On Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day, I’m sharing a piece of my own story—for the babies who were deeply loved, the families who carry them, and the complicated ways grief can live alongside love.
For the baby I never met,
and the one in my arms.
The first time I saw you,
you were a small ring of light.
The words
“hi mama”
typed onto the picture.
And I let myself believe them.
I imagined everything.
Who you might be.
Who I might become.
What my life might look like with you in it.
The first time I saw him,
I tried not to imagine anything at all.
I knew that seeing a baby
did not mean I would get to keep one.
I knew how quickly joy
could become unimaginable pain.
With you,
I imagined a whole life.
With him,
I barely let myself believe he was real.
Sometimes I look at him
and wonder about you.
Would you have had his clear blue eyes?
His blonde hair,
that one curl at the back?
His stubborn little way
of knowing exactly what he wants?
I wish you had stayed.
And if you had,
I wouldn’t have him.
There is no way to make that make sense.
Maybe grief was never meant to.
Because I cannot imagine a world
where he is not here.
Where I never learned his laugh.
Never felt his hand
wrap around one of my fingers.
Never knew the weight of him
sleeping against my chest.
I look at him,
completely certain
he’s supposed to be mine,
and still wish
you were here.
Both can be true.
They have to be.
I don’t wish for a different life.
I just wish I could have had you both
in this one.
So instead,
I hold you both.
One in my arms.
One where no one else can see.
The baby I never got to know.
The one I cannot imagine not knowing.