Madeline

Life After Loss

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27 year old teacher in South Carolina. Wife, dog & cat mom (2 dogs, 3 cats), trying to navigate life after our son was stillborn at 27 weeks.

  • A Griever’s Thoughts On the Holidays

    Today is November 17, 2025. I am 18 weeks postpartum. And I am having a very, very, very hard time with the impending holiday season.

    When I was pregnant with Oliver, November-December is what I dreamed of the most. I knew newborn nights would be hard, but imagining them by the light of the Christmas tree and with the fireplace on made me excited.

    I wanted the long nights. I wanted to make tiny ornaments with his feet and hands. I wanted to sign every Christmas gift, “From Oliver.” I wanted to hang a tiny stocking and fill underneath the tree with gifts for him. I wanted to take him to see Christmas lights. I wanted so much with him that the knowledge that I don’t get to have those moments steals my breath some days.

    Every day since losing Oliver has been a literal living hell. I thought his due date passing would make everything more manageable, but it hasn’t. His due date, along with the holiday season, has made his absence even more loud and painful. I miss him in the quiet moments, but I especially miss him in the loud, obvious ones. The moments I can’t stop from picturing what they would be like if he were here.

    Grief is already painful and uncomfortable, but grieving around the holidays, I’m learning, adds a new layer to the ache of his absence. I see people celebrating, decorating, joyful and happy, and I’m envious that their lives seem to be moving on so peacefully that they can feel those emotions. They look carefree, excited, and that couldn’t be further from the feelings I currently hold.

    I feel like everywhere I look, I’m reminded of the gigantic hole in my family. I see matching holiday pajamas, and am hit with the knowledge that I don’t have any need to purchase them. I see Christmas cards and remember that this was going to be the first year I sent them out. His little red truck sleeper is just sitting in his nursery, taunting me.

    I do not feel holly or jolly. I am not festive. I am not excited. I do not want to decorate or shop or watch movies or see Christmas nights. And I have a lot of thoughts surrounding this topic, but what I mainly want to say is this:

    1. If you have a griever in your life, give them grace — always. But especially during the holiday season. What should be a time of joy and excitement is just not our experience. We are constantly reminded that everyone seems to have what we do not but so desperately wish we did.
    2. If the griever in your life wants to skip holiday gatherings, don’t say a word about it. Being around people takes so much emotional energy that they just may not be able to exert. It isn’t a personal attack, it isn’t indicative of how they feel about you. Me personally? I’m skipping Thanksgiving. The last thing I can stomach is the thought of going to dinner and pretending like everything is fine and normal, because it isn’t. I’m undecided on Christmas.
    3. Grievers want you to know that we’re doing the best we can. Sometimes getting out of bed and brushing our teeth is all we can manage when it feels like our world has completely ended. Grief takes up so much energy, and sometimes we can’t muster any more.
    4. We haven’t moved on from our grief just because we might smile or look excited. Sometimes there might be moments we truly feel joy, and other moments when we’re just really good at faking it. Those seemingly happy moments don’t mean we aren’t still heartbroken over what is gone.
    5. We want to be invited to gatherings without the expectation that we say yes. Please keep including us. It takes a tremendous amount of energy to show up for things, and we carry a lot of guilt when we decline plans we would’ve been excited for if our circumstances were different. Being remembered means a lot.
    6. Don’t avoid talking about the person missing from the table this year. Whether it is a child, spouse, parent, sibling, grandparent, whoever. They existed and they matter and it means so much when people talk about our person. You’re never going to remind a griever of what they lost; that memory never goes away. When you bring them up, when you say their name, it reminds us that you haven’t forgotten them. That they matter to you, too. And for me personally, that’s all I want. Is for Oliver to be remembered and included and loved as deeply as he would be if he were in my arms right now.

    Grieving the loss of someone you love doesn’t get easier. Your life doesn’t move on, you don’t move on. You learn to coexist with the grief, coming to a sort of agreement or an understanding that you now live side by side. While grief is always going to be present, and I’m always going to miss my son, the ache of my empty arms is so much heavier during this season.

  • Child Loss Is Quiet

    Child loss is quiet when you’re in the ultrasound room after hearing the words, “There is no heartbeat.” No one knows what to say. There is nothing to say. There is only the quiet sound of your tears and your breaking heart.

    Child loss is quiet in the delivery room. Doctors and nurses struggle with what to say. You’re left alone to process the enormous loss you’ve been presented with.

    Child loss is quiet after birth. There is no sound of your baby crying. There are no cheers, no laughs, no “congratulations.”

    Child loss is quiet when you’re back in your room after delivery. You are put in the room furthest away from the babies who did get to live. You don’t hear babies crying, families celebrating.

    Child loss is quiet on the drive home. No music, no words, just the ache of leaving L&D with no baby.

    Child loss is quiet at the funeral home. Everyone looks at you with pity in their eyes. They know you’re there to make arrangements for your baby who never got to take a breath. There is no sound, only tears, as you pick out the smallest urn they offer for your baby.

    Child loss is quiet in the nursery. There are no family members helping you put the final touches together, there is no baby giggling or crying. No toys making sounds, no books being read.

    Child loss is quiet in counseling rooms, when you don’t know what to say when you’re told, “Tell me about your baby.” Because what do you say? “I had a son. His name is Oliver. I grew him and I loved him and I lost him and I will never be the same.”

