On July 1st, 2016, we stood in a sun-drenched field at an old dairy farm, laughing and posing for our gender reveal photos. I was 17 weeks pregnant with our second child, Sloan. The excitement was palpable, the anticipation electric. Just two days later, on July 3rd, we shared our announcement photos with friends and family, brimming with hope and joy. But exactly one year later, that joy would vanish. He was gone.
It’s been three years since those photos in that field, where I carried a baby boy whose entire life can now be counted on one hand. Sometimes, it feels like that day belongs to a different lifetime entirely. I am someone else now. The woman who stood there smiling, eager for what was to come, is still present in fragments, but her shell is now filled with loss, grief, lessons learned, and a hard-won gratitude that only trauma can teach.
Our journey to having Sloan had been long and difficult. After welcoming our oldest child, we spent years trying for a second, enduring two miscarriages, the crushing weight of secondary infertility, a round of Clomid, and a pregnancy that felt interminable. When we finally held that sweet bundle of joy in our arms, it felt like a miracle realized. So when we lost him to SIDS at just seven months old, the grief was unimaginable—and so was the anger. Anger at life for the cruel irony: after everything we endured to bring him here, we were forced to endure the worst kind of heartbreak. We told ourselves that was it. We couldn’t bear the thought of trying again. We were shattered.
And then, just three months after Sloan’s death, we discovered I was unexpectedly pregnant again. Shock, disbelief, and awe washed over us. After years of struggle, after everything we had endured with Sloan, it seemed impossible. Yet life had a way of continuing, and eleven months after Sloan left this earth, we were preparing to welcome his sister.
Pregnancy after loss is an emotional tightrope, full of equal parts joy and fear. I was eager to feel that newborn smell, to hold that delicate, flaky skin in my hands, to experience the miracle of a baby nestled in my arms once more. But I was also terrified. Terrified of how quickly I would have to welcome another fragile life into the world. Terrified of how overwhelming it might feel, and of how raw the memories of Sloan’s absence would remain.
I remember my pregnancy with Sloan being marked by constant worry, a nervousness over every little thing that felt off. But once he arrived, those fears melted away. He was here, he was safe, and he was ours. My pregnancy with Phoenix was different. I wasn’t afraid of the gestation, the waiting, the growing. My fear was about what came next—after her birth. Knowing the shadow of Sloan’s death would linger, I worried constantly about her fragility.
For the first months, I carried guilt along with my growing belly—guilt for feeling joy, guilt for imagining love for this new life, guilt for moving forward. Would I be able to love her fully? Could we give her the childhood she deserved, unclouded by the trauma of her brother’s passing? How would Rowan, our eldest, navigate yet another enormous change? Would his love for her be affected by his grief for Sloan?
As her arrival drew closer, the fog of doubt began to lift. Rowan’s excitement became infectious, filling our hearts with anticipation. Justin and I found joy in his joy, and it began to feel real again.
And then she was here. Phoenix. We held her, breathed in her new-baby scent, heard her cries, and felt an overwhelming wave of love and relief. She was everything we didn’t know we were missing. She was a born healer, whether she would ever understand it or not. After nine months of teaching me how to navigate the complexities of pregnancy after loss, she was ready to teach me what it meant to rise from the ashes.
Her birth was more than a milestone—it was a lifeline. After nearly drowning in grief, guilt, and pain following Sloan’s death, Phoenix was my salvation. She arrived and, in doing so, began to restore joy to our lives, showing me the light that exists even after the darkest moments.
Fourteen months have passed since Phoenix brought laughter and hope back into our home. I am now 21 weeks pregnant with another rainbow baby, a girl, due the same week I was due with Sloan. There’s a serenity in this timing for me. Some might find it triggering, but for me, it is soothing. This little girl has her own story, her own place in the world, and her own identity. While the memory of Sloan remains sacred, it does not cloud the joy, love, and anticipation I feel for this new life. Just as Phoenix carved her own path of healing in our hearts, this little one will, too.
