The Unfathomable Grief of Losing a Child TW: domestic violence and pregnancy loss

 This blog post contains personal content related to domestic violence and pregnancy loss. These topics may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Please prioritize your well-being and read with care. If you need support, consider reaching out to a trusted professional or support resource.

Losing a child shatters you. It’s a kind of pain that doesn’t have words. Some days you’re so full of rage you want to scream until your throat gives out or punch a hole in the wall just to feel something different. Other days, all you can do is cry until you're numb—or not cry at all and feel like a terrible person for it. Grief is messy, unpredictable, brutal. One moment you’re functioning, maybe even laughing, and the next you can’t breathe, can't move, can't even get out of bed. It’s like time keeps moving but you’re stuck in this endless loop of hurt. There’s no right way to grieve. It just hurts. Deeply. Constantly. In ways you never knew a heart could break.

I watched my parents fall apart in the aftermath of losing a child. I didn’t understand it then, but I saw it—I saw my mom cry in a way that didn’t make sense to me. I saw my dad turn quiet and angry, like the world had wronged him in a way no one could fix. I was just a kid when we lost my sister. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. So much was hidden from me—like everyone was trying to protect me from the truth. I just remember my parents always being gone, and being passed around between my grandparents, aunts, and uncles. I actually thought maybe it was because my sister had been born. I had no idea that she was already gone—and that my whole world was about to flip inside out without warning. That kind of loss changes everything, even if you're too young to understand it at the time.

What made it even harder was that my sister and I were born just 11 days apart. She died four days before my birthday. She was buried the day before I turned another year older. As a small child, I didn’t understand what was happening—I just knew something was wrong. I didn’t realize the gravity of it, or how deeply my parents were drowning in their grief while trying to protect me from it. But behind the scenes, they weren’t alone. My parents had an incredible support system that held them—and me—together when everything was falling apart.

My dad’s parents paid for my sister’s funeral and covered the bills for two months, giving my parents space to breathe. My mom’s parents took every call, every condolence, shielding my parents from having to relive the pain over and over. My aunts and uncles stepped in like second parents, keeping me busy, keeping me laughing, trying to protect whatever innocence I had left.

And then there were the people who weren’t even blood. Church members who brought meals for weeks—some even months later. My mom’s friends who arranged playdates, just so she wouldn’t be alone in her grief and I wouldn’t feel forgotten. My parents’ coworkers who gave up their own sick days so my mom and dad could take time to grieve without worrying about their jobs.

And then… my best friend’s mom. She threw me a birthday party. A big one. She made sure I still had a day that felt happy, a day that wasn’t swallowed by grief. A day where I got to be a kid, even if just for a few hours.

I didn’t understand it all back then. But now I see it. I see the love, the sacrifice, the quiet ways people carried us when we couldn’t carry ourselves. That kind of support doesn’t erase the pain—but it makes survival possible.

Not even twenty years later, I faced my own loss. The hardest part? I didn’t remember it for a long time. It was like my mind locked it away to protect me. I knew I had been pregnant. I remembered that I had a son. But the rest—gone. For years, it was just a blur, a hole in my memory I didn’t dare try to fill.

I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to relive what it felt like to lose him. But memories have a way of clawing their way back when you least expect them. And now, pieces of it have started to come back—slow, sharp, and unforgiving.

Yes, my ex was abusive. He was violent. I had multiple concussions while I was with him. We weren’t even together a month when I found out I was pregnant. I wasn’t happy—not at first. I was on birth control. It wasn’t supposed to happen.

But then I saw him. Saw the little flicker of a heartbeat. Saw that squirmy little body on the screen. And I fell in love, instantly. Completely. I wanted him. I wanted to be his mom.

At first, my ex pretended to be happy too. But everything changed once the emotions hit. Pregnancy made me raw—crying out of nowhere, overwhelmed, exhausted. And every time I cried, he got angry. Furious. Like my pain was an inconvenience to him. Like my sadness was something he needed to punish.

The memory burns through me like fire—every detail seared into my soul. We were just cleaning the rabbits' cage. Such an ordinary moment. Then one of them bit him, and I watched something dark take over his face. The crate went flying across our bedroom, and I scrambled to save my babies, clutching them against my chest as they trembled.

I should have known. I should have seen it coming.

I'd barely turned around—barely had time to breathe—when the dustpan cracked against my face. The same dustpan we'd just used for such a simple, innocent task. Again and again it came down on me, each blow stealing pieces of who I was, until I was nothing but pain on the bedroom floor. My screams filled the air, but they couldn't stop his boots from finding my belly. My precious, round belly where our baby was growing.

Twenty weeks. I was twenty weeks pregnant.

Everything after that is fragments of hell. Blood that shouldn't exist. Screams that came from somewhere deeper than my throat. Pain that rewrote every nerve in my body. And then—God help me—holding him. My son. So perfect, so impossibly small, fitting entirely in the palm of my hand like he was meant to stay there forever.

"I want to go home," I screamed. But home was a place so very far away. .

Now, years removed from that loss, I’ve found a sense of peace. I’m okay—not because it stopped hurting, but because I’ve learned to carry the pain differently. I know now that my son, Conner, was the reason I found the strength to leave when I did. Every year, I honor him in quiet, meaningful ways. I donate baby blankets to hospitals for mothers who’ve experienced the kind of loss I know too well—so they don’t feel as alone as I once did. I cook meals and bake desserts for new mothers, offering comfort and care in the same spirit I wish I had received. It’s how I keep Conner’s memory alive—with love, through giving, and by helping others feel seen.

Now, onto my most recent loss.

Once again, I was on birth control. But this time, everything was different. I was in a healthier place—with a man who truly loved and respected me. When I told him I was pregnant, we were both shocked at first. But then came the joy. He immediately started dreaming out loud—figuring out where we could fit a crib in our tiny apartment, getting excited over the smallest details. For a moment, it felt like everything was falling into place.

Sadly, I lost the pregnancy early. But the experience—the grief, the healing—was nothing like before.

This time, I wasn’t alone.

I told my husband he could go to work, that I’d be okay. But he didn’t leave my side. He stayed home with me for an entire week. My mom brought meals to make sure I had one less thing to think about. My dad sent me reels and memes just to make me laugh, even for a moment. My friends held space for me, made me feel safe to grieve.I had my cat who just laid with me and purred to make me feel safe.  I had my therapist. I had words. I had support. And I began to process—not perfectly, but honestly.

The loss still hurt, but this time… I was surrounded by love.

Life has changed so drastically. I’m happy now. I’m safe. But the past still lingers in the dark corners of my mind. I still have nightmares. I still wake up screaming, gasping for air, my heart racing like I’m trapped in another time. But then I look over and see my husband sleeping beside me, and I remember—I’m not there anymore. I’m safe now. I’m loved.

One day, I believe I’ll hold my double rainbow baby in my arms. And when that day comes, I’ll know—I made it through. And I’ll be okay.