Lareesa’s Story

I have been pregnant 7 times—and I am still waiting to bring my baby home.

My name is Lareesa, and I am a mother.

Not the kind the world easily sees.

Not the kind with baby photos filling my home.

But a mother all the same.

When people ask me how many kids I have, I don’t hesitate.

I say seven.

Six beautiful angels, and one growing.

Because my babies were never “just losses.”

They were never “too early to count.”

They are my life.

They shape who I am.

They are my story.

And no one can tell me otherwise.

Before the world ever saw me as a mother, I became one through grief.

I experienced four early miscarriages.

Each one was loved.

Each one mattered.

Each one changed me.

Then I lost my son, Nicholas Chase, to an ectopic pregnancy.

That loss was traumatic and life-threatening.

It didn’t just take my baby—it took my sense of safety in my own body.

And even before all of that, I was already fighting my body.

I have endometriosis.

A disease that brought pain, uncertainty, and questions about whether I would ever be able to carry life at all. A disease that made motherhood feel fragile before it even began.

After my ectopic pregnancy, I was told that having children might be difficult… maybe even impossible.

For a moment, I believed my story might end there.

Around that same time, my life shifted in other ways too.

I went through a divorce.

Another kind of loss.

Another kind of grief.

Another version of my life I had to let go of.

But that broken chapter led me somewhere I never expected.

It led me to my husband—Mav.

A man who didn’t just love me, but loved all of me.

My past. My grief. My babies.

At the same time, he was stepping into his own journey in the Army.

And our story quickly became one of love… distance… sacrifice… and resilience.

I became pregnant with my daughter, Myracle Jane Mari—our miracle.

Mav was in training.

There were appointments he couldn’t attend, milestones we experienced apart—but she knew her daddy.

He felt her kick during his Turning Green ceremony, one of the most important moments of his Army career.

She was there with him.

Alive. Strong. Real.

I carried her for 28 weeks.

She kicked.

She moved.

She responded to his voice.

She was deeply loved—by both of us.

And I did everything right.

I followed every recommendation.

I laid on my left side.

I limited caffeine.

I went to every appointment.

I did everything I was told would protect her.

But something incredibly rare happened.

I developed silent preeclampsia—a form that can go unnoticed without clear warning signs.

Her placenta failed.

Silently.

And we lost her at 28 weeks.

My birth story is not what anyone dreams of.

My blood pressure was dangerously high.

I was told I could have a seizure—

that I might not come out of it.

But I did.

I was placed on a magnesium drip, my body fighting to stay stable, while I held my daughter.

I had her for 15 short hours.

15 hours to memorize her.

15 hours to love her.

15 hours to be her mom outside of my body.

And then I had to say goodbye.

Holding her lifeless body is something that will live in me forever.

Mav came home to meet his daughter… and to bury her.

He chose not to hold her in the hospital—not because he didn’t love her, but because he loved her so deeply that he wanted to hold onto the version of her he had come to know.

The kicks he felt.

The life he imagined.

The only time he physically held his daughter was when he carried her casket.

But even in that moment… I knew something.

I knew she wasn’t alone.

I knew she was with her brother, Nicholas Chase.

Because while I was giving birth, I saw them.

Both of them.

Sitting at my bedside.

They looked about three or four years old.

Peaceful. Safe.

Waiting.

And in that moment, I knew—

God had them.

They were okay.

My faith carried me.

I turned to God.

I leaned into my beliefs as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Because when nothing else made sense… my faith did.

It reminded me that my babies are not gone forever.

That this separation is not permanent.

That there is a plan greater than what I can see.

Mav and I both grieve—and we still do every single day.

But we grieve differently.

Because there is no right way to survive losing your children.

Only… surviving.

And learning how to keep loving each other through it.

I refused to let my babies be silenced.

I speak their names.

I talk about them openly.

When people ask how many kids I have, I say seven.

Because they are still mine.

I don’t go to therapy.

Instead, I create.

I write what I cannot say—because there are no words big enough for this kind of grief.

I turned to songwriting.

I pour my pain into lyrics, into melodies—into something that can hold what my heart carries.

And not just for me.

For other moms.

For other parents who have lost.

I write custom songs for families like mine—because sometimes music is the only way to say:

Your baby mattered.

Your baby is loved.

Your baby is not forgotten.

And I turned to photography.

Because sometimes memories are all we have.

Through my lens, I found another way to honor life and loss.

Another way to help families feel seen.

Another way to say—

this mattered.

And still—after everything—

I chose hope again.

Now, I am pregnant with my seventh baby—our son, Callan.

And pregnancy after loss is not what people think it is.

It is not carefree.

It is not just excitement.

It is fear and love existing at the same time.

It is waking up every day and checking—is he still okay?

It is holding your breath between movements.

It is replaying your last pregnancy in your mind, wondering if this moment feels the same.

It is being on medications.

Daily reminders that this pregnancy is different.

That your body needs support.

That you are doing everything possible to protect this baby.

It is baby aspirin.

It is prescriptions.

It is constant monitoring.

It is fighting for a life you cannot lose again.

It is going to appointments not just with excitement—but with fear sitting right beside you.

It is watching the screen, waiting to see a heartbeat.

It is relief… followed by anxiety for the next appointment.

It is knowing exactly how much can go wrong.

Because you’ve lived it.

You’ve held your baby and said goodbye.

You’ve walked out of a hospital empty-handed.

You don’t get to be naive anymore.

It is people saying “just relax”…

when relaxing feels impossible.

Because love after loss is not soft.

It is protective.

It is hyper-aware.

It is rooted in both fear and hope.

It is loving this baby so deeply…

while being terrified of losing him.

And it is doing all of this while your husband is gone again—serving, training—just like he was before.

And your body remembers.

Your heart remembers.

Everything remembers.

But this time, we carry something different too.

Faith.

Strength.

Hope.

Callan is my rainbow.

But he is not a replacement.

He is part of a story built on love, loss, faith, and resilience.

I have no living children yet.

But I am a mother.

A mother to six babies in heaven.

And a mother carrying her rainbow.

And after everything I’ve been through—

I believe Callan will be my earthside baby.

Find out more about Project Finding Your Rainbow.

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Listen to the Finding Hope After Loss Podcast!