    Child loss is quiet on the phone, after a while. At first, texts and calls flood in. People reach out, offer love, want to see you. But then your grief becomes “too much.” You make people uncomfortable when you talk about your baby who died. People want you to just move on, though they’ll never say it. When people do ask how you are, they don’t want honesty. They want you to say, “I’m okay, I’m fine, I’m making it,” because they don’t actually want to know. When you answer truthfully, people shy away from you, until eventually they stop asking at all.

    Child loss is quiet when you’re on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m. sobbing alone, because you don’t want to disturb anyone. It’s quiet because making a spectacle makes it real, and sometimes you want to pretend this is all just some horrible dream.

    Child loss is quiet when you lose focus and zone out. Your brain takes you to memories of your baby, which are all quiet, because you never heard them at all.

    Child loss is quiet as you lay in bed for the 71st day in a row and struggle to lift your head. It is quiet as you stare at the ceiling, no t.v. on, no music, no anything. You stare and wonder how this became your life and how you will live forever with this weight you now have to carry.

    Child loss is quiet in your mind, when it used to be so loud with thoughts of your baby. Making plans for your baby, buying things for your baby, reading to your baby, talking to your baby, planning for the future that was ripped away so suddenly and abruptly and violently you still can’t process it.

  • Time Passing Isn’t Comforting

    When I first got out of the hospital after delivering Oliver, I couldn’t wait for time to pass. I wanted to put so much distance between myself and July 16 that it couldn’t hurt me anymore. I wanted to escape the aching feeling I experienced when I thought about him and what all I would no longer have with him. I had convinced myself that the way to do that was simply time. I had told myself that as time went on, it wouldn’t always be this hard to breathe, and I would eventually feel okay again.

    But now that time is passing, I hate it. It hurts. Everything feels worse.

    I feel like everything I remember about Oliver, all the tiny, small pieces I got of him over the few days in the hospital, are slipping away. As time goes on and each day passes, the distance between now and the only time I got to hold my son — the only time I’ll ever get to — grows. I keep getting further and further away from the only moments I had with my son.

    When I miss him, I can’t check his baby monitor or pop into his room to watch him sleep. Instead, I have to dig deep into the most painful experience of my life and relive it if I want to see him again. The only way I get to spend time with Oliver is while also remembering how awful our circumstances were. I have to soak in the grief if I want even a glimpse of him, and that isn’t fair.

    I blocked out so much of our hospital stay, because it was traumatic and terrible. So much of those 5 days are a blur. And now it feels like every day I have to think a little harder, dig a little deeper to recall anything I remember about him. I’m afraid that as time continues to pass, it will only get harder, until I can hardly remember his details at all. I have photos that a nurse was so kind to take of us in the hospital, but that isn’t enough. Those are the only moments of my son that were captured. He will forever be 27 weeks, 2 lb 6 ozs.

    Time passing means my milk supply is drying up, which I begged for. It was one of the most traumatic parts of Oliver’s death and a constant reminder that my body didn’t know or understand that my son was dead. I tried everything to dry it up. But now that it’s gone, it’s just a cruel reminder that my body is moving on, while my mind can’t.

    Cooler weather used to mean my favorite time of the year was here, but now it fills me with an ache, because Oliver will never experience the breeze on a chilly fall day. The sound of football on the t.v. and announcers discussing games feels like a slap in the face. I was so excited to spend lazy Saturdays watching football with Oliver. I even had a Gamecock sleeper ready for him to lounge around in. Now it just sits in the nursery untouched. The thought of the holiday season is unbearable, because he should be here.

    Sure, I have his weighted bear. Sure, I could bring it with me. That might provide a small amount of comfort, but it isn’t a trade off. It isn’t a replacement. Nothing can take away from the fact that Oliver should be here, and he isn’t.

    I wanted time to pass so quickly. I remember in the days after I was discharged from the hospital, I wanted to sleep the entire day just so it would feel like each day was shorter and shorter. I couldn’t wait to pass milestone after milestone: one month out, two months out, his due date, the holiday season. I had convinced myself months ago that healing = distance. But now I painfully realize that isn’t the case. All distance does is remind me that I don’t have him.

  • Let’s Talk About the Abortion Pill

    This blog post is not going to talk about grief. This is going to focus specifically on my stillbirth, induction, and delivery experience. I hope you approach this blog with an open mind. This is not a pro-life vs. pro-choice conversation. This is not political. This is women’s health. This is real life. This is my life.

    Before I start talking about my experience, I want to make sure we’re on the same page as far as terminology, procedures, medications, and their purposes.

    1. The Cleveland Clinic states, “A stillbirth happens when the fetus dies after weeks 20 of pregnancy.”
    2. The National Library of Medicine defines induction of labor as “a common obstetric intervention that stimulates the onset of labor using artificial methods.”
    3. The National Library of Medicine, when discussing the medication misoprostol, says, “Misoprostol is a synthetic prostaglandin E1 analogue that is used off-label for a variety of indications in the practice of obstetrics and gynecology, including medication abortion, medical management of miscarriage, induction of labor, cervical ripening before surgical procedures, and the treatment of postpartum hemorrhage.”
      • Misoprostol is often referred to as Cytotec, as that’s the brand name.
    4. “Mifepristone works by blocking the effects of progesterone, a hormone needed to maintain a pregnancy. This causes changes in the uterus that, when used with another medicine (misoprostol), result in the end of the pregnancy.” -WebMD discussing mifepristone

    We have no clue how long Oliver had been inside me dead. I had no signs or symptoms he was gone or anything was wrong. I felt him kicking the morning his heart stopped, but I’ve since learned those could have been phantom kicks. We’ll never really know. My body showed zero signs of labor, even after we’d arrived at the hospital hours later. We could have waited to see if I went into labor naturally, if my body recognized he was dead, but the mental and emotional pain I felt knowing my baby boy was gone was too strong. I couldn’t bear another minute knowing he was inside of me dead. I needed him out. I needed to hold him. I needed to feel like time wasn’t at a stand still waiting for something to happen. And this is the reality for, unfortunately, too many women in the United States. My experience is not unique.

