STILLBIRTH

"Healing After Stillbirth For Grieving Hearts, Families, and Care Givers"

💔Welcome to Memories After Stillbirth – Volume I

Stillbirth is a grief few dare to name aloud — a child delivered into silence, a cry that never comes. For many, it is the cruelest paradox: a full birth process without the life it promises. After weeks or months of anticipation — feeling kicks, planning names, setting up a nursery — everything halts. In the sterile quiet of a hospital room, a child is born into the arms of love and death at once.

Unlike early miscarriage, stillbirth is often publicly visible. There is a birth certificate. Sometimes a funeral. A memory box. Footprints. Photographs. A name. And yet, the world around still treats this child as if they never truly existed. The grief is profound, but the support is often inadequate. Friends fall silent. Employers expect swift returns. Spiritual leaders may stumble for words. Families are left holding more than a child — they carry a sorrow that won’t fit inside a condolence card.

Memories After Stillbirth: Vol I & II are born from that silence. It is a companion for the weeks and years that follow the loss of a baby who was deeply loved but never took a breath. It recognises that stillbirth is not only a death —

"...it is a birth, a bond, and a lifelong remembering."

Purpose of the Book

This book exists to honour your child and your grief. It is written for mothers and fathers, siblings and grandparents, teachers and pastors, nurses and counsellors.

Through the lens of real families — like Sarah Cohen, who questioned God after losing her son Eli at 28 weeks, and Grace Adebayo, a Nigerian grandmother who lit a candle for her grandson from across the ocean — we offer tools and stories for healing.

Stillbirth reshapes the body, the soul, the home, and the future. It can shake faith, alter marriages, and leave children asking questions that have no easy answers. This book provides gentle guidance for those walking this road and equips those who accompany them with language, rituals, and strategies to respond with grace.

Scope and Approach

The journey through stillbirth grief is layered and complex. This guide is divided into four parts:

Part I explores the emotional and spiritual dimensions of stillbirth — from maternal sorrow to paternal silence, the grief of siblings and grandparents, and the deep, often unanswerable questions of faith.

Part II equips caregivers — pastors, counsellors, teachers, doulas, and community leaders — with trauma—informed tools to support grieving families with clarity, compassion, and presence.

Part III offers healing pathways, including rituals of remembrance, rebuilding intimacy and relationship, and preparing — emotionally and practically — for future pregnancies.

Part IV extends a compassionate call to action, inviting all readers to participate in global remembrance through "Memories After" — a free, sacred digital memorial open to all.

Throughout the book, stories emerge from diverse cultural and spiritual traditions — Jewish, Christian, Muslim, secular, Indigenous, and more. Whether through a Kaddish prayer in a New York synagogue, a Psalm read in a Nigerian church, or a star drawn by a grieving sibling in a classroom, each tribute becomes a testimony:

“Love does not end when life does”

The Physical Realities of Stillbirth

Unlike early loss, stillbirth often involves labour and delivery. Parents may be offered to see or hold their baby. There may be options for photography, baptism, or footprints. In many jurisdictions, a birth certificate and a death certificate are issued. Some families choose cremation or burial. Others store ashes or keep mementos in memory boxes.

These practical aspects are emotionally charged and spiritually significant. They require informed, sensitive support from hospital staff and caregivers.

This book includes guidance on navigating these moments with dignity — from understanding your legal rights to preparing for hospital experiences and decisions around the body.

The Role of "Memories After"

In moments where words fail, ritual can speak. "Memories After" is a sacred space online where families can create a free digital tribute to honour their stillborn child. Some add a name. Others upload a photo, a prayer, or a poem. Many find comfort knowing that even if the world forgets, this Wall remembers. It is a place of shared sorrow and sacred witness.

This book will guide you — whether grieving or supporting — to engage with this platform not as a website, but as a work of collective love.

If you are reading this because you have lost a child to stillbirth, know this: your pain is real, and your baby mattered. This book is our way of holding vigil with you — page by page, memory by memory, step by step toward healing.

If you are reading this as a caregiver, friend, or family member, thank you. Your presence can shape how a family survives this loss. This guide will help you honour their journey with compassion, respect, and strength.

"Together, may we create a world where every child, born or unborn, is remembered

— and every grieving heart is met with mercy."

PART I – THE FIRST SHOCK

“When Time Stopped and Everything Changed”

Chapter 1: The Unspoken Grief of Stillbirth

Stillbirth is a grief that lives in both body and spirit. It is the birth of a child already gone — a child prepared for, named, often held, but never heard. And because the child did not take a breath, society too often acts as though the grief is somehow lesser.

“But stillbirth is not a lesser loss. It is a full loss.”

In the quiet of hospital rooms and the stillness of aching arms, parents and families face the paradox of loving someone who never opened their eyes. They are expected to leave maternity wards with memory boxes instead of babies. They are asked to explain to siblings, friends, coworkers, and even strangers why the nursery is empty.

Stillbirth is not rare. And yet it remains unspeakable.

This chapter begins our journey into that silence.

Understanding the Emotional Toll

When Sarah Cohen delivered her son Eli at 28 weeks, there was no cry. “He looked perfect,” she said. “As if he were just sleeping.” Sarah, a Jewish mother in New York, had already imagined his smile, chosen his name, and felt his kicks each night. His death was not an abstract grief — it was a rupture. Her body still bore the signs of pregnancy, her arms ached to hold him longer, and her spirit buckled under the weight of what might have been.

Sarah's husband, David, a secular academic, didn’t know how to respond. He held Eli briefly. He arranged the burial. Then he returned to work and said nothing. “What could I say?” he later told their grief counsellor, Miriam. “I didn’t want to make it worse for Sarah.”

Stillbirth grief is layered and personal. For many, there is trauma from the birth experience itself — the shock of learning there is no heartbeat, the decisions about delivery, the fear, the guilt, the blood. For others, grief sets in later — when the due date comes and goes, when friends announce births, when the world seems to move on.

“Some mothers blame their bodies.

Some fathers blame themselves.

Siblings feel confused.

Grandparents carry unspoken sorrow.

The emptiness is real, and it echoes.”

The emotional toll is also physical. After stillbirth, a woman’s body must recover from labour — there may be milk, bleeding, hormonal shifts, and postpartum depression. But without a baby to nurse or to name, the care often disappears.

“Stillbirth is not just death — it is birth, loss, and exile all at once.”

Why the Grief is Still So Silent

“Stillbirth grief is silenced not because it is small, but because it is hard to hold.”

Society lacks language and ritual for it.

Some well—meaning friends say, “At least you can try again.”

Others avoid the topic altogether.

Even spiritual communities struggle — unsure whether to call the child a person, unsure how to speak of God when a blessing has turned to mourning.

Sarah heard silence in her synagogue after Eli’s funeral. No one mentioned his name. “As if he hadn’t existed,” she whispered. But he had.

For David, the silence was self—imposed. As a secular man, he didn’t know if grief had a place. “I didn’t grow up with rituals,” he said. “I thought grief was a private thing. But this… this wasn’t something I could carry alone.”

In classrooms, Emma, their 8—year—old daughter, heard children talk about younger siblings being born. She had imagined helping with the baby, reading to him, holding his fingers. Now she was told, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” But Emma was already grieving. And nobody saw it.

“Silence does not protect the grieving. It isolates them. It delays healing.

And it risks erasing the very child they are trying to remember.”

Validating the Loss

Stillbirth needs validation, not minimisation.

Every baby matters.

Every birth matters.

Every parent, sibling, and grandparent who grieves has a right to mourn,

to remember, and to speak the name of the one they lost.

For Sarah, healing began when her rabbi — prompted by Miriam, their grief counsellor — offered to host a synagogue vigil. At the service, Sarah read a kaddish prayer and lit a candle for Eli. Her tribute later appeared on "Memories After", with the words: “Eli, child of our hearts, may your name be a blessing.”

David, watching from the back, wept for the first time. Days later, he created his own memorial tribute: “Eli, you were my hope. I still carry you.”

