Silent goodbyes: My stillbirth story and message to other mothers

Stillbirth is a word many of us never expect to face. It’s often whispered in passing, hidden behind hospital curtains, or buried under well-meaning but painful words. But for those of us who’ve lived through it, the silence can be as heavy as the loss itself.

I’m sharing my story not for sympathy, but to speak into that silence for the women who have walked this path and felt like they had to grieve quietly. There is no 'right way' to grieve a stillbirth, but there is a right to grieve in your own way, at your own pace.

Trigger warning: The following piece contains personal reflections on stillbirth and pregnancy loss. It includes descriptions of medical experiences, grief, and emotional trauma. Please take care when reading and prioritise your well-being.

The morning everything changed

A week before my due date, I woke up with a strange, unsettling feeling. Normally, by 6:30am, I would feel my baby girl fluttering or kicking. But that morning, there was nothing. Just silence.

I told myself not to panic. I had just been to the doctor - everything was fine, wasn’t it? But my heart wouldn’t settle. I told my ex-husband that I needed to go to the hospital. My ex-mother-in-law came with us, quietly supportive.

At the hospital, the doctor said the machine wasn’t working properly and suggested a second scan. A wheelchair was brought in. I said I could walk, but they insisted.

In the scan room, two doctors stood silently over the machine. They whispered to each other. I heard one say, “There’s no cardiac activity.”

I asked, “What are you talking about?”

They didn’t respond. They left the room.

Then my gynaecologist came in, looked at me gently, and said, “There is no heartbeat. I’m sorry.” She paused. “We have to deliver the baby.” And then she, too, left.

Giving birth to silence

I was in shock. Frozen. The world had slowed to a blur. Giving birth to my stillborn baby girl was a pain I cannot truly describe. It wasn’t just the physical pain, it was the devastation of knowing I’d never hear her cry, never see her open her eyes, never take her home. I gave birth to silence. In the deepest part of me, I held on to hope. Maybe… maybe she would wake up?

Everyone around me was broken, but I felt removed, numb, floating. My ex-husband later brought her to me, gently asking if I wanted to hold her. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. My body was in shock, and my mind couldn’t grasp what was happening. I never held her. I never said goodbye.

I asked if someone had taken a photo, just something to hold on to. But they said, “It would be too painful.” The decision was made for me, as if I had no say in my own grief.

When I came home, it was worse. Her clothes, her cot, everything had been cleared away as if none of it had ever happened. As if she never existed.

People came, offering condolences. But their words often stung. “God will give you a boy next time.” “At least you know you can get pregnant.” Some brought babies along, thinking it would help me cope. But it only made the wound deeper.

I wasn’t given space to grieve. No one asked if I wanted to see her, to name her, to bury her myself. The silence was not just around her death, it swallowed my grief too.

To the mothers who’ve lost

If you’re reading this and your arms ache with emptiness, please know this:

• You are not alone.
• You are allowed to grieve.
• You are allowed to feel - the confusion, the pain, the guilt, the love.
• You are allowed to ask for time, space, pictures, footprints, a name a goodbye.

There is no 'right way' to navigate this loss. If you froze in shock, if you couldn’t say goodbye, if you’re still replaying the moment in your mind years later, that’s OK.

You are still their mother. You always will be.

Please consider counselling support. Speaking to someone helped me begin to process what felt unprocessable. Therapy helped me reclaim space for my grief - to honour it instead of burying it.

And look after your body. Just because you didn’t bring your baby home doesn’t mean you didn’t give birth. Your body still deserves nourishment, rest, care, and love.

How it changed me

As a therapist, I now carry this story into the space I hold for others. I understand, on a cellular level, the weight of grief, the kind that stays quiet but lingers in the bones. I understand that healing isn’t a straight line. Sometimes, grief doesn’t need to be 'fixed', just witnessed.

To professionals, family, and friends: please don’t assume what a grieving mother needs.

• Ask her.
• Listen to her.
• Give her choices.
• Let her decide how to say goodbye.
• Let her decide how to remember.

Tips for healing after stillbirth

• Allow yourself to grieve in whatever form it takes. Anger, numbness, guilt, confusion - these are all valid responses.
• Create a memory box, even if you never held your baby. Write letters, keep the pregnancy test, scan photos, or hospital tags.
• Name your baby if it feels right. It can bring comfort and a sense of connection.
• Ask for support. Join a support group or speak to a counsellor trained in pregnancy loss.
• Write your story. Journaling your experience can be cathartic and a way to process trauma.
• Mark anniversaries in your own way - light a candle, plant a tree, say a prayer, or simply pause and remember.
• Speak openly, if and when you’re ready. Breaking the silence helps others, and it might help you too.
• Care for your body post-delivery. Your hormones, breasts, and womb still need care and recovery.
• Watch for signs of depression or PTSD. Seek professional help if your grief begins to overwhelm daily life.

Be gentle with yourself. There is no timeline. There is no right way. Only your way.