A letter about life after losing a baby, for anyone wondering if it ever gets easier
Annabelle on the right, and Maisie on the left, honoring their sister, Izzy Lee, on her birthday July 21st.
If you had told me seven years ago that I would go on to have three healthy, living children, I wouldn’t have believed you. The months after losing our first daughter, Izzy, were dark and heavy. There were days I thought I would never feel happiness again. How could I ever move forward after losing a baby I carried for nine months? The future we dreamed for her, the beautiful nursery we had set up, and the car seat we had installed were gone in an instant.
Sometimes, I still return to the moment the ultrasound technician said, “I’m sorry there is no heartbeat,” and we left the hospital with empty arms instead of holding a baby. That memory still takes my breath away. The healing process was long, and I often feared I would be broken forever. There were moments when I caught myself smiling or laughing, guilt would follow. I believed I had to feel pain every second of every day. That joy somehow dishonored her.
Three months later, we were pregnant again, and a complicated mix of emotions followed: elation, terror, and guilt. I was replacing her. I was moving on too quickly, not honoring her as she deserved.
Sarah and her husband, Chris, holding their rainbow baby, Annabelle.
But over time, I realized I wasn’t replacing her. I was making space for joy and grief to coexist. That I could grieve Izzy—remember her in our own way—while daring to live in the present and imagine a future. Ever so slowly, my trust in the world returned. I came to understand that heartbreakingly painful things can happen without reason, and still, we don’t have to remain in that place forever. Healing doesn’t erase the loss; it changes the way we carry it.
Our rainbow baby, Annabelle, helped us begin to hope again. And now, as I raise children who never got to meet their sister, I see the beautiful and unexpected ways Izzy is still present. We talk about her when we see a monarch butterfly. We celebrate her birthday every July, telling our children their sister is in heaven. In October, we light a candle for pregnancy and infant loss awareness and send balloons skyward. These moments are still bittersweet. But I can also look at my children and cherish the many milestones I feared I would never reach. I’ve come to realize that love doesn’t end; it finds new ways to stay with us.
Sarah, her husband, Chris, and three of their children from left to right: Annabelle, Tucker, and Maisie.
There is no perfect way to move through loss. But here’s what I know: joy after devastation is possible. You can build a life that holds grief while living fully. And you can mother all your children, even the ones who aren’t physically here with your whole heart.
