Paula’s Story

Ona’s Story

On September 16, 2024, my daughter died and was born. In that order. From that moment on, my life turned upside down. Giving birth to your child without life is something no family ever expects. Sadly, it is still a hidden subject, something people avoid, a taboo no one likes to talk about.

At the hospital, I could not believe what was happening to me. I did not know how to face what was coming, or imagine the weight that would fall on me. I did not know anyone who had lost a baby before birth, and even though I was surrounded by my family, I felt alone. I was lucky to have a wonderful midwife who held me with great love. I often think about her and her empathy. It showed me how important it is to find professionals who know how to support you in moments like this.

The birth was magical, calm, and respected. I always say the only thing that went wrong was that Ona did not cry. From that moment on, we had to begin grieving, learning how to carry it and ride its waves as best we could. Leaving the hospital with empty arms and a memory box, and walking into a silent home, was the breaking point. You realize the world continues at the same pace, but you are no longer the same. I needed calm and privacy. For a while, I focused on my partner and my close family. I read a lot and searched for the stories of other mothers like me. I also discovered that real friends showed up. They wanted to ask questions and, more importantly, they listened without judgment. That helped me step out of silence and share my experience with people who truly care. I found the courage to show photos, share memories, and open up about my feelings. In the end, those who truly love you are there, both in the joyful moments and when you cannot see any light.

I read constantly and wrote even more. I wrote down every thought that came to me: fear, anger, helplessness, sadness, longing. These emotions were strong and intense. I also cried a lot. I still cry, but now from a different place. The anger and helplessness have slowly turned into love, nostalgia, and remembrance.

After a couple of months, I started connecting with other mothers. Even without knowing each other, we became friends and confidants. Our babies, in some way, brought us together. Some lived in my town, others I met on Instagram or in support groups. That is when I realized I was not alone. The loss of a baby during pregnancy or shortly after birth happens much more often than we think. Being able to talk, share how we felt, and how we were moving through grief was the best therapy. One year later, we are still close and continue sharing how we are doing almost every week.

Now, a year later, I can say that the pain is still here. I still go to therapy, and I am still grieving, but it is not the same. The sharpest emotions have softened. Ona is still with me every day and in everything I do. Her memory now stays with me more calmly. Time does not heal everything, but it helps you breathe a little easier.

I have learned that there is no need to rush on this path. Everyone grieves in their own way and at their own pace. Every way of grieving is valid. To families who have just lost their baby, I want to say that they are not alone. There are many mothers and fathers who recognize that look in your eyes. There are support networks, and sharing truly helps. The emptiness never goes away, but over time you learn to live with it. And in that process, you discover that, despite everything, love is greater than pain.

Today, I carry hope in my heart alongside grief. I am currently pregnant with Ona’s little sibling. This pregnancy comes with fear and vulnerability, but also with deep love and gratitude. It is not a replacement, because Ona will always be our first child, our daughter, and a part of our family. But this new life is a light that gently reminds us that love continues. Every kick I feel, every moment of connection, brings me closer to the belief that joy and sorrow can coexist. And that even in the shadow of loss, something beautiful can grow.

I like to imagine all our children playing and jumping from star to star. I find comfort in thinking that, when they look down at us, they point to us and smile proudly.

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