Emma drew a star. “This is Eli’s star,” she said. “He can see it from heaven.” Her drawing was scanned and added to their family tribute on the Wall. For Emma, that act meant everything. “Now people know I had a brother,” she said.

Validation does not erase pain. But it gives grief a place to rest.

The Role of Caregivers and Community

Grief after stillbirth is not a pathology. It is love with nowhere to go. Caregivers — pastors, counsellors, midwives, doulas, teachers — play a critical role in validating that love.

A midwife can say, “Your son was beautiful. You gave him everything.”
A pastor might offer, “The Lord is close to the broken—hearted” (Psalm 34:18).
A school counsellor might help a child draw, write, or create a memorial for a sibling they never met.

"Memories After" exists to support these acts of remembrance. It welcomes people of all beliefs and backgrounds. Whether one adds a Psalm, a secular poem, or a simple name — it affirms the truth: your child lived. Your grief is real.

Reflection and Application

Take a moment to pause.

If you are a parent: What would you like to say to your stillborn child?
If you are a sibling: What do you remember, or wish you could have known?
If you are a caregiver: How might you offer space, words, or ritual?

Read a few tributes. Create your Unborn Memorial.
“Let this be the beginning”

Chapter 2: The Birth That No One Prepared Us For

Medical and Ceremonial Realities of Stillbirth

Stillbirth is not just a loss — it is a birth. It begins in a hospital room with real contractions, real blood, and the same motherly pain that delivers life. But when the baby arrives, there is no sound. No cry. Only stillness.

This chapter exists to name what many families are never told: that stillbirth is physically, medically, and legally recognised as a birth. It requires medical care. It invites a ceremony. And it leaves traces on the body and soul alike.

The Medical Pathway of Stillbirth

Stillbirth is typically diagnosed when no heartbeat is found during a routine scan or following concerns about movement. From that moment forward, the grieving begins — but so does the medical process.

Many families are given time to absorb the news before labour is induced. Some choose to wait a day or two at home; others go into hospital immediately. In most cases, stillbirth between 20 and 40 weeks will require vaginal delivery, not surgery. Mothers experience contractions, dilation, delivery, and postpartum recovery — just as they would for a living child.

For Sarah Cohen, this process came in waves.

“They said I could take a day,” she recalled. “But I couldn’t bear to go home knowing he was gone.”

Labour was induced that evening. Eli was born ten hours later.

The room was silent. A nurse asked gently, “Would you like to hold him?”

Holding the Baby, Saying Goodbye

Families are often unprepared for the decision to hold their stillborn child. Some fear it will be traumatic. Others long for it but feel unsure.

Sarah hesitated. “I thought he would look… gone,” she said. “But he didn’t. He looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping.”

The midwife swaddled Eli in a white blanket and placed him in Sarah’s arms. David stood nearby, frozen. “He was so small. But he had my nose.”

Some hospitals offer cooling cots, allowing families to spend time with their child over several hours or even a day. Photographs may be taken by a professional or nurse.

Footprints and handprints are often offered. Some hospitals provide memory boxes with locks of hair, blankets, or the baby’s clothes.

These moments are sacred. They may be the only physical contact parents ever have with their child.

"For many, they become cherished memories — not morbid, but meaningful."

Legal Recognition: Birth Certificates, Death Certificates, and Autopsies

Stillbirths are legally recorded in most countries, typically after 20 weeks’ gestation or a baby weighing over 400–500 grams.

In the United States, United Kingdom, Australia, Canada, and many other nations:

A stillbirth certificate or certificate of birth resulting in stillbirth is issued.
A death certificate may also be provided.
Parents may be offered a post—mortem examination (autopsy) to determine cause of death.
Registration of the birth and death is often required within a specified time.

These processes can feel bureaucratic or distressing — but they are also a form of acknowledgement. Eli received a certificate. His name exists in public record. For Sarah and David, this mattered.

“He was here,” David said. “And now there’s proof.”

Parents may choose to decline an autopsy. Some feel it’s intrusive. Others find peace in understanding the medical cause — if one can be found. Compassionate hospital staff can help navigate these decisions gently.

Funerals, Cremation, and Cultural Practices

After stillbirth, families must also decide how to care for their baby’s body. These are impossible questions asked in impossible moments. And yet, they matter.

Options may include:

Private burial or cremation, organised by the family.
Hospital—organised cremation, sometimes collective, for early stillbirths.
Religious or cultural rites, such as Christian blessings, Jewish tahara, Muslim du’a, Hindu fire ceremonies, or Indigenous traditions.

Sarah and David chose a small burial at a Jewish cemetery. Eli was buried in a white shroud, with a brief kaddish recited by their rabbi.

Grace, Sarah’s mother in Nigeria, held a Christian vigil at her church in Lagos, reading Psalm 23 aloud: “The Lord is my shepherd… yea, though I walk through the valley…”

These rituals stretched across oceans, but they anchored the same grief. Families should be given permission to grieve in their own language, their own tradition, their own time.

The Importance of Choice and Compassion

One of the deepest traumas after stillbirth is the feeling of having no choice. But compassionate care returns that agency.

Families can choose:

Whether to see and hold the baby.
Whether to have photos taken.
Whether to keep mementos.
Whether to involve spiritual leaders or rites.
Whether to create a tribute on "Memories After" — a memorial that lasts when the rest of the world forgets.

Miriam, the family’s grief counsellor, later guided Sarah and David in creating their Memories After tribute.

Sarah uploaded a candlelit photo with the Hebrew words: “Zichrono livracha” — “May his memory be a blessing.”

She added a line from the kaddish prayer. David added his message, too, simple and heartfelt.

“Eli,
We carried you into this world.
We carry you still.
– Mum and Dad”

Reflection and Application

If you are grieving:

What choices were you given? Which ones helped you feel present?
If you were not given options, how might you reclaim ritual now?
Would a tribute help affirm what you never got to say?

If you are a caregiver:

How do you offer choices after stillbirth?
Are you prepared to speak about certificates, funerals, or body care with tenderness?
Have you considered recommending "Memories After" to families as part of their healing?

"Whether you held your baby or never saw them, you are invited to honour them. This is your space."

Chapter 3: Men and Stillbirth – The Invisible Pillar

For every mother who gives birth to stillness, there is often a partner standing silently beside her.

"A man watching the monitors, asking questions he cannot voice, carrying guilt he cannot name."

Society may expect him to be strong. To speak little. To hold the room together. But in the aftermath of stillbirth, the father too has been shattered.

Stillbirth does not just steal a child — it fractures dreams, identity, and connection.

Men are often expected to cope with composure, provide support, return to work, and hold in their sorrow.

"But silence is not strength.

Suppression is not healing."

And yet, this is the grief men are too often left with: invisible, misunderstood, and unspoken.

This chapter gives voice to that silence.

The Male Experience of Stillbirth

David Cohen stood by Sarah’s hospital bed as their son Eli was born at 28 weeks. Born in silence. Wrapped gently. Handed over for a few trembling minutes. There were no monitors beeping, no cries, no congratulatory messages. Only questions.

“I didn’t know what to do,” David said. “I held him. I kissed him. But I didn’t feel like a father. I felt like a ghost.”

David is a secular man — a clinical researcher by profession, not prone to emotion, not steeped in ritual.

“I was raised with logic, not liturgy,” he explained.

“Stillbirth wasn’t supposed to happen. And if it did, you just… moved on.”

But David didn’t move on. He went back to work. He avoided talking about it with friends. He helped plan the burial, picking out the small white box. Then the nights came.

“I’d lie awake, thinking about the soccer games I’d never coach. The stories I’d never read him. I didn’t just lose a son — I lost the man I was going to be.”

Many men who experience stillbirth grieve alone. Some drink more. Some withdraw. Some become overly protective of their partner, trying to fix what cannot be fixed. Others numb out entirely, not knowing how to grieve what they didn’t carry.

David’s grief made him feel both hollow and heavy. “I didn’t cry in the hospital,” he admitted. “But I screamed in the car when I was alone.”

