Grief weighs so heavily on me. Most days, simply getting out of bed to participate in “real” life feels impossible. On the rare occasions I gather the courage to step out into the world, it never fails—someone says something that makes me want to crawl right back under the covers. These comments cut me to my core, especially after losing my sweet Jensen at 38 weeks, when his heart was no longer flickering and everything was just… still.
“Good thing you didn’t get attached.”
He wasn’t a puppy. Jensen was my child. He was a precious baby with a family who loves him more than anything. When I see the photo of his tiny first shoes, I break down thinking about how anyone could believe I wasn’t attached to him. Sometimes it feels like people think that because I didn’t bring Jensen home or watch him wear those shoes, I should somehow be less devastated. I can’t wrap my head around that logic. How could I not love him just because he was stillborn? He died, and I am still deeply attached to him. I was attached the moment I saw that positive pregnancy test. I had 38 full weeks with Jensen and a lifetime of dreams planned for us. His death did not erase his existence or my love for him. He is and always will be my firstborn son, and I will always be attached to him.
“At least you’re not staying up all night with your kid.”
This was said during a conversation with someone complaining about sleepless nights with their child. I responded with understanding, because I, too, haven’t slept through the night in months. Then came the comment. Instead of being awake with Jensen, I’m awake missing him and crying. I would give anything—absolutely anything—to be up all night with him, even if he were screaming at the top of his lungs. These nights without him feel endless and painfully quiet.
“You can always have more children.”
Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not. Either way, I will never get my Jensen back. I know this statement is often meant to comfort, but it doesn’t feel comforting at all. If my mother passed away, no one would tell me I could just get another mom. A child is no different. Another baby could never replace Jensen—only become his sibling. Hearing this makes it feel as though his life didn’t matter, as if his loss could somehow be undone. It can’t.
Even after having Mila, she does not take his place. Mila is her own beautiful person, and in many ways, having her makes me wonder even more about who Jensen would have been. I imagine them playing together and wish I could see it with my own eyes. Another child doesn’t fill the spaces where I miss him. My heart grows, new memories are made, but the longing for Jensen never leaves. No matter how many children I have, he will always be missed.
“Isn’t it time for you to move on?”
No. I will never move on from Jensen. The pain is still raw, still overwhelming. My child died—it’s not like I lost something replaceable or insignificant. There are countless emotions and issues tied to his life, his death, and everything that followed. I can’t even fully explain them yet; I just know I have to work through them. How does a parent ever move on from their son? Jensen wasn’t a bad chapter in my life—he was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I do have to keep living, but it’s hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever done was giving birth to my son knowing he wouldn’t be alive. You don’t simply move on from that. Instead, I carry him with me, honor him daily, and plan ways to keep his memory alive.
“Are you still depressed about this whole thing?”
Yes. Grief and depression are tangled together right now, and I can’t separate them. Some days I function semi-normally, but most days are filled with tears and heaviness. Depression is often brushed aside or misunderstood, but it’s messy and exhausting to live with. For me, it’s the loss of my son, the loss of joy, the loss of the future I imagined, and even changes in relationships. Everything is different. It can take years—sometimes up to five—to find a new sense of normal. So yes, I am still depressed, and that is normal.
“God wanted him more.”
I believe in God, and I believe Jensen is in heaven, but this did not bring comfort. Hearing a doctor refer to my son as “it” instead of “him” only deepened the pain. Please never tell a mother that someone—even God—wanted her child more than she did. I would have done anything to save Jensen. Anything. The phrase “he’s in a better place” doesn’t help either. There is no better place for him than with me. Child loss can shake faith, and it has shaken mine. I still believe, but my relationship with faith is complicated now. Knowing Jensen is with loved ones brings some peace, but it doesn’t take away the ache of not having him here.
“It’s like losing a child…”
No. There is nothing like losing a child. Nothing compares. I know other losses hurt deeply, but losing a child is unnatural and breaks every sense of order. It makes you question everything—especially yourself as a parent. Jensen’s death wasn’t a single moment; it was the shattering of an entire future. Please don’t compare anything to this. It’s not something anyone wants to understand.
And yet, saying nothing at all is even worse. Silence adds to the emptiness. Saying Jensen’s name, acknowledging his life, and letting us know you’re thinking of our family means more than you realize. Jensen mattered. Stillbirth deserves to be talked about. Silence helps no one.