    Because I was showing no signs of labor, I had to be induced. Since I was 27 weeks pregnant, the management of my son dying was different than it would have been if I were only, say, 12 weeks pregnant. Because of Oliver’s gestational age and size, we knew I would have to deliver him as if he were a full term baby. My body hadn’t begun the process of letting him go.

    In came a treatment plan that was a combination of mifepristone and misoprostol (yes, that combination that we all know is referred to as The Abortion Pill). I was 0 cm dilated when we began inducing labor. My body hadn’t recognized that Oliver was dead. The mifepristone blocked progesterone production in my body, which led to my cervix preparing for labor by softening and opening. The misoprostol was used in conjunction to cause my uterus to contract. And contract it did. I felt them, and they hurt.

    The only other induction option I had was Pitocin, which we used, but wasn’t effective. And just a side note, in case you didn’t know this: Pitocin is not recommended to use if you have previously had a c-section as it can increase the risk of uterine rupture. So in some stillbirth and induction cases, Pitocin very well may not be an option, simply to protect the mother. Which leaves two medications to induce labor after your baby dies in the womb: mifepristone, and misoprostol.

    We have all seen the articles surrounding The Abortion Pill. We’ve heard people talk about it, we’ve seen it debated in Washington D.C. We’ve seen tweets and TikToks and Facebook posts about it, no matter what side of the abortion debate you’re on.

    But here is what I desperately need everyone to know: these medications are IMPORTANT. These medications are NECESSARY. These medications are not just for elective abortions. These medications are for women who find themselves in awful, painful, unimaginable situations like I have.

    Oliver was wanted. Oliver was prayed for, begged for. Oliver was loved, and Oliver’s death crushed us all.

    But at the end of the day, the only way to get Oliver out and start the grieving process was to induce labor using mifepristone and misoprostol. Access to these medications saved my life. We need to discuss what could have happened if I were not able to have my labor with Oliver induced using these medications.

    There are very scary, very serious consequences when women are not given access to these medications to induce labor after IUFD has occurred. IUFD is inter uterine fetal demise, which is the medical way to say your baby’s heart stops in the womb. After fetal death occurs, the tissue breaks down quickly. This breakdown can increase the risk of bacterial infection, and these infections can lead to sepsis and become serious and life-threatening for the mother.

    There is also a blood clotting disorder called Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation, which can develop if the baby remains in the uterus too long after death. The mother’s body begins to use up its clotting factors, which can lead to internal bleeding or hemorrhage. This can increase complications during delivery, whenever that occurs.

    Delaying labor induction carries terrifying and very real risks for the mother. Her life is at risk. I was at risk. Every minute Oliver was inside of me dead was a minute closer to infection and complications. An already traumatic, devastating hospital trip could’ve gotten worse very fast had I not been induced.

    And my induction would not have been possible without mifepristone and misoprostol, aka The Abortion Pill.

    When you demonize The Abortion Pill, when you vote to remove its access to women in your state and/or the country, you are putting the lives of women you know and love at risk. No one is safe from losing their baby in the womb. It is far too common, and complications are far too great, for it to no longer be an option for women in the country.

    I want you to keep mine and Oliver’s story in mind as you go through life and see abortion, mifepristone, and misoprostol debated. I want you to remember that someone you know could have died without its access. I want you to remember that it could have been me on July 16, but it could be you tomorrow.

  • I Survived August Without My Son

    Time passing feels weird these days. In a way, it feels like I left the hospital yesterday. But in some ways, it feels like a lifetime ago. Sometimes I think about the time that has passed, the Madeline I was in July, and I don’t recognize her.

    I don’t know if I prefer the fresh pain that I felt in the immediate days that followed Oliver’s death, or if I prefer the strange place I’ve found myself 7 weeks later. I’m not sure which is worse, honestly.

    Oliver was stillborn on July 16, 2025. I survived the entire month of August without him. The first month without him in all of 2025. 31 days during which I grieved my child. It is something no parent should ever have to do. When September 1 hit, I was filled with so many strange and conflicting emotions that I didn’t know what to do with them at first.

    September-December has always been my favorite time of the year for as long as I can remember. My birthday is in October, my husband’s is in November. Christmas is my favorite holiday by far. I love the cooler weather, the changing leaves, the seasonal smells of fall and winter. I love cozy sweaters and Birkenstock clogs and bonfires and Christmas decor. Yet right now, the thought of any of those things makes me sick to my stomach.

    Oliver was due October 13. I remember being so excited to share my birthday month with my baby. I secretly hoped he would come on my birthday and that would be something small and special he and I could share.