Society’s Expectations and His Silence

The image of the stoic father dies hard.

Well—meaning friends asked David, “How’s Sarah holding up?” — but never, “How are you?” His colleagues, aware of the stillbirth, sent a short email: Take your time — we’ll cover your classes. Nothing more.

He returned to work a week later.

“I felt like I was being watched,” he said. “If I broke down, I’d be weak. If I was distant, I’d be cold. There was no safe way to be.”

In Jewish culture, grief often finds expression in rituals — kaddish prayers, shiva gatherings, communal mourning. But David didn’t know if those rites applied to him — or to a son who never took a breath.

“Can you mourn someone who never lived?” he asked Miriam, the grief counsellor.

Miriam didn’t answer with theology. She answered with the truth: “He lives in you. That’s enough.”

This permission cracked the wall David had built. For the first time, he allowed himself to say: “I lost my son. My son.”

Supporting Men in Stillbirth Grief

Men need more than permission — they need space. David found his space in a small support group hosted by Miriam. It was just three other fathers. One had lost twins at 35 weeks. Another had watched his partner deliver a stillborn daughter on their wedding anniversary. They sat in a circle, spoke in fragments, and listened in solidarity.

In that group, David spoke Eli’s name aloud for the first time. “Eli,” he said, and the room held it like a sacred word.

He didn’t offer a theological reflection. He didn’t write a poem. But that night, he opened "Memories After" and began typing:

Eli, you were my hope.
I was ready to hold you, to raise you, to teach you bad jokes and how to ride a bike.
I didn't know how much I loved you until you were gone.
This wall is where I leave your name — for me, and for your sister, and for your mum.
I love you. – Dad

David chose not to include religious symbols or scripture. His tribute was simple, secular, and sacred in its own way. It was the first thing he had written from the heart in years.

Caregivers and Compassionate Inclusion

Caregivers — counsellors, pastors, doulas, chaplains — must make space for men’s grief without forcing a script. Men grieve differently. They may not cry in public, but they may draw, write, fix, build, or brood.

The grief is not less — it is simply less visible.

A grief counsellor might say, “Tell me who you thought he’d become.”
A pastor might acknowledge a father’s pain during a vigil, not just the mother’s.
A teacher might help a grieving child write, “My dad cries when he thinks no one sees.”

Grief, when named, begins to soften. And when shared, it begins to heal.

Reflection and Application

If you are a father reading this:

What part of your grief have you hidden?
What would you say to your stillborn child if you had one more minute?

If you are a caregiver:

How often do you ask fathers how they are coping?
Are you offering rituals or reflections that honour men’s grief, in ways they can receive?

Take time today to create a space here for the father’s voice. It does not have to be poetic. It simply has to be true.

“Fathers do not grieve less. They grieve quietly… until they are seen.”

Chapter 4: The Sibling’s Grief – When a Brother Disappears

Children experience stillbirth differently than adults.

They don’t always have the language, but they feel the shift in the home, in their parents, in themselves.

The baby they had been waiting for — the sibling they were promised — vanishes. Rooms go quiet. Plans change. Smiles disappear.

The grief is invisible, but the impact is not.

This chapter explores how siblings process the loss of a stillborn brother or sister, and how age—appropriate honesty, ritual, and remembrance can restore a child’s sense of safety and connection.

Emma’s Questions Begin

Emma Cohen was eight years old when her brother Eli died before birth. She had been counting the weeks. She had helped fold the tiny clothes. She had drawn a card for Sarah’s hospital bag that read: “Welcome baby Eli, I can’t wait to meet you!”

But when her grandmother picked her up from school that day, something was wrong.

“I thought maybe he was sick,” Emma later said. “But no one told me anything.”

At home, the nursery door was closed. Her mother was in bed. Her father looked far away, even when he sat beside her. No one said the word “dead.” No one said “gone.” Just that Eli wouldn’t be coming home.

“I thought maybe it was my fault,” Emma confessed during a session with her school counsellor. “I prayed that he’d be a girl.”

Grief in children often emerges through guilt, withdrawal, or acting out. Emma did neither. She drew. Dozens of drawings — some of baby Eli, some of her family frowning, some of clouds and stars. One picture showed a large question mark inside a house.

“Why won’t anyone talk to me?” she asked her teacher.

Helping Children Grieve What They Never Touched

Children may not have memories of the stillborn sibling, but they carry expectations — and when those are crushed, grief takes root. Silence, however well—intentioned, often deepens a child’s confusion. What they need is not perfect explanations, but honest space.

Miriam, the grief counsellor, recommended age—appropriate truth.

“Tell her he died before he was born. Tell her she’s allowed to miss him. Tell her he mattered.”

Sarah and David sat Emma down that evening.

“Eli died before he was born,” Sarah said gently.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” David added.
“He was very small,” Sarah continued, “but we held him, and we loved him, and we love you too.”

Emma didn’t cry. She just nodded. Then she asked if she could draw him a star.

The Healing Power of Ritual for Siblings

The synagogue hosted a small vigil for Eli, organised by Rabbi Levy. Sarah lit a candle. David stood beside her. Emma was invited to bring her drawing.

She had drawn a yellow star, with a baby’s name in the middle: “Eli – my baby brother.” Around it were four stick figures — Mum, Dad, Me, and Grandma Grace — each holding a string tied to the star.

When Emma walked forward and placed her drawing beside the candle, the silence in the room softened. A child's grief had found a place.

Later that evening, Sarah uploaded a photo of the drawing to "Memories After".

Together, they typed a short message beneath it:

Eli,
This is your star.
I will always remember you.
– Your sister, Emma

"That act — simple and sacred — restored a thread in Emma’s heart.

She had been invited to remember, not forget."

What Children Need After Stillbirth

Grieving siblings need more than protection.

They need:

Truth: Gentle, clear language. "The baby died," not "went away."
Permission: To feel sad, to be confused, to ask questions.
Inclusion: In funerals, rituals, drawings, naming, prayers.
Reassurance: That they are not to blame. That their sibling was real.
Creative outlets: Art, stories, songs, tributes.

"Emma eventually made a small photo book titled “My Brother Eli.”

It had her drawings, a candle photo, and Psalm 147:4: “He counts the stars and calls them all by name.”

That verse, suggested by Grace, helped her imagine Eli not as missing — but shining.

Reflection and Application

If you are a grieving parent:

Have you spoken honestly with your other children?
Would involving them in a drawing, candle—lighting, or online tribute help their healing?

If you are a teacher or caregiver:

Are you watching for unspoken signs of grief?
Have you offered simple ways for children to honour their siblings?

Children often carry grief without words. But their hearts speak in drawings, in dreams, in gestures.

Listen carefully. Give them room to remember.

"Let a sibling speak. Their voices, too, are sacred."

Chapter 5: Grieving from Afar – The Grandmother in Lagos

Faith, Distance, and the Ties That Remain

Stillbirth echoes beyond the hospital room. It travels through phone lines, prayers, and memories. For grandparents, the grief is doubled: they mourn the loss of a grandchild, and they mourn the pain their own child must now carry. And for those living far away, the sorrow is often filtered through distance, time zones, and cultural silence.

This chapter explores how stillbirth affects extended family, particularly grandparents, and how faith, tradition, and technology can become sacred tools for connection and comfort.

Grace’s Call from Lagos

Grace Adebayo was in Lagos, Nigeria, when she received the call.

Her daughter, Sarah, was 28 weeks pregnant in New York. Grace had already booked her flight for the birth — her suitcase half—packed, full of tiny blankets and knitted socks.

But the voice on the phone was not joyful. It was David. Quiet. Measured. Shattered.

“Grace… he didn’t make it. Eli is gone.”

Grace sat down slowly. Her world narrowed to the sound of static on the line. Then she did the only thing she knew to do: she prayed.

Grieving Across Continents

Grief is not diminished by distance. If anything, it deepens it.

Grace couldn’t hold her daughter. Couldn’t weep with her in the hospital. Couldn’t touch Eli’s forehead or whisper a grandmother’s blessing. The time difference made things harder. Her messages went unanswered. Sarah was drowning in sorrow, and Grace could only wait.

