From Grief to Remembrance: The Decades-Long Journey to Finding Peace After Pregnancy Loss

Caitlyn Michelle…It’s been 22 years since we met the baby girl we never got to know. We never saw her smile or heard her laugh. We never got to experience the little personality emerging in toddlerhood and through the elementary years. We never got to hear about future hopes and dreams or see her life’s goals come to fruition.

She came into this world too soon, her little body not yet ready to sustain life outside the safety of my womb. Caitlyn was our first—prayed for and rejoiced over—and the loss hit hard.

I wept and cried out to the Lord. There were so many tears I thought perhaps I’d run dry, but I never did. The sorrow in that season was the heaviest weight I have ever felt.

In the days and weeks that followed, I prayed over and over again for understanding. I begged for God to bring peace to my troubled soul. I knew He was with me. I had been taught since childhood about the Lord’s care and compassion. I was aware of the words from scripture: The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. (Psalm 34:18) and fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. (Isaiah 41:10) My head knowledge reminded me He was near. But there, in the midst of my sadness, in the middle of that brokenness, the Lord felt very far away.

Over a period of weeks and months, the weight felt a bit less. The Lord worked to bring some of the peace I had so desperately prayed for. Tears still sprung up in my eyes when least expected. I missed her so much. I longed to have been able to hold her just a bit longer before saying that very final “goodbye.” But there was finally comfort in knowing she is never going to feel the pain of this world. Caitlyn will never have to face the difficulties of heartbreak or cruelty or sadness. She will forever rest safely in the arms of Jesus. That’s the best joy any of us can have.

My husband and I went on to have a son almost exactly a year later and a daughter two years after that. Several years passed and we added two more sons to our crew through adoption. Our family has grown. Our shared life experiences have been immense, both exceedingly good and incredibly difficult. All along, the Lord has been by my side. Those verses from Psalm 34 and Isaiah 41 ring true, whether I feel Him with me in those individual moments or not.

Yes, it’s been 22 years since that loss. And yes, time heals, but the pain and sorrow never completely leave. So many bittersweet questions pop up time and again—What would she be doing now? Would she have a boyfriend, or maybe be married? What career path might she have chosen? How would her presence have changed the dynamic of our family? If Caitlyn had lived, our incredible son (now 21) wouldn’t be here, and I’m guessing our amazing daughter (19) probably wouldn’t be either. Every little bit of timing and decision and choice and how our lives played out would have shifted if she were here with us. Would we still have adopted our two youngest sons? We have a beautiful life together. How would that life be different?

Despite the time that has passed, each year near the anniversary of her birth, there’s a shift in me. This happens whether or not I’m actively thinking about that long ago season of sorrow. There have been a few years when a bit of guilt settles in that I’m not honoring her memory enough, or when I’m distracted by everyday life and time gets away from me, and then I suddenly realize “today is the day.” 

However, if I take even a moment to pause, I feel the difference in me. A heaviness returns.

Sometimes I feel it set in when I hang her ornament on the Christmas tree. Other years, time with family and the nostalgia of the Christmas season in general bring these thoughts and emotions to the forefront. Memories are triggered by my son’s approaching birthday (just a week and a half after hers). Each year, my body remembers. My heart remembers. Every year, at the first of the year.

I stand in the shower and cry—not the heaving, sobbing tears of before, but a softer, quieter sadness mourning a life that didn’t have full opportunity to be cared for by me and loved on by our family and friends. I sit in a few moments of sadness, wondering what might have been. 

Milestone anniversaries are a bit more difficult: the years she would have started school, gotten a driver’s license, left for college, and turned 21. Because she’s not with me in the same way my other four children are, I hoped for a very long time to commemorate her memory in some visible, tangible way. I’m able to hug my other kids, send a text to let them know I’m thinking about them, and check in about the goings on of their lives. What could be a daily reminder of the love and bittersweet fondness I have for her? What marker of her brief existence could I have with me? I thought about this off and on for several years, finally deciding that “someday” I would get a tattoo.

That day finally came one year ago, on the day after the 21st anniversary of her birth (being so near the new year, all the tattoo shops in the area were closed for the holiday on her actual birthday). I designed the tattoo myself—simple, floral, with snowdrops. I’ve never cared much for carnations, which are the birth flower for January. Snowdrops are an alternate birth flower for the month. After a little reading, I discovered they are one of the first flowers of spring, sometimes popping up while snow is still on the ground. Snowdrops are seen as a symbol of hope and the ability to overcome challenges, and they felt like a natural choice.

A tattoo might not be the way another grieving mother would choose to commemorate her child’s all-too-brief existence, but for me, it was the right decision after much thought and consideration. Each morning when I take a shower, I see that small reminder and I smile. When I wear short sleeves and catch a glimpse occasionally through the day, I take a brief pause and reflect. When asked, I’m happy to talk about the simple bouquet and date on my arm. 

I didn’t realize until just days ago that having this daily reminder hasn’t in any way added to the sadness or put my grief in the forefront. Instead, having her memory marked on me has somehow helped to lessen the heaviness that rolls around each year. 

I also reflected on the fact that on this year’s anniversary, the day she would have turned 22, I didn’t stand in the shower and cry. That’s the first time I haven’t cried on the day of her birth. I believe what I needed was simply to not forget, and that is what the symbol of love on my upper left arm has done for me. I have this daily reminder, and when I think about Caitlyn in a small way every day, the memories and the grief and the what ifs don’t have a chance to become a flood. This simple tattoo is an opportunity for sweet, daily reflections on the love I still (and always will) have for the little girl I didn’t have the pleasure of getting to know.

Caitlyn’s life may not have been important to the world. But her life was important to me. Although she was not able to experience the joys and beauty of life here on earth, she also has had the blessing of not living through the difficulties and trials. Caitlyn was, and is, a beloved child of God.

After all these years, I am finally able to truly thank God for the brief months of extreme love as I held this unborn baby inside of me, without the tinge of anger, disappointment, and dismay I felt in the days following that enormous loss. Now, I simply look forward to a joyous reunion with her in heaven. 

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