To the Baby I Never Got to Hold

Though I never held you in my arms, I carry you in my heart always

My sweet angel,

Today marks seven years since I lost you. Seven years since my heart broke in a way I never knew was possible. And still, not a day goes by that I don’t think about you, that I don’t wonder who you would have been, how you would have fit into our little family, and what life would have been like if I had gotten to hold you in my arms instead of just in my heart.

Would you have been a boy or a girl? Would you have had a big, bold personality like your brother, or been more soft-spoken and observant like your sister? Would you have been the little comedian of the house, making silly faces and cracking everyone up? I wonder how you would have changed the dynamic of our family, what special light you would have brought into our world. I can’t help but imagine what it would have been like to have you here, to watch you grow, to see you take your first steps, say your first words, and become your own little person.

Losing you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to go through. It changed me. It made me realize how fragile life is, how nothing is promised, and how deep a mother’s love runs—even for a child she never got to meet.

Now, as I navigate life with your rainbow baby brother, I watch him grow, learn, and show more of his personality every day, and I wonder—what would you have been like? How would you and your siblings have bonded? Would you have been his protector, or maybe his partner in crime? It’s a question I’ll never have the answer to, but it stays with me.

Even though you’re not physically here, I feel you. I feel your presence watching over us, guiding us, loving us. You are still very much a part of our family. I like to think that you’re up there with Nana and Papa, with Auntie Deanna and your cousin Sterling, who left this world just before I lost you. Maybe God knew they needed a piece of me with them in heaven while I’m still here on earth. The thought brings me a little peace, knowing you’re surrounded by love, just as you would have been here.

I want you to know that even though I never got to hold you, I will always carry you. In my heart, in my thoughts, in the way I mother your siblings, in the love I pour into the world. You are, and always will be, my baby.

And I will always, always love you.

Love,

Mommy

Reflections Seven Years Later

As I sit with these thoughts today, I reflect on what this journey has meant to me over the years. Losing a child, even one you never got to meet, is a grief that doesn’t have an expiration date. Today marks seven years since I miscarried my baby, and while time has moved forward, the weight of that loss is still with me. It doesn’t consume me the way it once did, but it lingers in the quiet moments, in the “what ifs,” in the dreams of a life that never got to be.

I pride myself on being a great mother. It’s my greatest joy, my most important role. But it’s hard knowing there’s a child I never got to raise, never got to kiss goodnight, never got to see grow. It’s a pain that’s difficult to put into words, but any mother who has experienced this kind of loss knows—it stays with you.

Over the years, I’ve found ways to honor my baby. Through reflection, through love, through simply acknowledging that they existed, even if only for a short time. I know they are still with me. I know they are still watching over us.

To any mother who has experienced this kind of loss, I see you. Your grief is valid. Your love is real. And your baby will always matter.

Our family is whole because you are still with us, watching, guiding, and loving from above.

To any mother who has experienced this loss, I invite you to share your story or simply take a moment to honor your little one. Together, we can create space for healing and remembrance.