“I felt helpless,” she later said. “A grandmother is supposed to be there.”

In many African cultures, the birth of a child is a communal celebration. Songs are sung. Elders gather. Names are chosen with meaning. When a child dies before these rituals can take place, it is not just a loss — it is a rupture in the spiritual fabric of the family.

But Grace did not let the thread break.

Faith as the Language of Grief

Grace turned to Scripture. She lit a candle by her bedside. She opened her Bible and read aloud:

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” – Psalm 23:4 (KJV)

She read the Psalm each night, imagining Eli cradled in the arms of the Good Shepherd.

She called her pastor. “Please,” she asked, “can we hold a vigil for my grandson?”

At Sunday service, Grace stood at the front of her church. She wore a white lace gele and held a single candle. The congregation bowed their heads as she whispered:

“His name was Eli. He did not live to cry, but he lived to be loved.”

In that moment, Lagos and New York were no longer so far apart.

Intergenerational Healing

When Sarah finally called her mother, both women cried.

“I’m sorry you didn’t meet him,” Sarah whispered.
“I did,” Grace replied. “In my prayers. In my heart. And on Memories After”

Grace, with the help and support from her church, had created a tribute on "Memories After". She uploaded a photo of her candle and added the words:

Eli Adebayo—Cohen
The Lord is my shepherd.
You are remembered in Lagos,
And in every heartbeat that prayed for you.
– Grandma Grace

Sarah wept when she saw it. “It was the first time I felt him again,” she said. “Not as a sorrow, but as a thread — something connecting us, across generations.”

Emma saw it too. “That’s Grandma’s candle,” she said. “That means Eli is real.”

The Quiet Role of Grandparents

Grandparents are often the unsung mourners. They carry both wisdom and helplessness. They long to fix the pain their children feel, yet they must watch from the margins.

Some things Grace did that helped:

Prayer and Scripture: Anchoring her grief in faith.
Community Ritual: Holding a vigil, naming the baby aloud.
Digital Tribute: Making her love visible, even from afar.
Gentle Presence: Letting Sarah lead the pace of contact.

Not all grandparents are religious.

Not all have the emotional language.

But all can say: “I loved your child too.”

Reflection and Application

If you are a grandparent:

Have you allowed yourself to grieve?
Would creating a tribute help you honour your grandchild?

If you are a parent:

Have you shared your grief with your parents?
Is there a candle they could light, a story they could tell?

If you are a caregiver:

Are you including grandparents in your support approach?
Could you encourage cross—generational healing through storytelling or ritual?

"Let a grandmother’s voice be heard. Let the light she carries stretch across oceans."

Chapter 6: Where Was God? – Spiritual Questions After Stillbirth

When a child dies in the womb, the question often comes quietly, shamefully, and then all at once: Where was God?

Where was He when the heartbeat stopped? Where was He when the nurse said, “I’m sorry, there’s no movement”? Where was He when we named our child, bathed them in tears, and buried them before the world even said they lived?

This chapter does not offer answers. It offers witness — to the cries, silences, and prayers that come when life ends before it begins.

Sarah’s Crisis of Faith

Sarah Cohen had grown up Jewish — Reform, not Orthodox. She knew the stories, the festivals, the songs. But after Eli’s stillbirth, none of it made sense.

“I prayed. I followed the rituals. I lit the Shabbat candles. And still… He died.”

For weeks, Sarah avoided the synagogue. She stopped saying the blessings. She couldn’t look at her siddur without anger. Her prayers were not tidy; they were accusatory.

“God, why did You take him? Why give him to me at all if You planned to take him back?”

Faith after stillbirth does not always vanish — but it often unravels. What once felt comforting becomes hollow. What once brought joy now brings resentment. Ritual feels like betrayal.

Miriam, the grief counsellor, encouraged Sarah to bring her questions to the rabbi. Not for answers, but for presence.

Rabbi Levy said quietly, “God is not offended by your sorrow. God is in it.”

Those words cracked something open. Not clarity — but communion.

David’s Silence

David did not believe in God — not in the way Sarah did. He was respectful, even curious, but faith had never taken root. So when Eli died, there was no spiritual collapse. Just silence.

“If there’s no God, then it was just biology,” he told Miriam. “And if there is… then I have no idea what to say to Him.”

But even David felt something stir at the synagogue vigil. As Sarah lit the candle. As Emma held her star drawing. As the kaddish prayer was recited.

"Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba…
May His great name be sanctified."

David didn’t speak the words, but he stood.

Later, on "Memories After", he added a line to his tribute:

"If there is a God, I hope He’s holding you.
And if there’s not, I hope you know that I am.
– Dad"

That, too, was a kind of prayer.

Grace’s Testimony from Lagos

Grace, in Nigeria, never doubted God’s presence. She grieved deeply — but not without direction.

“He is with the Lord,” she said. “I do not understand His ways. But I trust His arms.”

She read Psalm 23 aloud at her church vigil, voice unwavering:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

To Sarah, Grace said:

“My child, God did not take Eli to punish you. He welcomed him to protect him. We do not lose in the Lord — we return.”

Sarah didn’t fully believe it. But she wrote the verse on a notecard and placed it in Eli’s memory box.

Sometimes, faith does not answer grief. It accompanies it.

The Role of Ritual in Spiritual Survival

After stillbirth, faith may feel fractured. But ritual can hold what belief cannot.

Lighting a candle.
Saying a psalm.
Sitting in silence.
Naming the child aloud.
Writing a tribute on "Memories After".

These acts do not require certainty. Only honesty. They are not theological positions — they are invitations for grace to enter through the cracks.

Sarah eventually returned to her synagogue — not for answers, but to sit in the sanctuary with her grief.

“I realised I didn’t have to have faith to be faithful,” she said. “Sometimes showing up is enough.”

Reflection and Application

If you are grieving:

What spiritual questions have surfaced in your heart?
Can you sit with them without rushing toward resolution?

If you are a caregiver or spiritual leader:

Are you offering space for lament — not just reassurance?
Can you resist the urge to explain what is meant to be held in mystery?

"Write a psalm. Write a question. Write nothing — only a name and a candle. Even that is sacred.

God may not always answer. But He always listens."

PART II – TOOLS FOR CAREGIVERS

“And Why Every Loss Deserves to Be Honoured”

Chapter 7: Caregivers Calling with Compassion and Clarity

Stillbirth is both a medical emergency and a spiritual crisis. In the hours that follow the words “There’s no heartbeat,” parents are hurled into a world where time dissolves, decisions pile up, and love meets death head—on.

In that fragile space, caregivers — especially midwives and spiritual leaders — carry sacred authority. Their tone, their silence, their touch, even their presence becomes part of the story. Whether Christian, Jewish, Muslim, secular, or uncertain, parents remember who stood beside them. And more importantly — how.

This chapter honours the sacred calling of caregivers, especially pastors, chaplains, and midwives. It offers tools to help them hold the invisible weight of stillbirth with clarity, reverence, and love.

The Midwife Who Wept

Sarah still remembers her name: Rachel.

“She was the one who caught Eli,” Sarah said. “She looked at him as if he were the most important person in the room. And then she cried.”

Rachel, a senior midwife at Mount Sinai Hospital, had helped deliver dozens of stillborn babies. But each one was different. She didn’t treat Eli like a case. She treated him like a son.

“She asked if we wanted to bathe him,” Sarah recalled. “She wrapped him in a blanket. She called him by name. She said, ‘He is loved.’”

And then, before she left the room, she gently touched Sarah’s arm and whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’ll never forget him.”

Midwives and nurses are often the first to enter a stillbirth story — and the last to leave. Their words echo. Their faces are remembered. Their tenderness becomes part of the parents’ healing, or part of their trauma.

Rachel chose presence. And presence saves.

The Role of Pastors and Spiritual Leaders

In the days that followed, Rabbi Levy came to visit Sarah and David. He brought no answers. Only himself.

