I found out I was pregnant on December 21st, 2024. I was so happy — going into the new year with a bundle of joy, spending Christmas dreaming about holding you in my arms for the first time. Your daddy and I were so excited to meet you. Your grandma — and the entire village behind her — was ready to hold you, love you, and welcome you into this world.

Then came January 4th.

The spotting started.

I called family, terrified, crying.

Somewhere deep down, I could already feel you slipping away from me.

“No,” I thought. Please, no.

I wanted you more than anything.

Your grandma told me to relax, to rest — but I couldn’t. My body was already in panic.

January 5th, the bleeding started. Followed by pain so sharp I ground my teeth through it.

And all I could do was play “Yellow” by Coldplay.

“And your skin, oh yeah, your skin and bones… turn into something beautiful. And you know, for you, I’d bleed myself dry. For you, I’d bleed myself dry.”

That was the song I sang to you, while clinging to hope, praying to the God above that He’d let you stay.

January 6th.

The worst day of my life.

I lost you.

Your daddy held me while I sat on the exam bed — the paper crinkling every time I moved. I pressed my feet against the cold stool beneath me, trying to ground myself in a moment I didn’t want to be real. I sobbed into your daddy’s shirt, thinking, “Why me?”

People have children every day who don’t even want them.

And I had waited — waited for you. Wanted you. Prayed for you.

And still, I lost you.

The days after were a blur. I felt numb without you. Empty.

Today, I’m writing this to tell you:

Mommy is okay. I’m still standing.

But I miss you. So, so much.

You would still be growing in my belly today — six months along.

Instead, I’m writing you this letter.

I will never forget you. I will never stop loving you.

You were real. You were mine.

And you always will be.

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To the mama reading this who has felt this pain too:

You are not alone.

Your grief is valid.

Your baby mattered — just like mine did.

And even in the quietest moments, when the world forgets, we remember.

We carry them, always.

With love and understanding,

A fellow grieving mother

TTC - Anxiety & Depression