Introduction:
my son was born still. These five words carry a weight that cannot be measured. They hold the silence of a moment that was meant to be full of cries, of life, of first breaths and endless possibilities. Instead, that moment arrved wrapped in unbearable stillness. This is not just a recounting of grief—it is a testimony to love, to loss, and to the journey no parent ever expects to take. I am writing this for him, for me, and for others who have stood at the same aching edge of parenthood.
1. The Pregnancy That Gave Me Hope
From the very beginning, my pregnancy was filled with hope, dreams, and all the joyful anticipation that comes with the news of new life. I remember every flutter, every ultrasound, and every moment I whispered to him through my growing belly. I planned for his room, imagined the sound of his laughter, and thought endlessly about what kind of person he might become. There were sleepless nights filled with name searches and mornings spent wondering what he would look like. Each day was a step closer to meeting him. There was never a doubt in my mind that I would be bringing my baby home. The bond I formed with my son in those months was real, deep, and filled with the purest kind of love. That’s what makes what followed even more devastating.
2. The Day Everything Changed
Nothing prepares you for the moment when the doctor can’t find a heartbeat. Time seems to freeze, and yet it crashes down on you all at once. I went into the hospital expecting reassurance, expecting to hear that everything was fine. But instead, I was met with quiet urgency, somber faces, and machines that offered no comfort. The world around me began to collapse in slow motion as I tried to comprehend what I was hearing. I had to deliver my son, knowing he would not cry, would not move, would not live outside of me. The fear, the pain, the overwhelming sorrow—it all blended into one long, unbearable nightmare that I could not wake up from.
3. Meeting My Son
Though he never took a breath, my son was real. Holding him for the first and only time was the most beautiful and heartbreaking moment of my life. He was perfect in every way—tiny fingers, delicate features, and a presence that filled the room with a kind of sacred silence. I studied his face, kissed his forehead, and tried to memorize every part of him because I knew our time together was painfully short. I talked to him, told him how much he was loved, and held him close as if I could will life back into his body. That day gave me the only memories I will ever have with him, and though they are soaked in grief, they are also precious. He may not have lived, but he was loved deeply and completely.
4. The Grief That Followed
Grief after stillbirth is not just about mourning a death; it’s about mourning a future. It’s the toys that won’t be played with, the milestones that will never come, the birthdays with no candles to blow out. It is waking up each day to the deafening quiet of what should have been. I found myself surrounded by a world that moved on quickly while I remained suspended in sorrow. Friends and family tried to help, but often didn’t know what to say—or said too much, or too little. It’s a lonely kind of grief, one that society doesn’t always know how to acknowledge. There were days I couldn’t get out of bed, and nights when I cried until I had no tears left. But in the depths of that darkness, I also found resilience. I learned that grief can live alongside love, and that healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
5. Finding Meaning and Honoring His Memory
As time passed, I began to search for ways to honor my son was born still short life. I planted a tree in his name, created a memory box with the few keepsakes I had, and began speaking openly about stillbirth—a topic so many shy away from. His life, though brief, had meaning. He made me a mother. He changed me forever. Sharing my story became a way to keep his memory alive and to let others know they are not alone. I found strength in community, in connecting with other parents who walked a similar path. Every time I speak his name or write about him, I am pushing back against the silence that often surrounds this kind of loss. My son mattered, and I will spend my life making sure that truth is never forgotten.
6. To Other Parents of Stillborn Children
If you’re reading this and my son was born still lost a child to stillbirth, I want you to know that your pain is valid, your love is real, and your story deserves to be told. There is no right way to grieve, and healing is not linear. Some days will feel impossible, and some days will bring small, unexpected peace. Take them as they come. You are not alone. Our babies may not be in our arms, but they live on in our hearts, in our memories, and in the love we carry forward. We are still parents, and they are still our children.
