips.” — Clare Mackintosh, I promise It Won’t Always Hurt Like This

“If life is just a passage, then in this passage we should at least plant flowers.” — Valerie Perrin,  Freshwater for Flowers

“The colors of the sky are the same when the sun rises as when it disappears.” — Nina Riggs, The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying

Walking with Grief

Support and Practices

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