“He sat with us,” Sarah said. “He didn’t explain God. He didn’t rush to pray. He just… sat.”

Pastors, chaplains, and rabbis are often called upon too soon — or too late. Many feel unprepared. Stillbirth is rarely taught in seminary. There’s no liturgy for a child who never breathed. No theology that comforts every soul. But there is still a role: to embody divine tenderness, especially when doctrine falls short.

A spiritual leader can:

Offer to say the baby’s name aloud.
Guide parents through a blessing, prayer, or moment of silence.
Acknowledge the child as real, beloved, and mourned.
Suggest appropriate rituals or symbols (e.g. candle—lighting, psalms, anointing, baptismal remembrance, or sacred songs).
Refer parents to community resources or spiritual grief counselling.

Grace’s pastor in Lagos stood beside her as she lit a candle for Eli. “He did not ask theological questions,” she said. “He let me cry. And then he read Psalm 34: ‘The Lord is close to the broken—hearted.’ That was all I needed.”

Words to Say, and Words to Avoid

Words that bring comfort:

“I am so sorry.”
“Would you like to tell me their name?”
“You are still their parent.”
“There’s no right way to grieve. I’m here.”
“Would you like me to pray, or just sit?”

Words that wound, even if well—intended:

“God needed another angel.” (Implies divine cruelty.)
“Everything happens for a reason.” (Invalidates the grief.)
“At least you can have another.” (Suggests the child is replaceable.)
“Be strong for your spouse.” (Silences honest pain.)

"Remember: presence is more powerful than precision.

Don’t worry about saying the perfect thing. Worry about staying."

Guiding Parents Through Ritual and Memory

When appropriate, spiritual leaders and midwives can suggest ways to honour the child:

Lighting a candle together at home or in a place of worship.
Creating a private blessing or naming ceremony.
Reading sacred texts or personal letters aloud.
Placing a tribute on "Memories After" — a digital memorial for their child.

After Eli’s vigil at the synagogue, Sarah said, “I didn’t think I had faith left. But seeing the candle, hearing the prayer… it stitched something back together.”

Even secular families like David’s appreciated the gesture.

“It felt real,” he said. “Not religious. Just… reverent.”

When the Caregiver Grieves Too

It’s not uncommon for caregivers to feel emotionally burdened after supporting a stillbirth. Midwives cry in elevators. Pastors weep behind closed doors. Nurses take the sorrow home in silence.

You are allowed to grieve, too.

Debrief with peers or trauma—informed supervisors.
Seek spiritual direction or pastoral care.
Create your own ritual of release — light a candle, say a prayer, speak the child’s name aloud.

Rachel, the midwife, kept a small notebook. Inside it were the names of every stillborn child she had ever delivered. “When I retire,” she said, “I will light one candle for each. Because they mattered.”

Reflection and Application

If you are a caregiver:

Are you making room for both grief and dignity?
Have you learned to say the child’s name, even if no one else does?
Could you guide a family toward "Memories After" as part of their spiritual healing?

If you are a parent:

Was there a caregiver you remember with gratitude?
Would you like to honour them by naming them in your tribute?

Create your free memorial today.

"Let the sacred work continue — between families, between caregivers, and between heaven and earth."

Chapter 8: When They Blame God – Spiritual Counselling After Stillbirth

How Therapists and Faith Leaders Can Hold Sacred Space Without Needing to Solve It

Stillbirth is not just a medical event. It is a spiritual earthquake. It topples beliefs about life, divine purpose, prayer, and protection. Parents who once knelt in faith now crouch in anger. Others, who never believed, find themselves whispering to the sky: Why?

Pastoral counsellors, chaplains, and faith—informed therapists often become the first safe place where these questions are voiced — sometimes shouted. They are not asked for answers. They are asked to stay.

This chapter offers spiritual caregivers a framework for being with grief, not above it. For walking with mystery, not solving it. For holding the sacred anger that stillbirth awakens.

“Where Was God?” Revisited

Sarah Cohen asked the question many parents ask after loss: “Why would God let me carry him so far, only to take him?”

Pastoral counsellor Miriam didn’t try to theologise. She listened. She nodded. She asked gently, “Do you want to pray with me, or scream at Him? Either is allowed.”

Grief changes theology. Some lose belief. Others discover it for the first time. Most hold both — simultaneously.

As a spiritual caregiver, your task is not to correct what grief deconstructs. Your task is to honour the rubble. Sit among it. And wait for the rebuilding that may or may not come.

What Not to Say in a Pastoral Setting

Even well—meaning spiritual leaders can cause harm when discomfort leads them to control the narrative.

Avoid the following phrases:

“It was God’s will.” (Implies cruelty.)
“Everything happens for a reason.” (Minimises pain.)
“You’ll see them again in heaven.” (May bypass present grief.)
“Maybe this is a test of faith.” (Weaponises suffering.)
“At least you can try again.” (Erases the uniqueness of this child.)

"The grieving don’t need explanations. They need presence.

You don’t have to defend God. Let God defend Himself."

Holding Sacred Anger

Anger at God is not heresy — it’s biblical.

Job cursed the day of his birth. David cried, “Why have You forsaken me?” Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus. Scripture gives us permission to question, to lament, and to wrestle.

Invite your counselees to speak freely:

“If you could say anything to God right now, what would it be?”
“Do you feel betrayed, or abandoned?”
“Is there a prayer you no longer want to pray?”

Let them speak. If they cry, let them. If they curse, remain calm. If they fall silent, let silence do the work.

The Ministry of “I Don’t Know”

When David Cohen finally asked, “If there is a God, what kind of God lets this happen?”, Miriam didn’t preach.

She replied, “I don’t know. But I believe God is here. And I believe Eli mattered.”

Those two truths were enough. Not an answer, but a presence.

As a counsellor or spiritual guide, your humility is your authority. You are not there to fix. You are there to co—suffer — to reflect divine presence by staying when others flee.

Integrating "Memories After" as a Pastoral Tool

Many spiritual conversations stall in abstract pain. One way to move into healing is to invite parents or family to create a tangible, sacred memorial.

“Would you like to write your child’s name?”
“Would you like to add a scripture, a psalm, or a poem?”
“Would you like to light a digital candle on a wall where your child will never be forgotten?”

Sarah’s act of uploading a photo and prayer. Grace’s Psalm 23. David’s secular tribute. Emma’s star. Each was a form of pastoral healing — spiritual integration that didn’t require answers, only presence.

As a caregiver, you can walk them to that door. They decide whether to open it.

Reflection and Application

If you are a spiritual caregiver:

Are you offering space for unfiltered lament?
Can you honour silence without rushing toward resolution?
Do you view yourself as a co—sufferer, not an explainer?

If you are grieving:

What questions do you need to speak aloud?
Is there a verse, lament, or tribute that expresses your spiritual ache?

Use Memories After as a opportunity — not for resolution, but for sacred expression.

“Faith does not need to be whole to be holy. It only needs to be honest.”

Chapter 9: The Teacher Who Knew – Helping Grieving Children in the Classroom

How Schools Can Support Siblings using Memories After Stillbirth

When a baby dies before birth, the sibling’s grief rarely ends at home. It follows them into the schoolyard, the lunchroom, and the classroom. Yet most teachers don’t know it’s there.

There is no funeral absence, no obituary in the newsletter. Just a child with a changed expression, a quieter voice, or a sudden fear of the dark.

Stillbirth impacts siblings in subtle, sacred ways. Teachers — if informed and equipped — can offer more than lessons. They can offer witnesses.

This chapter explores how schools can create safe, age—appropriate, and compassionate spaces for children grieving a sibling lost to stillbirth.

Emma’s Teacher, Miss Rowe

Emma returned to school one week after Eli’s stillbirth. She was eight. Her parents had told her the truth at home — but at school, the truth went unspoken.

The other children asked, “When’s your baby coming?”

Emma didn’t know how to answer. So she said nothing.

Her teacher, Miss Rowe, noticed the shift. Emma stopped volunteering answers. Her drawings became muted. She stared out the window when babies were mentioned in stories.