    I dreamed of lazy football Saturdays with him. I imagined all the Halloween activities we would do. I wanted to take him to a pumpkin patch. I wanted to carve a pumpkin and put him inside. I wanted to take him camping with my family. I already had his first Halloween costume in mind. I couldn’t wait to bring him to family gatherings for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I wanted to dress him up as something outrageous for Christmas, like Buddy the Elf or a snowman. I couldn’t wait to fill underneath the tree with gifts for him that I knew he would have no interest in, because he would only be 2 months old. I was ready to put a small Christmas tree up in his room. I knew newborn nights would be tough, but the thought of experiencing them by the light of the Christmas tree made me excited.

    Now I don’t get to do any of that. Instead, the chill in the air on Monday made me cry uncontrollably, because cold weather was supposed to mean I had my son with me. Last year, I decorated for fall in August. Right now, in September, I don’t have a single piece of fall decor out. I haven’t lit a seasonal candle, I don’t have my kitchen towels switched out, nothing. I don’t think I want to.

    The saddest realization I’ve come to lately is that I also don’t want to decorate for Christmas. I hate that I feel that way, because like I said, Christmas is my favorite time of the year. But knowing I was supposed to experience all of those fun holiday things with him makes me not want to celebrate a thing. I don’t feel like I have anything to celebrate. If I put up my Christmas tree, all I’m going to remember is how he was supposed to be sitting by it with me. If I go see Christmas lights, all I’m going to imagine is what it would feel like if he were with us.

    Not only do I not want to decorate, I also don’t want to celebrate. I don’t want anything for Christmas. I don’t want to go to any sort of family gathering where he was supposed to be, too. I don’t want to celebrate my birthday. I’m turning 28 without my son, and that is cruel, because he should still be here. My birthday should be overshadowed by his birthday, not by the memory of his death. It all feels so pointless with him gone.

    I was so unbelievably excited to share my favorite time of the year with Oliver. But now, all of the things I once enjoyed and looked forward to are just cruel reminders that there is this gigantic, aching hole where he was supposed to be, where he will always be.

  • Am I Becoming Agoraphobic?

    Trauma manifests in ugly, uncomfortable ways. One of the most unexpected ways my grief has presented since Oliver died is in the form of agoraphobia. Which has been truly unexpected, because while I love being at home with my pets, I also have always loved going out, seeing my friends. spending time out and about.

    After Oliver died, that changed. It changed so quickly I felt like I had whiplash.

    I started to retreat into myself as soon as I learned he didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. In that moment, I remember clutching my stomach and curling into myself while the doctor and ultrasound tech both hugged me and cried with me. I immediately felt terrified over the thought of having to call anyone and tell them what happened. The doctor, bless her, called my husband. I remember when I got home, my mother in law and father in law were at my house with my husband, and I couldn’t look at them. I had a hard time meeting my husband’s eyes, even.

    It’s like my brain shut off in an attempt to protect itself. Over 6 weeks later, it still hasn’t come back on.

    When we were admitted to the hospital and got the induction started, I didn’t want to see anyone who wasn’t my husband or my sister. That included any family or friends, even my parents. I was so overwhelmed and sad and confused. I knew I couldn’t hold a conversation with anyone else. I had only been in the hospital for a few hours and I was already so overwhelmed with the number of people in and out of my room. I was never alone and therefore, was never able to retreat into my mind and process the enormous loss I had just been presented with.

    I didn’t want to see anyone immediately following my discharge from the hospital, either. Not only was I recovering from a c section and physically in pain, but I had to come home from the hospital after I delivered my son, knowing he was left behind and would never walk through those doors with me. Mentally, I was very unwell. I still am.

    People visited. Some came in for a few minutes to say hi, others just dropped meals or gifts or flowers off at the door and left. My phone was constantly going off with messages of sympathy and love. Responding to those texts was easy, it was fine, because I could take my time in formulating a reply. I didn’t have to respond immediately, or at all if I didn’t want to.

    As time went on and I realized I didn’t have to talk to anyone or see anyone if I didn’t want to, I started avoiding people altogether. I have left the house a hand full of times since July 18 when I was discharged. I went out to dinner for a friend’s birthday. I’ve gone to coffee shops to sit and write. I’ve been to my mom’s house once, my mother in law’s once. My husband and I took a weekend trip away to the North Carolina mountains.

    Without fail, every single time I come home from being out like in the instances above, I crash. I have a terrible few days after. Those days are the hardest to get out of bed. After learning that not so fun fact about myself, I decided I would just stop going out altogether. I wouldn’t be able to crash after having a good day outside of the house if I just didn’t leave the house, I’d decided.

    Which ultimately landed me where I am right now: afraid to go any further than my mailbox. Home has become comfortable, peaceful. It’s a safe place for me to crash and cry and yell if I want. It’s a place where I am in absolute control of the visitors (or lack thereof), the mood, the triggers. I don’t encounter anything unexpected at home.

    The lack of control and unexpectedness is the hardest part about leaving the house. I have no idea if I’m going to see a pregnant woman out, or maybe parents with their son, or see anything baby related. I don’t know if I’m going to see or hear his name randomly. Watching people live their life as normal kills me, because I don’t get to do that. I feel like my world stopped on July 14 when I learned Oliver didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. My life feels stalled, while everyone else around me gets to keep going and living life like nothing changed. I want to shout, to tell everyone that actually, nothing is the same and everything changed when he died and things will never, ever, ever be the same again.

    I will never be the same.

