Disclaimer: This story includes images of child loss that may be triggering to some.
I can remember the exact moment I found out I was pregnant. My hands were trembling as I lifted the test close to my face, staring at the word that would change my life forever: pregnant. There was a little baby growing inside me, and of all days to discover this miracle, it was my birthday. It felt like the universe had given me the most perfect, unexpected gift. I was already so in love—before even seeing my baby, before feeling the first kick, just from that one word.
The first half of my pregnancy went smoothly. Morning sickness arrived in the second trimester, but my family was incredible, always there to support me when I felt sick or exhausted. Every day was filled with anticipation as we counted down to the big reveal: would we be welcoming a boy or a girl? I couldn’t wait to start imagining the nursery, picking out baby clothes, and showering our little one with love even before he or she arrived. We had already chosen names—Jensen Grey if it was a boy, Mila Rae if a girl.
Twenty weeks came quickly, though it felt like an eternity while waiting to see our baby’s gender. At that ultrasound appointment, the baby’s dad, my mom, and my dad all squeezed into the tiny room with me. We had to charm the nurse to let them in, but I couldn’t imagine experiencing that moment alone. The cold ultrasound gel was a jolt on my belly, then suddenly, there he was on the screen—my little love, moving and kicking, his heartbeat strong and steady. The technician quietly took her measurements as we ooohed and ahhed, overwhelmed with joy. When she asked if we wanted to know the gender, I had already seen it: a little boy.
“It’s a boy!” she said.
“We have our Jensen!” my mom shouted, tears of excitement streaming down her face.
After the scan, Jensen’s dad and I waited for the doctor while my parents left. That’s when everything shifted.
“There are some measurements that aren’t normal,” the doctor said gently. “The baby’s nuchal fold is enlarged, which could mean several things. We need to run some tests to know for sure.”
I felt my world crumble. Something was ‘wrong’ with my perfect baby, my Jensen, and I had no idea how to cope. Two blood tests, meetings with high-risk and genetic specialists later, we received the news: Jensen had Down syndrome. We didn’t know the full scope yet, but he would need extra monitoring during my pregnancy, and after birth, we would assess his needs.
To keep a close eye on Jensen, I had ultrasounds twice a week. Each visit was an hour-long drive, but seeing him move and grow on the screen brought immeasurable joy. Hearing his heartbeat became my sanctuary, a place of peace amidst the uncertainty and fear. Those moments were precious, and I would never regret every single second spent watching him thrive inside me.
As the weeks passed, I began to feel… off. I chalked it up to nerves about becoming a new mom and worrying about Jensen’s future, but nothing could have prepared me for the devastation that awaited. At my 38-week appointment, the ultrasound screen no longer danced with life. Jensen was still. His tiny heart wasn’t flickering. The reality of that moment—one I will never forget—was crushing, yet strangely surreal.
Everything after that felt both frozen and collapsing simultaneously. Four years later, I still can’t remember every detail; it’s like a fragmented movie, some scenes vivid, others missing entirely.
Jensen Grey Ridgway was born four hours after being induced on April 5, 2016. He had curly blond hair, a perfect little nose, and pouty lips. I asked if he had all ten fingers and toes. They told me he was beautiful, but I couldn’t bring myself to see him.
I chose not to hold Jensen, a decision that has haunted me ever since. At the time, I was overwhelmed by grief and disbelief, unable to accept the permanence of his absence. Instead, I asked for a lock of his hair, his footprints, handprints, and photos. I wish I could go back, hold him, kiss him, whisper that I love him one more time. Those are moments I will carry in my heart forever.
Life since Jensen has been a journey of profound grief, but also of love and resilience. His name is spoken every day. I try to live fully, honoring the life he didn’t get to live. Jensen now has a sister, Mila, who will grow up knowing her big brother is always watching over her. His pictures fill our home, and we dance to the songs he once moved to inside my belly.
My journey has been one of both loss and enduring love. To anyone who has lost a child, I want you to know: keep moving forward. No matter the decisions you made or the moments you missed, your love filled your child’s life completely—that is all they ever knew, and all Jensen ever knew.
I will always be his mom. My love for Jensen will never fade, and his life, though brief, will always matter.