Miss Rowe didn’t pry. She emailed Sarah gently: “Just checking in. Emma seems quieter than usual. Is there anything I should be aware of?”

Sarah replied with trembling hands: “Our son, Eli, was stillborn last week. We’re trying to find our way through it. Emma doesn’t know how to talk about it yet.”

Miss Rowe responded with grace: “Thank you. I’ll walk gently.”

Creating Space for Unspoken Sorrow

Miss Rowe didn’t announce anything to the class. She didn’t say “Emma’s brother died” or “Let’s all be extra nice.” Instead, she created gentle openings.

She included books in the reading corner about grief, stars, and memory. She added journaling time twice a week. She introduced an art project: “Draw someone you love, even if they’re not here.”

Emma drew Eli again. This time, she drew herself holding a balloon that said “I miss you.”

Miss Rowe saw the drawing. She knelt beside Emma and whispered, “Thank you for sharing your heart. Would you like to hang this on our memory wall?”

Emma nodded. “Can I take a photo and send it to my mum?”

That night, Sarah wept.

What Teachers Can Do

1. Be Informed (with permission):

If a child’s family shares that there has been a stillbirth, take the time to ask:

“How would you like us to speak about it?”
“Has the child been told everything?”
“Are there things I should avoid saying or doing?”

2. Create Open—Ended Expression Opportunities:

Art projects: stars, hearts, memories, invisible friends.
Writing prompts: “If I could say one thing to someone I miss…”
Books: The Memory Tree, The Invisible String, Lifetimes, Someone Came Before You.

3. Use Simple, Honest Language:

Avoid euphemisms like “the baby went to sleep” or “we lost the baby.” Children take words literally.

Better:

“The baby died in the mummy’s tummy.”
“You can still love someone who died.”
“It’s okay to feel sad, confused, or even mad.”

4. Offer Stability and Routine:

"Grief can make children feel unsafe.

Gentle consistency helps.

A calm voice, flexible expectations, and a sense of normalcy go a long way."

Building School—Wide Awareness

Grief literacy should be part of every school culture.

Consider:

Grief—response training for staff.
Age—appropriate grief books in classrooms and libraries.
Collaborating with school counsellors and parents after loss.
Including "Memories After" in resource guides or pastoral care recommendations.

Miss Rowe later shared Emma’s drawing (with permission) to a professional development workshop.

“This,” she said, “is what children carry. And we are the ones who can carry it with them.”

Reflection and Application

If you are a teacher:

Have you ever had a student grieving in silence?
What small changes could you make to be more grief—aware?

If you are a parent:

Have you informed your child’s teacher about the loss?
Would sharing a drawing, story, or tribute help your child’s classroom healing?

If you are a school counsellor:

Can you provide grief groups or one—on—one support for siblings after stillbirth?

Encourage children to make their tribute: a drawing, a star, a sentence.

"They may not say much. But their hearts will speak."

Chapter 10: Creating a Grief—Informed Community

What Every School, Church, and Workplace Can Do After Stillbirth

Stillbirth leaves a family shattered — but the grief is not theirs to carry alone. The people around them — their teachers, pastors, coworkers, neighbours, and leaders — form the scaffolding that either holds them up or lets them fall.

Communities are often uncomfortable with death, especially the death of a baby no one met. There is no funeral procession. No shared memories. Just an invisible loss, quietly endured.

But this doesn’t have to be so. With a shift in awareness and language, any community can become a place of healing.

This chapter offers practical ways to build grief—informed communities — places where families who experience stillbirth are met with compassion, not confusion; with support, not silence.

Sarah and David’s Community Response

After Eli’s stillbirth, Sarah and David encountered two types of people:

Those who didn’t know what to say — and said nothing.
And those who said something small — but said it with love.

A neighbour left soup on their doorstep with a note: “For Eli. With love.”

Emma’s school sent a card signed by the class, even though most of the children didn’t know what happened: “We are thinking of you.”

David’s boss simply emailed: “Take the time you need. No explanation necessary.”

These small gestures weren’t dramatic. But they told the family: Your grief belongs here.

Becoming a Grief—Informed Church

Faith communities often struggle with stillbirth. Some lean too heavily on theology; others avoid the topic altogether. But the church should be the most grief—ready place of all.

What a grief—informed church can do:

Mention stillbirth in prayers of the people or services of remembrance.
Offer private blessings or naming ceremonies.
Train pastors and lay leaders in grief presence — not just doctrine.
Invite bereaved parents to light candles during All Saints Day, Unborn Day of Remembrance, or other liturgical seasons.
Encourage families to create tributes on "Memories After" and integrate them into worship or memorials.

Avoid spiritual shortcuts.

"A grieving mother doesn’t need a sermon — she needs a space to cry, a hand to hold, a place where her child’s name can be spoken without flinching."

Grief—Informed Schools and Workplaces

Grief doesn’t end at the hospital doors. It follows people into meetings, hallways, and classrooms. But most schools and workplaces are not prepared.

What a grief—informed school can do:

Provide training for staff on perinatal loss.
Empower counsellors to support grieving siblings.
Include bereaved children in memory projects, with consent.
Maintain confidentiality, but never silence.

What a grief—informed workplace can do:

Recognise stillbirth as a legitimate bereavement — equal to other forms of loss.
Offer flexible leave, without requiring explanation or proof.
Respect the emotional labour of return.
Avoid insensitive questions: “How’s the baby?” or “When will you try again?”

A short email from a manager like:

“I’m so sorry for your loss. No pressure — No explanation necessary” can transform a work culture."

The Role of "Memories After" in the Wider Community

"Memories After" is more than a memorial — it is a bridge. It offers churches, schools, and workplaces a tangible, inclusive way to acknowledge loss without overstepping.

Churches can host candle—lighting services and invite families to read their tribute aloud.
Schools can allow children to draw or write tributes, then upload them with a parent’s help.
Workplaces can include the Wall in wellness resources for employees experiencing reproductive loss.

In every case, this says: “Your child mattered. Your grief matters. You belong.”

Becoming a Culture of Remembrance

What if every church had a candle for each stillborn child?
What if every school had books on grief that spoke truth to children?
What if every workplace had a policy that said: “We honour all forms of loss.”

Grief—informed communities don’t require perfection. Only presence. Only the courage to say, “I see you. And I’m still here.”

Reflection and Application

If you are a community leader:

Have you included stillbirth in your grief policies, liturgies, or care frameworks?
Could your school, church, or workplace host a public ritual of remembrance?

If you are a bereaved parent:

Would you consider sharing your story with your school, church, or employer?
Could your child’s Wall tribute be a teaching moment for others?

"Invite others. Honour your child. Help create a culture where loss is not hidden, but held."

PART III: PATHWAYS TO HEALING

Chapter 11: Memory—Making After Stillbirth – Holding On Without Holding Back

“How Tangible Acts of Remembrance Sustain Invisible Bonds”

Healing after stillbirth doesn’t begin with forgetting. It begins with remembering well. It begins when a mother is offered to hold her child. When a father is given footprints in ink. When a grandmother lights a candle and says the name aloud. When a sibling draws a star and hangs it on the wall.

Stillbirth robs families of a future. But it does not erase the child. And when the world pretends the baby never existed, memory becomes resistance. Love becomes memory. And memory becomes sacred.

This chapter explores the physical and emotional tools of remembrance — how families can hold on without apology, and how caregivers can support this gentle work of preservation.

Sarah’s Box

Sarah keeps a small white box on her bookshelf. Inside:

A photo of Eli, wrapped in a blanket.
A lock of his hair.
His hospital bracelet.
The blanket he was first swaddled in.
A note from Rabbi Levy with a handwritten blessing.
A printed copy of her Great Unborn Wall tribute.

She opens the box on Shabbat. Not every week. But some. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with Emma. Sometimes just to whisper: You were here.

“I didn’t want to forget,” Sarah said. “And the world was trying so hard to help me forget. That box reminded me: he lived. Even if only in my arms, for a moment.”

