"Currently in the process of being recognized as a non-profit organization."

In 2016, I became pregnant with my first son, Aedan-Paul. A single mother by choice, I often said with a smile that this baby would be "the man of my life." I experienced this pregnancy in pure bliss. Every week, I took a picture of my growing belly. I painted his room blue, perched on my stepladder with my big bump, and I gradually filled it with little clothes and toys. I radiated the kind of joy only a mother-to-be can.

 

At 36 weeks, I went for a monitoring appointment, feeling lighthearted and already looking forward to starting my maternity leave scheduled for the following week.

 

I didn't need anyone to explain it to me. After several minutes of searching for a heartbeat, I understood that something was wrong. I was immediately taken to the ultrasound room right next door. I saw my son appear on the monitor at the same time as I heard these words: "There is no more amniotic fluid."

It was at that moment that my life fractured. There was a before, and then everything that followed: my life after Aedan.

 

When I think back to that time, and the months and years that followed, I realize that what sustained me most, on a human level, was talking with other parents—mothers, but also fathers—who had experienced a similar loss. With them, I felt understood. We spoke the same language, the one that only parents who have gone through such an ordeal can share.

 

Yes, I received professional support, for which I am grateful. But, generally, people who hadn't experienced it couldn't truly understand. In the rest of the world, I often felt misunderstood, like I was out of place. This feeling led me to isolate myself a great deal.

 

Between Aedan and my rainbow baby, I experienced a miscarriage. Another wound, another silent heartbreak. It's in these moments that you realize just how much of a miracle each birth truly is.

 

In 2019, I became pregnant with my rainbow baby. I probably only have two photos of myself from that pregnancy. I went through it in a constant state of tension. Every day, I felt like I was walking a tightrope, watching for the slightest movement in my belly. I went to the hospital several times to make sure my baby was okay. I even bit into ice cream to try and get him to react when he was too quiet.

A typical pregnancy? Absolutely not — I was white knuckling my pregnancy.

 

That is why I am committed to offering these two support services in a peer-to-peer format.

Because nothing compares to the genuine understanding of someone who has already walked that path.