Hope is a word that before baby loss, felt simple, expected, easy to hold on to. After baby loss…hope feels: terrifying, confusing, unattainable, unsafe. When we lost Mason, it felt like all hope had gone out the window. I couldn’t imagine that I would ever possibly be happy again. I couldn’t picture a future where I had what I desired. I couldn’t picture trusting God and having hope in His plan for my life when something so tragic had happened. But as time went by, hope s

Since losing Mason, one of my daily struggles has been figuring out how to love him well. How are you supposed to love a baby you can't see, hold, comfort, or nurture? At times, it can feel impossible. And if I'm honest, it can also feel frustrating that we even have to think about alternative ways to love our babies. It should be simple. Feed them. Comfort them. Care for them. But for us, it isn't. Instead, we have to lean into our God-given instincts, our love for our babie

After losing Mason, I found myself asking questions I never imagined I would ask. Why did this happen? Could something have been done differently? Will I ever feel safe again? Where was God? For a while, I felt guilty for asking these questions. But then I started noticing something throughout Scripture: God's people asked questions too. David asked:"How long, O Lord?" (Psalm 13:1) Job asked:"Why?" Habakkuk questioned God's justice. Even Jesus cried:"My God, my God, why have

Isolation. Being cut off from the rest of the world. Feeling like you're stranded on an island of pain, suffering, and loss. I remember feeling isolated from the very second we were told Mason's heart was no longer beating. I felt betrayed as the nurses stepped into the hallway, leaving us alone in the triage room with life-altering, heart-shattering news. I thought there must be something wrong with me for this to happen. I feared people would look at me differently—like I w

Friend, I want you to know something vital and never forget it: You are still a mother. You are a mother if: You have living children. You have a child in Heaven. You carried a child for four weeks or four months. You have children to tend to at home. You have a child you dream about at night. No one can take away your motherhood, no matter what it looks like. You do not have to let loss, infertility, miscarriage, or stillbirth become a stain on your motherhood. God calls you

Finding His presence in the middle of the hardest things After losing Mason, there were moments I truly did not know how I was going to make it through. Not the big-picture future. Just the next thing. The next hour. The next conversation. The next unbearable moment. Leaving the hospital without my baby. Seeing my husband grieve. Returning to work the week I should have been starting maternity leave. Facing Mason’s due date. My first Mother’s Day... ...there were so many mome

What loss has taught us about compassion, community, and carrying one another One of the most unexpected things we’ve discovered after losing Mason is this: Some of the gentlest, most compassionate people we have ever met are women who have suffered deeply. Not because grief itself is beautiful. It isn’t. No mother would choose this road. No family would willingly walk through the loss of a baby. And yet, there is something that suffering often produces in people who allow th

And how God meets us in each one. After losing a baby, grief can feel overwhelming, confusing, and deeply isolating. One moment you may feel numb. The next, angry. The next, exhausted. And sometimes all of those emotions can exist at the same time. Many people have heard of the “5 stages of grief,” first introduced by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. While grief does not move in neat, predictable steps, these stages can still give language to some of what we experience after loss. Mos

Holding grief alongside the sovereignty of God With stillbirth, there are so many moments that feel like: They should be here. The monthly milestones. The due date. The birthdays. The holidays. The family plans made before everything changed. Moments that quietly remind you of what was supposed to be. And those moments can be incredibly heavy. When Grief Meets Truth In the middle of those thoughts, I find myself returning—again and again—to two truths from Scripture: God is s

After loss, one of the hardest parts is the feeling of separation. Your baby is not in your arms. Not in your daily routines. Not in the places you expected them to be. And yet—your love for them hasn’t gone anywhere. We are learning there are many ways to feel connected to Mason, and ways to nurture him and care for him even though he is not in our arms. We'd like to share some of these ideas with you here. Gentle Ways to Feel Close to Your Baby Here are a few ideas—take wha

The questions can feel relentless at times. If you felt like your mind was busy or overworked before loss, you may feel that even more deeply now. Personally, my thoughts often spiral into questions like: What if? Should I have…? Could I have…? Since losing Mason, there have been moments when my mind has felt like an unsafe place. It returns again and again to questions that don’t have clear answers. It lingers on possibilities—the ones that might have changed everything. The

Holding Grief Through Holy Week When sorrow, silence, and waiting feel familiar Holy Week can feel different when you are grieving. The story is the same. The Scriptures are the same. But your heart is not. Because when you have experienced pregnancy or infant loss, you don’t just hear this story - you recognize it. When the Story Feels Personal Holy Week does not rush to joy. It slows down. It lingers in sorrow. It makes space for suffering. From the garden…to the cross…to t

There are moments in grief when everything feels final. A final diagnosis. A final breath. A final goodbye. In the wake of pregnancy or baby loss, that sense of finality can feel especially sharp. It comes so quickly, so unexpectedly, and without the time we thought we would have. It can feel like something has been cut short. Like a story ended before it really began. But Scripture quietly reminds us of something that grief makes hard to see: This is not the end of the stor

When we lost Mason, there were big questions lingering in my heart. Where was God in that triage room? Where was He during labor and delivery? Was He with me? Did He care? Because if I’m honest, it was hard to see Him in those moments. Hard to feel that He was there with us, holding us and giving us strength. He felt distant. Which left us feeling terrified, heartbroken, and anxious. I didn’t ask “Where is God?” in an angry way, or even in a questioning-His-existence kind

Christian perspective on if babies go to Heaven.

A reflection on grief, presence, and what grieving parents truly need.

Grief is a rollercoaster no one asks to be on. Before losing Mason, I had never truly experienced grief. I’ve been fortunate not to have lost close friends or family members before this. Because of that, I had no idea what to expect emotionally, physically, or spiritually after loss. In the first month after losing Mason, I discovered something quickly: grief has no rules. It follows no timeline. It arrives uninvited. It cannot be rushed, reasoned with, or fixed. Grief feels

One of the hardest truths of life is this: You cannot fix the deepest pain of someone you love. I’ve always been a fixer. I like solutions. I like answers. I like being able to make things better. And when my daughter lost her precious baby Mason, I wanted more than anything to make it all go away for her—the pain, the shock, the grief, the emptiness. I wanted to erase the ache in her chest with a word, a prayer, a hug so perfect it would restore what was lost. But I’ve learn

While nothing can take away the ache we carry for our babies — for their futures, and for the loss we have faced — there are resources that have brought me real comfort along the way. Friend, we are not alone in this. Finding Comfort in Shared Stories One of the greatest sources of hope for me has been hearing other people’s stories. When brave men and women share their journeys, something shifts. We feel seen. Understood. Connected. Their words remind us that survival is pos

One month ago today, I was 32 weeks pregnant with our baby boy. Today, I sit with empty arms. Our journey began in June 2025, when my husband, Ben, and I were married. It was the best day of my life — the easiest “yes” I’ve ever said. Just one month later, in July, we were surprised to learn that I was pregnant. We felt everything at once — excitement, shock, fear, and a love that was already overwhelming. We shared the news quickly with our family and friends, unable to cont