    Attempting to leave the house puts me in a state of panic. I have OCD (yes, diagnosed), so I’m on anxiety medication, because ultimately, OCD is a severe form of anxiety. It’s me and my maximum dose of Prozac against the world. And my Prozac is GREAT, but it’s no miracle worker. So when I try to tell myself I should go do something outside of the house, my chest tightens and I struggle to breathe. Sometimes I calm myself down, and sometimes I have a panic attack. My hands shake, my throat feels like it’s closing up, my heart races, and I just have to ride it out.

    I’ve done a lot of reading and research lately, and there is a direct link between trauma and agoraphobia. It all comes back to the very real, very scientific way grief and traumatic events rewire the brain (which I have a blog post on, in case you haven’t read it 😉).

    Because my agoraphobia is manifesting after experiencing the death of my son, I have to address my grief related to him before I can address the agoraphobia. And I’m really, really, really trying. I’ve learned that as much as I enjoy writing about my experiences and connecting with people who understand, it isn’t healing me in the way I need.

    So, in come the professionals. I hate talking about my feelings in person, I hate crying in front of people, but I can’t live life afraid of every little thing anymore. I had my first counseling session today, and I expected to cry the entire time, or leave it feeling with a sense of dread, or not want to return. But when I left, I felt lighter than I have since Oliver died. It truly feels like within that one hour conversation, a weight was lifted off my shoulders, like someone is helping carry my grief. As much as I love my family and friends, and as much as I know they would do anything to help support me, I think I needed to talk to someone who had no idea what was going on, who didn’t have anything to add to the conversation. My counselor was just there to listen and guide my own thoughts as they came out.

    One of my goals in counseling is to get through this agoraphobia. My counselor said she’s holding me to that and will call me out if I try to bail on sessions, and I needed to hear that. I needed to know that someone would help force me to leave the house. I’m tackling this one day at a time.

  • Grief Rewires Your Brain — Literally

    Grief is a whole body experience. You feel it deep inside your mind, all the way to the tips of your toes. It affects every square inch of your body. As I venture on my own grief and healing journey, I’ve noticed how deeply I feel grief all over, but especially in every corner of my brain.

    Grief is not just an ache in my chest that doesn’t go away; it is a rewiring of my brain that causes me to question myself, my memories, my own perception of the world.

    I knew, to a degree, what grief felt like. In my 27 years of life, I have said goodbye to family member after family member, often at the same time. My family and I have always said the Smiths are cursed.

    I understood grief. I understood mourning. I understood healing after. I understood finding joy and happiness as time passed. I understood looking back on those memories with fondness and a smile. What I did not understand, nor was I prepared for, was that sometimes you experience a loss so profound, grief so violent and deep, that it alters your very composition.

    Two versions of yourself now exist: You Before Grief, and You After Grief. And I’m beginning to learn how vastly different those two people can be.

    I have blandly joked, “Oh, since Oliver died, I feel like I’m losing my mind.” But no one around me took me seriously. No one knew that I was telling the truth. I could feel a noticeable difference in my brain, in the way my mind worked, and shortly after it registered to me, I had started to convince myself that my situation was unique, that it was just a way grief manifested for me specifically and eventually, soon, my brain would revert back to the brain I had when I was Me Before Grief.

    When that transition didn’t happen quickly and I found myself with a brain I didn’t recognize, I was afraid. Grief had stolen so many things from me. I didn’t know what to do or how to cope when it quite literally began affecting a very complex, very important piece of my body.

    I found myself forgetting everything that was said to me. And anyone who knew me before Oliver died knows that my memory was one of my strongest tools. I remembered anything and everything, even when people probably wished I didn’t. But since July 16, I find myself unable to remember anything. I couldn’t tell you what I had for lunch yesterday. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the book I just read. I found myself calling my pets by the wrong name over and over again. I could be in the middle of a sentence and all of a sudden forget what the entire conversation was about. It feels like I’m living my life with everything on the tip of my tongue, close but just barely out of reach.

    In that same vein, my memories feel scattered. I can remember certain events, certain conversations and places I’ve been, but the order becomes tricky. I know that I know how to crochet a granny square, because I’ve crocheted hundreds, but after picking up my yarn and hook, I can’t remember which step comes first. I know that I’ve been to at least a dozen doctor’s appointments, but I can’t remember the order in which I went. I know the genetic counselor told me three separate times over the phone what our options were for genetic testing, and yet I still had to go and talk to her in person and have her write it down for me. Because I. Just. Can’t. Remember.

    My brain seems to have made it impossible to process any emotion that isn’t anger or sadness, or the occasional guilt. In the midst of “good days” or in moments when I’m having fun, my brain shuts down. It becomes empty and numb, before eventually reverting back to the only emotions it can process right now. Unfortunately for me, those emotions are what makes opening my eyes every morning a struggle.

    I’ve always considered myself a relatively intelligent person. I like facts. I like learning. So it should be no surprise that I find solace in academia, in concrete evidence and proof. Part of my grieving journey has been me exploring research and texts focused on grief, and specifically, how grief can very well affect your brain.

    The more I dove in and read, the more things started to make sense. I wasn’t crazy. My situation wasn’t unique. I wasn’t “losing my mind.” Grief brain is a very real thing. I had just never suffered a loss this strong before to notice it.

    The American Brain Foundation has an article I read titled “Healing Your Brain After Loss: How Grief Rewires the Brain.” And during that short read, I felt like so many of my questions were answered.

    Grief sends your brain into fight or flight mode. It is a process that has developed as a form of adaptation, as something our brain has learned to do simply for survival.

