A Journey Through Loss: Honoring the Life of My Baby Jude
We had been hoping to add a sibling for Kate; I could already envision her as a big sister, her little heart full of love. But life doesn’t always go as planned, especially in pregnancy, where so much is beyond our control.
It began with a bit of brown spotting on Thursday. I told myself it was nothing, a common occurrence in early pregnancy. But inside, I felt that familiar pang, a flashback to my first miscarriage. By Friday, the spotting had turned red, and denial no longer offered any comfort. I headed to the ER, where I waited six hours as hope faded with each minute. By Saturday, cramps set in, and the bleeding grew heavier. I knew I was losing the baby.
Miscarriage is hard in any situation, but going through it while caring for a toddler adds layers of complexity. Sometimes, I just needed space, a moment alone to process. My husband stepped in to care for Kate, but she sensed something was off. When I’d go to the bathroom, she’d quietly follow, closing the door behind her and sitting beside me in silence. I could feel her presence, her little hand resting on me, sensing my sadness. When I lay in bed, Kate would bring her books or gently touch my face, as if she knew I needed comfort. Her sweetness kept me going through those painful days.
At 1 a.m., while everyone else was asleep, my body finally let go. I held our little one in my hands, a life so small and fragile. Somehow, I couldn’t flush him away. Instead, at 1:30 a.m., I took him to the backyard. Beneath the stars, I buried him in a quiet corner, a place that felt right. I’ve decided to plant something there, a symbol of life and remembrance. I lit a candle and journaled in the silence, allowing myself to release everything in my heart. I named him Jude because it was St. Jude’s day. As I wrote him a three-page letter, I poured out my thoughts, telling him everything I needed him to know. I wanted his soul to be at peace, to feel released from me, so that I could heal and create space for the future.
With my first miscarriage, it took me a year to find this kind of closure. I traveled to Batroun, Lebanon, and sat by the Mediterranean Sea, writing down my thoughts, burning the pages, and scattering the ashes over the ocean. It was healing, but it took every bit of courage to let go. This time, I did it right away. Is that growth? Perhaps.
There’s a temptation to blame ourselves when something like this happens. Maybe it was the stress of watching Beirut burn, my worry for my parents, the blood clots that meant taking aspirin, or even the lingering effects of COVID. Part of me wondered if it was an answer to a prayer I didn’t fully understand. Just days after learning I was pregnant, I attended a fundraising event for St. Jude’s, listening to parents share the stories of their warrior children, some who survived and others who didn’t. I prayed that night, asking that if the baby I carried wasn’t healthy and would suffer, maybe it was better if he didn’t come. And here I was, naming him Jude, on St. Jude’s day, letting him go. Did I ask for this? I may never know, but I have to trust that everything happens as it should.
Every soul, however short its time with us, has a purpose. I’ve worked with many patients who’ve gone through miscarriages, often silently, carrying their grief alone. Losing a baby, no matter when, is an emotional journey—a wave of joy and dreams shattered by loss. If you’re going through this, know that your feelings are valid. Don’t let anyone diminish the depth of your pain by calling it “normal.” This was a life, a part of you, and it deserves to be mourned.
I can’t imagine the strength it takes for mothers who lose their babies later in pregnancy. Some have to go through labor or even a C-section to deliver a baby they won’t bring home. I feel blessed that my loss happened early, yet I can’t help but feel awe and respect for those who walk that path. They are warriors.
Being a woman is both a blessing and a burden. Our bodies go through unimaginable changes, whether we choose to have children or not, and each choice and experience is uniquely personal.
Healing from this takes time, and grief is not a straight path. It comes in waves, and all we can do is ride them as best we can. In my journey, a few things brought comfort:
When the cramps began, painkillers and a heating pad were lifesavers. Watching Grey’s Anatomy helped, too. There’s something oddly comforting in seeing Meredith Grey endure every possible catastrophe and keep going.
Nature therapy worked wonders. A walk outside, breathing in the fresh air, sitting in silence—these moments became essential.
Journaling made the biggest difference. Naming my baby, creating a small ceremony, and writing to him allowed me to release some of the grief. I went to bed at 4 a.m. with my heart feeling a little lighter, knowing I’d honored him in my own way.
If possible, find a special place to bury your baby, somewhere you can visit and feel connected. Adding a plant, something that will grow, can be a symbol of life moving forward.
Breathe deeply, practice diaphragmatic breathing, and reconnect with your body. Your womb, your pelvis, your spirit need time to heal.
Watch for physical signs. Eat whole foods, stay hydrated, and don’t hesitate to seek help if you need it. Miscarriages can take a toll on the body, so listen to what yours is telling you.
This Friday, I’m holding a session for mothers who’ve experienced a miscarriage—a space for us to share, move, journal, and honor the souls we’ve lost. Bring a journal, a warm blanket, maybe some tea, and let’s hold this space for each other, to heal and create room for the next chapter.
To every mother going through this, I’m sending you a big, warm hug. Our bodies are resilient, and our spirits unbreakable. There is strength in sharing, in healing together, and in knowing that one day, a baby will choose us again. Until then, let’s honor ourselves, our journeys, and the precious lives we carry with us, always.
x
Dr. Lea
