Our journey began on May 18, 2018, when I saw those beautiful, strong two pink lines. We were overjoyed—blessed with another baby, a little one we had planned and longed for. But little did I know, in that moment of pure happiness, our journey would be heartbreakingly short—and that I, too, would become part of the statistics of pregnancy loss.
Straight after our 12-week scan—which I actually had at 14 weeks—we learned that our little girl had a neural tube defect. The news hit us like a thunderbolt. My doctor called us in, and when he said, “I am so sorry Justine, but this means you have to terminate your pregnancy,” the words barely registered. I completely zoned out. My husband held me as I walked through the doctor’s office, trying desperately to hold back tears. The moment I got into the car, everything broke loose—I cried with a confusion I couldn’t yet understand. I was healthy, my preconception blood work was perfect, and nothing seemed wrong—except that this pregnancy’s morning sickness was far worse than my first. I had convinced myself it was simply because I was carrying a girl.
I had already imagined her whole life with us—the tiny bows in her hair, her nursery filled with love, and our special mother-daughter dates. I had never doubted it; she had always felt like my special little gift. Even though our time together would be brief, I felt so lucky she chose me to be her mama.
I made the decision to birth Gigi. I was given the option, but I knew, deep down, that this was the only way I could truly find closure and begin to heal. A week later, I was scheduled for induction.
I woke on August 27, 2018, like any other morning. My son, Chase, ran into our room with the biggest smile, jumping into bed for cuddles. I held him a little tighter that morning, tears running down my face. “You alright, mama? It’s a beautiful day!” he asked. And he was right. It truly was going to be a beautiful day. We were about to meet our angel baby and find the closure we so desperately needed.
I hugged Chase and my little sister, Patrice, reassuring them I’d be home in time to tuck Chase into bed. Then I got into the car with my husband, Ty, and my mum—my “birthing dream team,” as Ty calls them. Together, we would face this moment.
I chose to approach Gigi’s birth, which I had originally planned to be at home, in the same way I approached Chase’s—trusting my body, staying relaxed, and connecting deeply with myself. I truly believe birth is a spiritual experience, and even though our time with her would be short, we deserved our own precious birth story.
From the moment my induction began, I entered my birth bubble. I listened to my carefully chosen songs, let my tears flow freely, and focused on feeling her sweet soul around me. Two days prior, I had said goodbye when I took the medication that stopped her placenta from functioning. That farewell was crucial—it allowed me to approach her birth with acceptance, not resistance. Trying to hold on to someone you are not ready to release only brings pain.
The tears I shed that day weren’t from saying goodbye—they were from acknowledging that she was gone and now an angel at my side. Three hours into the induction, one of her songs came on unexpectedly. I burst into tears, and in that exact moment, my water broke. A profound peace washed over me—I knew we were only minutes away from meeting our angel.
Ty took my earphones out and asked if I was okay. I whispered, “Ty, I am about to birth her.” He leaned in, kissed me, held me tight, and said, “Juss, I am so f*ckin proud of you.” We held her, we cried, and we smiled.
Six hours later, hand in hand with Ty, we walked out of the hospital without her. Yet, we were profoundly changed. Her little soul had taught us so much, and though she had only spent a day on Earth, she had shown us the purest, most unconditional form of love—traumatic, yes, but so deeply beautiful. That love was ours forever.
Of course, I have experienced sadness, regret, and grief since that day. But the overriding emotion has always been love—pure, simple, and complex all at once. We returned home just in time to tuck Chase into bed, and I told him an extra special story that night: about his baby sister safely among the stars and how lucky we were to have our angel watching over us.
Three months later, we were blessed with another precious gift—a baby boy. His due date was the exact same day I had birthed Gigi, the most beautiful, meaningful sign I have ever received. Holding him now, everything makes a little more sense. Without losing her, we never would have found him—our special rainbow baby. Each year, as we celebrate him, we remember her.
When I birthed him, I drew immense strength from Gigi and our brief, yet unforgettable journey together.
To every woman experiencing pregnancy loss, I want you to know—you are not alone. There is beauty in heartbreak. Your angel babies matter. Speak of them. Honor them. And remember, even if they never take their first breath on Earth, their DNA, their essence, and their love remain a part of you forever. There is nothing more real than that.