The Importance of Memory—Making in Trauma Recovery

Psychologists and grief counsellors agree: ritual and memory—making are key to healing after traumatic loss. They anchor the intangible. They validate the invisible. They let love take shape.

Memory—making doesn’t prevent grief. But it prevents disenfranchised grief — the kind that festers in secrecy, shame, or suppression.

Common memory—making practices after stillbirth:

Holding the baby.
Taking photographs (professional or informal).
Creating handprints and footprints.
Naming the baby aloud.
Collecting blankets, hats, or clothing worn at birth.
Journaling letters to the baby.
Creating a scrapbook or memory box.
Recording the story of the pregnancy and birth.
Uploading a tribute to "Memories After".

Each act helps form a bridge between what was and what still is.

David’s Quiet Act

David struggled with memory—making. It felt performative. Too sentimental. But one night, long after Emma was asleep and Sarah had gone to bed, he returned to "Memories After".

He added a second message.

Eli,
I held you for eight minutes.
I have spent every day since holding that moment.
You were real. You were mine. I won’t let the world forget.
– Dad

He didn’t tell anyone. But when Sarah found it weeks later, she wept.

“That was the first time I knew he had really let himself remember.”

Supporting Families in Creating Memories

If you are a caregiver, therapist, pastor, or friend — encourage the grieving to make room for remembrance.

Offer gentle language:

“Would you like to hold them?”
“Would a photo help you remember?”
“Is there something you want to write or draw for them?”
“We can create a memory box together, if you like.”
“"Memories After" is a place where your child’s name can live.”

If the family was not offered these things at the time, it is never too late.

You can write the child’s name today.
You can light a candle now.
You can upload a poem, a photo, a prayer, or a sentence.
You can say: They mattered.

Love in Visible Form

Memory—making is not holding on to pain. It is holding on to love in visible form.

When Emma looks at her drawing of Eli’s star, she does not cry. She smiles.

“He has a place now,” she said. “On the Wall. And in my room.”

When Grace prays Psalm 23, she no longer begs for answers. She simply offers the words as a gift.

“I know where he is. I know who he is.”

Reflection and Application

If you are a grieving parent or grandparent:

Have you created a physical or digital space to honour your child?
Would writing them a letter today help you reclaim your voice?

If you are a caregiver:

Are you offering practical tools for memory—making?
Are you encouraging long—term rituals of remembrance?

"Let it be your box. Your scrapbook. Your light. Let it hold what your hands no longer can."

Chapter 12: Rebuilding Relationships – A New Love After Loss

Stillbirth enters a marriage like a sudden storm. It exposes every fault line. It magnifies every silence. For many couples, what was once simple becomes unspeakable: sex, touch, prayer, laughter, future plans. Everything feels changed — because it is.

This chapter names what stillbirth does to intimacy, to communication, and to the couple’s spiritual and emotional bond. It offers not steps to “fix it,” but ways to honour the love that survives — and transform it into something even more sacred.

Sarah and David in the Silence

After Eli died, Sarah wept every morning. David returned to work. Sarah needed to talk. David needed quiet. Sarah wanted to feel. David wanted to forget.

“I didn’t understand why he was so normal,” Sarah said.
“I didn’t understand why she was still crying after two months,” David said.

They slept side by side — but felt a mile apart.

Intimacy was harder. Sarah felt foreign in her body — bleeding, empty, full of milk with no baby to feed. David felt afraid to touch her, unsure if affection would be welcome or intrusive.

"Neither spoke the truth aloud: I miss us. I miss who we were before we lost him."

What Grief Does to the Body and the Bed

Grief is not just emotional. It is physical. Especially for women after stillbirth:

The womb still bleeds.
Hormones shift.
Breasts produce milk.
Pain, fatigue, and postpartum trauma take hold.

For men, the body often reacts through tension, insomnia, sexual disconnection, or numbing behaviours (workaholism, alcohol, distraction).

Sex becomes complicated:

Some fear pregnancy.
Some feel guilt for wanting intimacy “too soon.”
Some crave closeness, others recoil from it.
Others experience painful flashbacks during physical connection.

None of this is wrong. But it must be named.

Finding Each Other Again

Healing as a couple begins with honesty — not performance.

Sarah and David started with a simple ritual. Once a week, they sat on the couch, phones off, and asked each other:

“What was hardest for you this week?”
“What do you need that I haven’t given?”
“Can I tell you how I miss Eli?”

Some nights they said nothing. Other nights, they wept. Eventually, they made space for laughter, even sex, even joy. But it didn’t come from pretending. It came from presence.

A New Love Language

Stillbirth can teach a couple to love each other again — but differently. Not through words like “I’m fine” or “We’re moving on.” But through a new love language, one that speaks:

Transform Pain into Purpose:
Plant a tree. Create a Wall tribute. Start a ritual.
Transform Tears into Treasures:
Write a letter together to the baby. Framing their footprints. Sharing poems or prayers.
Transform Loss into Legacy:
Choose to remember — not just privately, but publicly. Tell others. Help others. Speak the name. Rebuild trust, one sacred act at a time.

Rituals for Reconnection

Couples often benefit from shared acts of remembrance:

Lighting a candle every month on the date of birth.
Reading one another’s Wall tribute out loud.
Wearing a piece of memorial jewellery.
Returning to the hospital together (with support).
Writing a letter to the baby — from both of you.

These rituals don’t fix grief. They stitch connections through it.

Sarah and David made a new plan:
Every year, on Eli’s birthday, they go to a quiet place, read his Wall tribute together, and add one new line.

“Grief made us different,” Sarah said. “But it also made us deeper.”

When Relationships Fracture

Some relationships don’t survive. Stillbirth reveals wounds that cannot be healed. If your relationship ends:

Know that it’s not a failure — it’s a result of unshared capacity, not lack of love.
Find healing as an individual. Create your own rituals.
You can still be a mother. Still be a father. Still honour your child.

Reflection and Application

If you are grieving:

What have you left unsaid to your partner?
Can you create a ritual together this week, however small?

If you are a therapist, pastor, or friend:

Are you supporting couples, not just individuals?
Are you equipping them with grief—informed ways to reconnect?

Create a Memorial After Stillbirth. Let your tribute be shared. Not just by one of you — but both.

“Together, your love becomes a legacy.”

Chapter 13: Pregnancy After Stillbirth – Hope with a Trembling Heart

The Emotional Landscape of "Trying Again"

To consider another pregnancy after stillbirth is to stand at the edge of a cliff. The view ahead may include new life, but the wind carries echoes of death. It is not a choice made lightly. It is a decision held in fear, in longing, in trauma, and in hope that has been wounded before.

This chapter explores what it means to walk forward — not away from the child who died, but with them, into an unknown future. It addresses the emotional, physical, and spiritual complexities of deciding to conceive again, or choosing not to.

Sarah and David’s Hesitation

Three months after Eli’s stillbirth, people began asking:

“Will you try again?”
“You’re still young.”
“Next time will be different.”

Each question felt like a dismissal. Eli had not been a detour. He was their son.

“We weren’t ready,” Sarah said. “We didn’t even know how to talk about it. My body still hurts. My soul still bleeds."

David was afraid to hope. Sarah was afraid not to. Both felt betrayed by biology — and unsure if their hearts could survive another loss.

The Grief That Follows You Into the Next Pregnancy

For those who do conceive again, the grief doesn’t vanish. It deepens in strange ways:

Every ultrasound brings flashbacks.
Every silence in the womb feels like doom.
Every trimester is a calendar of anxiety.

You count down not to birth, but to survival. You fear naming the baby, preparing the room, telling others. You don’t want to jinx it. And beneath it all lies the guilt: Am I replacing them? Will I forget them?

But you're not replacing anyone. You’re simply doing the bravest thing a parent can do: loving again after loss.

Choosing Not to Try Again

Some couples, or individuals, decide not to pursue another pregnancy. The reasons vary — age, medical risk, emotional exhaustion, peace found in acceptance.

This decision is not resignation. It is reverence. It says: This chapter is complete. My love is not less for ending it here.