    “In response to traumatic events, the brain creates connections between nerves and strengthens or weakens existing connections depending on the duration and degree of the emotional response.” – Dr. Lisa M. Shulman

    The severity of that rewiring is directly connected to how severe the stress and grief was. For low stress, the connection and nerves continue to grow. This helps us “cope” and reduces the fear we feel in those moments. Chronic stress, on the other hand, causes a stunt in nerve growth. Your brain is no longer focused on forming connections and memories — your brain is now focused on survival. The more stress, the less nerve growth, which leads to permanent changes over time.

    Connections in your brain can misfire in two ways. One, they can misfire temporarily in moderately stressful situations and eventually revert back to “normal.” Two, they can misfire repeatedly and so often in higher stress situations that it creates a permanent rewiring of your brain. This permanent change can affect memories, decision making, attention span, and processing times.

    And suddenly, I answers. I learned that my son dying was such a sever loss, was grief and pain so strong that it changed my brain. My brain that is now only focused on survival. My brain that used to work so quickly, used to be filled with so much and always wanting more, was unable to keep up. I could no longer operate in the same way I had before, not when I had experienced what I believe is the worst loss a person can suffer.

    My brain isn’t broken, I’ve learned. My brain is protecting me. My brain is doing what it has adapted over thousands of years to do in order to help me cope. If you have read this, let this be a sign to give the people in your life grace. While I am loud about my grief and pain, others are not. While I have no problem telling you that my brain doesn’t feel the same as it has before, others may not. And as cliche as it sounds, you really do not ever know what someone is going through. You never know whose brain is functioning purely for survival.

  • What Is Grief?

    Grief is everything and nothing. Grief is a constant cycle of mourning and guilt. Grief lingers, always behind you like a shadow, and can sense when you’re doing better. That’s when grief comes back out.

    Grief doesn’t allow you to forget it exists. Grief demands to be felt.

    Grief sits heavy on your chest, pressing into you and serving as a cruel reminder that it isn’t going anywhere. Grief gnaws at your brain with jagged teeth. It replays memory over memory, the good and the bad.

    Grief reaches straight in and squeezes your heart so strongly sometimes you think it may give out. Grief presses firmly against your eyeballs, the pressure making tears stream in rivulets.

    Grief slips under your skin and invades your veins. It makes your blood run cold, your bones ache. Grief wraps itself so tightly around your lungs that each breath is painful.

    Grief isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Grief waits silently, lurking. Then it hits you seemingly out of nowhere. Grief takes mundane, average moments and destroys them.

    Grief cancels plans you know at one point you were excited for. Grief is why you cry as soon as you open your eyes. Grief hides in the bed, tucked under layers of blankets even though it’s the middle of summer. Grief doesn’t turn on the lights because the brightness is too much.

    Grief isn’t always crying and screaming. Sometimes grief is staring at the ceiling for hours and ignoring everyone around you. Grief looks like eating because you know your body needs it, not because you’re actually hungry. Grief looks like not showering for a week because you don’t have the energy or motivation to take care of yourself.

    Grief sounds like telling everyone you’re fine, you’re okay, you’re making it, when really each breath is a battle to get out and you don’t even remember what fine and okay look like anymore.

    Grief will try to convince you you’re doing better, only to pull the rug out from under you. Grief makes you feel guilty for smiling or enjoying a day, because why should you get to enjoy any moment when they’re gone?

    Grief has become a permanent fixture in my life. We haven’t learned how to coexist yet.

    While it is painful, grief is also beautiful. Because it is a reminder of the person you love. And how lucky is it to have loved someone so much that you will endure missing them forever.

    On the really hard days, I stop to remind myself that I wouldn’t give up the time I got to spend with Oliver just to escape missing him. The grief is real, because the love is real.

  • What I’ve Learned After Experiencing A Stillbirth

    Tomorrow will be 5 weeks since Oliver was stillborn. In the 5 weeks, I’ve kept a running note in my phone of all the things I want to talk about, all the ideas I have to share with others, all the moments I want to capture. Usually, these thoughts come to me in half asleep ramblings or when I’m awake in the middle of the night crying on my bathroom floor so I don’t disturb my husband.

    Not all of the lessons I’ve learned are good or insightful. A lot of them are uncomfortable and ugly and difficult to admit. But I am nothing if not honest to a fault, so I’m going to share everything I’ve learned in the last 5 weeks about myself, grief, and my relationship with the world and other people. Bear with me; some of these things are hard to talk about, but I’m going to do it anyway.

