THE BABY I NEVER GOT TO HOLD

I remember the moment I found out I was pregnant. My hands were shaking, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear my own thoughts. In that tiny bathroom, holding a stick that would change everything, I felt a strange mix of fear and joy. I whispered, “I’m going to be a mom.” And for a short while, that whisper became a promise.

I started dreaming. I imagined chubby cheeks, tiny toes, and a heartbeat nestled against my chest. I pictured lullabies in the dark, early mornings with sleepy eyes, and my baby’s first laugh. I was already choosing names in my head, humming songs, wondering if you'd like music, like your mom. You were already mine.

But life has a cruel way of changing the story before you finish the chapter.

One morning, I woke up feeling strange. A dull pain turned sharp. Panic followed. The kind of panic that wraps around your throat and steals your breath. I rushed to the hospital, praying, begging, hoping. But the silence in that scan room told me everything before the doctor even said a word.

“I’m sorry… there’s no heartbeat.”

Everything around me blurred. My body was there, but my soul shattered. I remember staring at the ceiling, as if somehow God would show up in one of the cracks and give me a reason. I asked why a thousand times. But the only answer I got was silence… and the sound of something breaking inside me that I didn’t know how to fix.

You were gone.

And I never even got to hold you.

People tried to comfort me. They said things like “At least it was early” or “Maybe it was for the best.” But nothing they said could erase the ache. They didn’t understand that you were real to me. That even without a crib, without a photo, without a single breath taken you were real. You were love. You were mine.

I carried you in my body. I carry you in my heart still.

For days, weeks, maybe even months, I blamed myself. I wondered if I walked too much, cried too hard, didn't eat enough, stressed too much. I went through every minute of every day, trying to find where I went wrong. But the truth is, I may never know. And that’s the part that hurts the most not knowing. Not having answers. Not getting goodbye.

I still see babies your age and wonder. Would you have had my eyes? Would you have liked soft blankets and early mornings? Would you have laughed easily? Cried loudly? I wonder what kind of mother I would have been with you. I wonder what kind of world I could’ve built around you.

Some days I still talk to you. I imagine you’re up there somewhere, looking down on me, maybe even sending little bits of light my way when I need it most. I hope you know you were wanted. I hope you know how much I loved you how much I still do.

You’ll never know how you changed me. How you made me stronger, softer, more aware of how fragile life is. Losing you didn’t make me less of a mother. It made me realize how deeply I can love.

To the moms who’ve gone through this… the ones who carried love but came home empty I see you. I feel you. And you are not alone. Your pain is real. Your baby was real. And your love? Eternal.

To the baby I never got to hold you were here, even for a moment. And that moment will live forever in me.