The Babies We Didn’t Name: How I’m Holding On
Hello, friend.
If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve been through something raw. Maybe your body remembers. Maybe your heart does. This letter is for those of us who’ve lived through pregnancy loss: once, or more than once. For those who know too well the hush of ultrasound rooms, the blur of recovery instructions, the strange resilience of trying again when you’re still cracked open from the last time.
Laura with her son, Benny, and their dog, George.
It’s for everyone learning to speak in acronyms like IVF, D&C, APS, and the partners who’ve sat in the car or on a folding chair trying to make sense of the unspeakable.
My husband and I have lost five babies. Five tiny sparks who never made it into this world. And one embryo who never even had the chance to begin.
Our first loss was supposed to be the beginning of everything. We were “graduating” from our fertility clinic, finally stepping into the light. I was at the end of the first trimester. We were hopeful, giddy even. It was early Covid days, so my husband Ben had to FaceTime in from the parking lot. I still have screenshots of us waiting on video smiling, bright-eyed, so unaware.
And then, the scan began.
The doctor was quiet. I looked at Ben’s face on the screen and knew before anything was said: our son had no heartbeat. And because of Covid protocols, we couldn’t even be in the same room. No hug, no hand to hold, just silence on both ends of a phone.
I had to wait two days for the surgery. Two days of walking around knowing our baby was gone, and somehow still inside me. I still think about that version of myself and wonder where my “mother’s intuition” was. But I’ve learned: intuition isn’t some flashing neon sign. Sometimes it’s a nudge you don’t recognize until later.
Our most recent loss was in June. Eight weeks. A hard-won pregnancy after six failed IVF cycles, multiple surgeries, and so much hope. A miracle, really. We later found out he was a genetically normal baby boy.
And when we lost him? I didn’t cry.
Not because I didn’t love him, but because my body just couldn’t anymore. Numbness isn’t the absence of grief; it’s when your heart takes a moment to catch up. The tears came later. When I realized we wouldn’t be wrapping a new baby in a Christmas blanket this year.
People sometimes ask if the losses get easier. For me, they get heavier. Each one breaks me open in a new place. Sometimes I try to outrun the grief with dark humor. Like when I asked my doctor if we should get my son, who is three, a T-shirt that says “I Survived My Mother’s Uterus.”
And then there’s this part I still carry: we never named them.
After our first loss, we called him “our angel baby boy.” Naming him didn’t even cross our minds. We were told it was a fluke. Just bad luck. “These things happen,” they said. But I felt it in my bones that it wouldn’t be our only loss.
And so the others came. Each one awful in its own way. We didn’t name them either. And I carry that guilt like a whisper. Would it have helped? Would it have hurt more? Should we have named the chemical pregnancies? The embryo? Would I have had to get creative and start naming them alphabetically, like tropical storms?
So instead, we call them all “our angel babies.” And in my heart, I believe they know.
Laura and Ben’s statue in honor of their angel babies.
I wear a hat sometimes that says “Boy Mom.” People ask how many boys I have. I say “one.” And they nod politely with that curious look. But I know I’ve carried three boys. Only one is in my arms, but I’m a boy mom through and through.
Grief has a funny way of sneaking up on me. It lives in unexpected places: the yogurt aisle. A lullaby on my son’s playlist. A too-soft hospital blanket. There's one song—“Save You a Seat”—that brings me to my knees. Especially if my living son is dancing to it. I picture all the little ones we won’t get to see at our dinner table. And then I look at the miracle right in front of me, and I remember: I’m still one of the lucky ones.
He’s why I keep holding on.
Holding on for me can sometimes look like naps and carbs. Other days, it’s therapy, yoga, and matcha with extra honey. It’s letting our son crawl all over me on the couch, even when I’m tired, because I can. Because he’s here. It’s being soft where I used to be hard. Laughing more. Crying when I need to. And trying to give myself the same compassion I’d give any friend going through this.
At the marina—Ben on the left, their son Benny in the middle, Laura on the right.
If I could go back and whisper something to the me who hadn’t lost anyone yet, it would be: You won’t forget them. They’re a part of you now. And one day, the grief won’t feel quite as sharp. It’ll be something soft enough to hold in your hands. Something you carry, not a wound, but a memory.
I don’t have the answers. I just know what it feels like to ache, grieve, and still want more from this life. Thank you for reading and letting me share this part of my story with you.
With love,
Laura