    1. Sometimes I feel strong, and sometimes I feel like the weakest person alive. I know I survived something awful, something most people would say is their worst nightmare. In a way, it’s comforting to know that I have lived through the unimaginable, to know that nothing can ever compare to this pain, but at the same time it makes me sick to my stomach. I shouldn’t have to live through this. I don’t want to be the “strongest person you know.” I just want my son back.
    2. I wake up nauseous and full of dread every day. It feels like there is a constant weight on my chest, a burning behind my eyes.
    3. I’ve had several people tell me that I’m brave or strong for telling mine and Oliver’s story and talking about him loudly. Truthfully, I don’t think it makes me any of those things. I don’t feel like I deserve praise or recognition for talking about my son. I feel like it’s the least I can do. I feel like I’m not doing enough, honestly.
    4. I get angry when I see people moving on with their lives. I know this isn’t a fair feeling to have, but I find it is always at the forefront of my mind. I see people in my life who grieved with me when everything first happened, who showed up to support me, just going on as if nothing happened. Their lives were able to go back to normal. They can move on. And I can’t. I am eternally stuck in the Maternal Fetal Medicine ultrasound room where I learned Oliver didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. I’m the one left with a hole in my chest that aches every time I breathe, every time I think about Oliver.
    5. My family and friends have kept my head above water, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice who hasn’t reached out. I am incredibly aware of who supported me when tragedy hit, who showed up when I needed it most, and who reaches out still to this day. Grief and child loss has changed the way I view my relationship with a lot of people. Of course, no one owes you anything. Grief highlights that. Grief shows you how you can be surrounded by people who say they love and care about you, but at the end of the day, you’re alone, because the relationships are surface level at best. I’d like to add a side note to this: If you think reaching out when the tragedy hits but not after counts, it doesn’t. It is so easy to tell whose efforts to reach out are disingenuous and are looking to pry rather than truly show up for you.
    6. The postpartum stuff still happens. The hormones make me feel like I’ve lost my mind. If not for my SSRIs, I truthfully am afraid of how deeply into PPD I might’ve slipped. I still gave birth to Oliver, which means I still had the postpartum bleeding and had to wear diapers. I had a c section, so I had to go through the unbearable pain at the incision site. It was hard to ride in the car, to wash my hair, to get dressed, to do anything that required an ounce of muscle. The most traumatic part of postpartum after your baby dies, in my opinion, is that your milk supply comes in. I’ve tried so many things to get it to stop, and 5 weeks later it’s almost there, but it has been one of the things I struggle with the most. It is a constant reminder that while my mind knows I don’t have my son, my body doesn’t. I’ve already told Jordan that any future children we have will have to be formula fed, because there’s no way I can have my supply come in again without thinking of this time and how mentally painful it has been.
    7. I feel like my body failed me. I hate looking in the mirror. I am my own worst trigger, seeing myself and knowing that I was once Oliver’s home. I remember telling Jordan shortly after I delivered him that I felt like a failure, because I had one job, to keep Oliver alive for 9 months, and I couldn’t do that.
    8. The guilt slowly eats away at me. I can’t elaborate on this one too much right now. I’m still having a very hard time with the guilt, and it is the emotion at the forefront of my grief lately. Guilt has been the hardest emotion to work through for me. Writing this is making me consider that I probably need to go to therapy.
    9. I absolutely crash after I have fun. If I have a really high high and do something I enjoy or smile or laugh, I inevitably will crash and hit a very low low. This comes back to the guilt I feel. I don’t feel like I deserve to have fun or laugh or smile or enjoy myself when I failed Oliver. When I’m having a good day and all of a sudden think about him, I hate myself, because I know during that time I wan’t thinking about him — I was thinking about myself. And I feel like I should always be thinking of him. I feel like I deserve to feel the constant pain of remembering him.
    10. No one really understands what I’m going through. Stillbirth isn’t something that, in my opinion, can be understood unless you’ve experienced it firsthand, unless you’re the mom who had to deliver their baby knowing they didn’t have a heartbeat anymore, knowing they would never grow up. People can reach out and sympathize, people can compare it to their own losses and grief, but no one really understands. And while I’m grateful that no one in my life really understands the pain, it is also such a lonely feeling.
    11. I’m not the same person I was. I truly feel like I have changed more in the last 5 weeks than I have in the last 27 years. So much of me and how I look at the world is different. Things that used to make me excited and happy don’t anymore. Leaving the bed feels like I have to exert the same amount of energy that I would if I were running a marathon. In some ways, I feel like I’ve gotten more patient and gentle with others. I try to extend grace and empathy wherever I can. In other ways, I feel like I’m more angry and cruel. I’ve always been a short tempered and snarky. But now, I find myself mentally invalidating other people’s pain. I am fully aware that isn’t fair, but I just can’t help it. I have a hard time taking other people and their problems seriously. I want to scream at them, “But my son died! My pain is worse!”
    12. I guess the good thing is, I don’t care about the little things anymore. But the bad thing is, I don’t care about the little things anymore. I don’t care about much anymore, to be quite honest.
    13. Thinking of Oliver isn’t what makes me sad. Not really. Thinking about him being gone is what breaks my heart. I love to think about my little boy and talk about him and see pictures of him. That brings me joy. But knowing I don’t have him here with me and I never will again is the painful part.
    14. I’m not the same day to day, and I’m trying to be okay with that. Some days I hardly speak and stare at the wall and keep the blinds closed. Other days, like today, I can force myself to leave the house and join society. I can’t tell what my day will be like when I wake up. It’s a very unfortunate surprise I look forward to every day.
    15. I’m afraid of going back to work. I’m a 2nd grade teacher, and I love my students and my job. I truly can see myself doing this for the rest of my life. It is hard and so rewarding, but the closer I get to going back to work, the more afraid I get. I’m learning new triggers every day, and I have this deep fear that surrounding myself with children all day is going to prove to be an unbearable trigger. It scares me, because I don’t want to lose the job I love in a district I love with the most incredible coworkers. But I’m more anxious to go back to work than I thought I would be.

