⚠️ A Gentle Note Before You Read
This post discusses pregnancy loss and miscarriage. If you’re not in a place to read about that right now, please take care of your heart and come back when you’re ready.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write this, but words have always helped me process what my heart can’t quite carry. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been walking through the loss of our daughter, Kennedy Rose, who stopped growing at about five weeks into my pregnancy.
It’s strange how quickly love forms. A positive pregnancy test, a first look at your growing baby, and a few weeks of dreaming can make you feel like your whole world has changed… because it has! And then, suddenly, it’s gone. The silence that follows is deafening.
In the middle of that grief, people try to comfort you. Most mean well. But I’ve learned that there are some things that just don’t help, even if they come from a good place.
“Trust that God has a plan.”
As a Christian, I believe that’s true. I do believe He works all things together for good. But when you’re sitting in the thick of grief, you don’t want to hear about the plan. You want your baby. You want what was taken from you.
There will come a time for faith-filled reflection, but in the rawness of loss, it feels dismissive to jump straight to divine purpose. Sometimes the most faithful thing someone can do is to sit with you in the sadness instead of trying to fix it.
“You have [other children] — count your blessings.”
We love our son, Gem*, more than words can express. He is light and laughter and everything good in this world. But loving him doesn’t erase the pain of losing Kennedy.
It doesn’t make it easier that I’ll never see her smile or hold her hand the way I do my living children. When people say this, it feels like they’re asking me to trade one child’s existence for another’s… and that’s not how love works.
“At least it was early.”
This one probably hurts the most. As if the timing of our loss makes it less significant. The truth is, I knew Kennedy. I carried her, and still now, in the very cells of my body. I loved her profoundly, deeper than any written word will ever express.
You might not have known her long, but I did. And with that knowing came dreams for her life, her nursery plans, and the quiet joy of imagining a future that will never come to be this side of heaven.
Loss is loss, no matter the week or stage. And it all hurts.
“Don’t worry; you’ll get pregnant again.”
I know people say this to offer hope, but when you’re grieving, you’re not thinking about what’s next. You’re mourning this baby — the one who’s gone.
Our past and future children (if they come) don’t replace the ones we’ve lost. They simply expand our hearts in new directions. But in the middle of loss, that’s not where your heart lives.
Words That Heal: Walking Through Miscarriage
If I could tell anyone what does help when heaven holds what your arms cannot, it’s this:
Simply say, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
That’s it. No silver linings. No quick fixes. Just empathy.
Because the truth is, there’s nothing you can say to make it better. Your presence, your gentleness, and your acknowledgment of the pain, however, mean more than you’ll ever know.
To those who are grieving, please know: your loss matters. Your baby mattered. Whether your time was five weeks or five years, love makes it real. And God weeps with you, even now.
Every night, we pray for Kennedy Rose. We pray that she is safe and warm and loved in heaven as she was on earth. It brings me a great deal of comfort to know that the very first face she saw when she opened her little eyes was her Savior, Jesus Christ.
Though we never got to hold her in our arms here on earth, we trust that she is being held in heaven — and that one day, we will see her again, perfectly whole. Gem knows of his little sister, and our future rainbow bab(ies) will know of her, too. Kennedy’s story is woven into the fabric of our family, and her life, however brief, has meaning and purpose beyond what we can comprehend right now.
We don’t know why this happened, but we hold tightly to the truth that God is still good. He is working all things together — even this — for our good and His glory. And on the hardest nights, when the grief feels like too much, that promise is honestly what helps me breathe again.
ACTIONABLE STEPS: As you sit with this post, I invite you to take a quiet moment for reflection: whether that means praying for the babies we have lost, holding space for your own grief, or reaching out to someone who may need your presence and compassion. Sometimes, the most powerful act of love we can offer ourselves or to others is simply to acknowledge the loss, honor the life that touched us, and trust that God is holding them safely in His arms.
