Named & Known - Mason's Story

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 contain our joy.

For months, everything unfolded just as we had hoped. At 13 weeks, we learned we were having a boy. At 20 weeks, we saw our perfectly healthy baby kicking away on the screen. I felt him move constantly — he was such an active little guy. Every chance I had, my hand was on my belly, watching and feeling him move beneath my skin.

In December, we celebrated with a baby shower surrounded by friends and family. It was a beautiful day, full of love and awe for the precious life growing inside me.

In early January, Ben and I moved into our first home. We dreamed of the memories we would make there — the life we would build together with Mason and, Lord willing, our future children.

The following weekend, I began to sense that something was changing. On Friday at work, I noticed Mason didn’t seem to be moving as much as usual. I called the nurse and received reassurance. Friends and family echoed the same. He was still meeting kick counts, but something felt off deep in my spirit.

On Saturday morning, we drove to my parents’ house to celebrate our niece’s first birthday. That morning, Mason seemed to be back to his wiggly self. His nana felt him kick as we sat together celebrating. I remember feeling relieved.

That evening, my friend Maddie and I picked out paint samples for the nursery and assembled the rocking chair. I sat in it afterward, imagining what it would feel like to hold Mason there. It felt so close. So real.

During the night, his movements again seemed quieter, but I clung to the reassurance I had been given and eventually fell asleep.

Sunday morning, we were expecting my mom, sister, and grandma to come over to help hang decorations and build the crib. I felt anxious about Mason’s movement, so I tried using our at-home doppler to find his heartbeat, something I had done successfully many times before.

This time, I couldn’t find it.

Panic set in immediately. I told myself he must be in a strange position, that the doppler simply wasn’t strong enough. When my family arrived, I explained what was happening. Everyone tried to reassure me. I tried to move forward with decorating, but I couldn’t shake the pit in my stomach. My heart was racing.

My mom could tell I wasn’t settling. She gently suggested we get checked. I resisted at first — afraid of what we might hear, afraid of being overdramatic, afraid of disrupting what was supposed to be a joyful day.

But I knew she was right. I wouldn’t rest without knowing.

We first stopped at an urgent care facility. After waiting anxiously, the doctor explained we really needed to go to the hospital for proper monitoring. As we left, he said words that still echo in my mind: “Don’t worry. They’ll do an NST and you’ll be back home by dinner.”

We went to the hospital, me trembling with nerves, everyone else continuing to reassure me. I was convinced I was overreacting.

Within minutes of arriving in labor and delivery triage, we heard the words no parent is prepared to hear:

“I am so sorry. I’m not finding a heartbeat.”

Everything after that felt unreal. Terror. Shock. Confusion. Anger. A desperate hope that they were wrong. It felt as though the walls were closing in. I truly did not know how I could survive what was unfolding.

How do you deliver your baby into the world… knowing he is already gone?

Yet there was no choice but to walk forward.

After 11 hours of induced labor, filled with prayers, tears, and unimaginable anxiety, Mason Ross VerBeek was born.

When I first saw him, I thought, He is so perfect. How can this be happening?

In my mind, I had assumed something would look obviously wrong. But there wasn’t. He was beautiful — perfectly formed, with soft hair, tiny fingers and toes, and the sweetest face.

We were given eight sacred hours with our son. We held him. We prayed over him. We memorized him. We loved him with everything we had.

I will forever be grateful for those hours — and for the doctors and nurses who guided us with extraordinary compassion through the darkest moment of our lives. Their tenderness was a gift. I truly believe God was working through them.

Eventually, the moment came when we had to say goodbye. Leaving him there was the hardest thing I have ever done. It felt so wrong. It was so wrong. And yet, it was the reality we had to walk through.

The days that followed were raw and disorienting. I began to learn what grief truly feels like — in my body, in my heart, in the silence of our home. I faced the painful reality that all the hopes and dreams we had for our sweet boy would not unfold the way we had imagined.

And yet, we were surrounded. Both sides of our family held us constantly. We were covered in prayer. We felt seen by God in our pain — not abandoned in it.

There is no sorrow He does not understand. No grief He does not sit with.

Now, one month later, I am still learning. Learning how to live in this new “normal,” even when nothing feels normal at all.

By sharing Mason’s story, I pray others feel less alone. I believe his life — and his legacy — matter deeply. I believe there is growth here, community to be built, and glory to be given to God.

If you are walking through pregnancy or infant loss, or loving someone who is, you are not alone here. Named & Known exists to hold space for your story, your questions, your faith, and your grief — in whatever form it takes.

If it feels right for you, I invite you to subscribe to receive gentle encouragement, remembrance ideas, and honest reflections delivered to your inbox. You can also explore our resources or simply sit with the stories shared here. There is no timeline, no pressure — only presence.

Thank you for being here.

We long to walk alongside you, in whatever way feels right for you.