    When I lost Oliver, my heart shattered into thousands of jagged pieces. As time goes on, I’ve started to slowly put the pieces back together, but my heart will never be the same. The pieces will never come back together completely. It’s like putting together a puzzle and realizing you’re missing the last piece you need to complete it. There will always be a gap, a hole, where that piece was supposed to be. Oliver is that gap. He has a piece of my heart with him in heaven that, as painful as life has been, I don’t want back. I wouldn’t trade the time I spent with him for anything, not even to escape the pain of missing him. Grief is real, because love is real. That is the thought that keeps me going.

  • What People Don’t Want to Hear After Stillbirth

    Supporting someone after the death of a child is complicated. You hear people often say, “There are no words,” and it’s true. There aren’t any words. Oliver was born sleeping exactly four weeks ago, and I still don’t feel like even I have the words, and I’m the one living it.

    The people who love you want to support you and show up for you. Sometimes that’s in person via acts of service, and sometimes it’s over the phone or through the mail with their words. And unless you’ve experienced child loss, you can’t formulate adequate words to convey how sorry you are and how much you grieve with the parents. I don’t think a singular word or combination of words exist in any human language to describe the pain.

    But something I’ve learned in the last month is even the most well-meaning words hurt. There are so many pieces of advice I’ve been given, from friends to family to strangers online in grief forums. I choose to believe that no one would intentionally say something hurtful to a grieving parent. I choose to believe that every word spoken to me has come from a place of kindness, love, and empathy, but also a place of not understanding. And that’s okay. This type of loss isn’t something you can just “understand.”

    Because of that, I want to share some of the less helpful words or pieces of advice I have been given since Oliver died. You may never think to say any of this to a grieving parent, but in case it did cross your mind, let me explain to you why these words are painful and unhelpful, and what goes through our minds when you say them.

    1. “At least you know you can get pregnant.” I’ll admit, when Jordan and I decided we wanted to have children, my biggest fear was being infertile and not knowing. I was terrified it would be a long, difficult, or even impossible process to even see a positive pregnancy test. I got pregnant with Oliver after 4 months, and I am very aware of how fortunate I am that the journey was fairly easy. I just had no idea what was ahead of me. I’m grateful I can get pregnant, sure, but that means very little in the grand scheme of things if I can’t stay pregnant. And now I live in the reality where I know that just because I see a positive pregnancy test or a heartbeat on an ultrasound doesn’t mean I get to bring my baby home.
    2. “He’s in a better place.” I’m sure heaven is incredible. I don’t doubt that. But I will never agree that the best place for my son was anywhere except with me.
    3. “God has a plan.” This is going to ruffle some feathers, but I’m going to say it. If this was God’s plan, it sucks, and He needs to let someone else help with the playmaking. I don’t agree with His plan. I don’t like His plan. I hate His plan. Maybe one day I’ll understand it, but I can’t see that far into the future, and transparently, I’m very unhappy with Him right now.
    4. “You’re handling it so well.” Am I? I’m not. Not at all. You might not see it, but I’m pretending. I’m acting. I want everyone to think I’m okay, that I’m doing better. But admittedly, I think things are only getting harder. Just because I’m not screaming and holed up in my house every second of the day doesn’t mean I’m “handling it.” Just because I can get out of bed doesn’t mean I don’t still struggle to breathe when I think about it. I lost my son before I ever got to see him smile or hear him cry. I lost myself too. I’m not handling it — I’m surviving it.
    5. “I can’t imagine what that feels like.” I know this is an attempt to offer empathy, but please don’t say this. I couldn’t imagine it either, until I had no choice. You don’t have to imagine or understand to support someone. And you’re right: you can’t imagine it. But please don’t remind me that your worst nightmare, the unimaginable, is my reality. I haven’t forgotten, but please don’t remind me.
    6. “Holding my baby a little closer tonight.” This might be the worst one. This one doesn’t just fill me with sadness, it fills me with rage. What you’re communicating when you say this to grieving parents is, “This is awful. Thank God it was you and not me.” You’re essentially remind us that you have what we don’t, that our loss is reminding you to be grateful for what’s in front of you. I don’t want to hear that you’re holding your baby tightly tonight while my arms are empty, while I have to live with the knowledge that I’ll never hold my son again.
    7. “You can always try again.” Sure, but any future child will never be him. Oliver isn’t replaceable. He was my first baby. And for the rest of my life, no matter how many living children I have, there will always be a hole in our family where he was supposed to be.
    8. “Let me know if you need anything.” I hesitated putting this one, because it is so well meaning, but it just isn’t helpful. When we left the hospital, we were flooded with calls and texts and offers to do anything we needed. We appreciated every offer and are grateful we had so many amazing people in our corner, but I learned quickly that my mental load couldn’t carry more. I couldn’t tell you what I needed when I didn’t even want to open my eyes in the morning. How could I reach out and tell you what I need when I couldn’t bring myself to even get out of bed? Let me offer this alternative: give them choices. Something like, “Would you like me to come do your dishes or would you like me to drop off dinner?” By doing this, you’re taking the burden off them.

    Sharing isn’t always caring. Sometimes your words hurt and you have no idea. That’s why I write these blog posts. In the event that you have to reach out to anyone experiencing child loss, here are a few things you can say that are helpful and gentle. Don’t just send these in the hours and days after tragedy, either. Reach out periodically so they know you remember them, their grief, and their baby.

    1. “I’m so sorry to hear what happened. I am thinking of you/praying for you/sending you love.”
    2. End your messages with, “Please don’t feel obligated to respond. I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.”
    3. “I love you and I’m here for you.”
    4. “I saw ___ today and it made me think of you/them.”
    5. “Will you tell me about them?”