Sarah and David waited nearly a year. They didn’t rush it. They talked. They cried. They prayed.

“We chose to try again not because we stopped loving Eli,” Sarah said. “But because loving him gave us the courage to love again.”

Pregnancy After Loss: Emotional Tools for the Journey

If you are pregnant again after stillbirth:

Name your fear: Say it out loud. Share it with someone safe.
Get trauma—informed care: Choose providers who honour your history.
Invite your lost child into the process: Light a candle before scans. Wear a necklace with both names. Place Eli’s tribute in the nursery.
Celebrate cautiously, but celebrate: You deserve moments of joy. Let them come.

When Things Don’t Go as Hoped

Subsequent pregnancy is no guarantee of healing. Some end in miscarriage, others in further loss. The bravery to try is not invalidated by outcome. You are no less a parent. You are no less whole.

If you do not become pregnant again — by choice or by fate — your legacy still lives.

Through your Memorial tribute.
Through your rituals.
Through the love that never died.

Revisiting "Memories After"

Some families choose to update their Wall tribute after a subsequent birth. Not to overshadow the child who died — but to let both stories breathe together.

Sarah and David added a line to theirs after the birth of their daughter, Noa:

Eli,
Your sister has arrived.
We tell her about you when the stars come out.
You are not her shadow. You are her light.
– Mum and Dad

"That is how healing begins — not by forgetting, but by integrating."

Reflection and Application

If you are considering another pregnancy:

What emotions come up — fear, longing, guilt, hope?
Can you give yourself permission to hold all of them?

If you are walking with someone who is:

Avoid offering false reassurance.
Offer to accompany them to appointments.
Remind them: Whatever they decide, they are enough.

"Let your journey unfold. Add a new line. A new star. A new name beside the old."

Chapter 14: A Life That Remembers – A Love That Remains

The Long Arc of Healing After Stillbirth

Some wounds do not close. They become part of the skin, the soul, the story. Stillbirth leaves such a wound. But it also leaves a mark of love — quiet, enduring, holy.

Grief does not disappear with time. It changes shape. It becomes woven into laughter, into new beginnings, into ordinary days when a name is spoken and the room goes still.

This chapter is about how we live with stillbirth. Not around it. Not after it. But with it — in a way that allows our child’s legacy to breathe alongside us.

The Slow Integration

At first, Sarah lit a candle for Eli every morning. She placed her hand on her womb and wept. David visited "Memories After" weekly, reading other tributes. Emma asked to draw new stars and hang them beside his name.

Over time, the rituals softened. The pain remained — but so did the connection.

“I don’t think about him every minute anymore,” Sarah said. “But when I do… it’s not just sadness. It’s love.”

Healing was not linear. Anniversaries reopened wounds. New pregnancies reopened fears. But over time, the presence of grief made room for gratitude. And a new truth emerged:

He was never meant to be forgotten. He was meant to be carried.

From Memory to Mission

Many parents feel a pull after stillbirth — a desire to honour their child through action. Some start support groups. Others donate to NICUs. Some become doulas or bereavement counsellors. Others write, paint, speak, or plant trees.

Not everyone needs to build something public. Sometimes the legacy is quiet:

A middle name passed on.
A prayer spoken yearly.
A star sticker on a family calendar.
A Memorial After tribute visited when the heart aches.

Legacy is not about productivity. It’s about love made visible.

Sarah now speaks on panels about pregnancy loss in Jewish communities. David published a short essay titled “He Was My Son, Even If He Never Breathed.” Emma created a short video for her school called “Why I Light a Candle.”

Each act is a thread. Together, they form a tapestry that says: He lived. We remember. And we are changed.

How Others Can Walk With Us

As time passes, support often fades. But grief remains. The role of friends, family, churches, schools, and workplaces is to remember the bereaved — not just at the time of death, but on birthdays, holidays, and milestones.

If you know someone who lost a baby:

Text them on the due date. “Thinking of you and your baby today.”
Say the name. “I still remember Eli.”
Visit their tribute on "Memories After".
Ask, “Would you like to tell me about them again?”

Simple gestures become sacred memory—keepers.

Living Fully, Loving Forward

Eventually, Sarah and David found themselves laughing again. Watching Emma ride her bike. Holding their second child, Noa. Taking long walks through Central Park.

“It doesn’t mean we’re over it,” David said. “It means Eli walks with us.”

They chose not to keep the grief in a box. They let it live in their home — in the photo of Eli’s feet above the mantel, in the blessing on the fridge, in the updated tribute on the Wall.

Their home did not become a shrine. It became a sanctuary of memory.

Reflection and Application

If you are grieving:

What would it look like to integrate your child’s memory into your daily life?
Is there a way you can honour them each year — not with obligation, but with joy?

If you are a caregiver:

Can you help families build long—term remembrance rituals?
Do you recognise the spiritual maturity that grows from naming grief?

Create a Free Memorial. Not only to mourn — but to remember. To return. To witness.

"Love does not end. It expands. Loss does not vanish. It deepens.

Legacy is not built in marble. It is etched in the soul."

PART IV: MEMORIES AFTER STILLBIRTH

"Honouring with Healing and Hope"

Chapter 15: "Memories After" – Honouring with Healing and Hope

A Sacred Space for Every Child, Every Family, and Every Grief

Some children never take a breath, yet they take up space in our hearts forever. And now, because of "Memories After", they also have a place in the world.

What began as a quiet vision has become a living wall — global, free, sacred. It’s not a graveyard. It’s not a message board. It’s something rare in this world: a mercy—space. A place where loss is not measured or debated, but held. Honoured. Witnessed.

This chapter is your invitation — to contribute, to spread the word, and to take part in a movement that transcends borders, beliefs, and time itself.

A Sacred Sanctuary for All Griefs, All Beliefs

At first glance, it may look like a digital wall. But what you’re seeing is a spiritual archive of invisible lives.

Each entry says: This child existed. This grief is real. This love remains.

There is no right way to honour. There is only your way.

The "Memories After' is Inclusive and Welcomes All:

The devout and the doubting.
Those who chose and those who didn’t.
Families with faith and those without it.
People who speak of God, and people who only speak of love.

Tributes may include:

Prayers (Psalm 23, the Kaddish, Islamic du’a, Indigenous blessings)
Secular messages
Artwork and drawings
Poems, letters, song lyrics
Birth and loss dates, or simply “Baby Adebayo, forever loved”

"Memories After" is built on the belief that every life, no matter how short, deserves to be remembered — not with clinical language or theological debate, but with honour.

How to Create and Participate

Creating a memorial on "Memories After" is simple, meaningful, and deeply personal — designed for anyone affected by stillbirth or unborn loss. Whether you're a parent, sibling, grandparent, or friend, this sacred act of remembrance is open to all.

1. Visit the Website

Sign up or log in — it’s completely free, with no time limits or restrictions. Families can create multiple memorials if needed.

2. Create a Memorial

Click “Create Memorial.” Your information is always protected — only what you choose to share will be visible. You may use your full name, initials, or remain anonymous, as Sarah did initially with “S.C.”

3. Personalise Your Tribute

Your Name: Use your real name, a nickname, or leave it blank.
Name of Unborn: Share their name (like “Eli” or “Hope”), or leave unnamed.
Relationship to the Unborn: Choose Son, Daughter, Brother, Sister, Grandchild, Niece, Nephew, or Twin.
How Was the Unborn Lost?: Select “Stillbirth.”
Date of Loss: Provide a date or general time, like “November 2024.”
Your Age at Time of Loss: For context.
Country of Loss: From New York to Lagos to Perth — every grief has a place.

4. Write Your Unborn Story

Share what you feel — what you wish the world knew. This is your space to speak love, grief, memory, and mystery.

Sarah: “Eli, may your name be a blessing. We held you. We still do.”
David: “You were my hope. I still carry you.”

Emma: “I’m your big sister. I’ll never forget you”
Grace: “You are remembered in Lagos, in every heartbeat that prayed for you.”

5. Add Scripture, Reflection, or Prayer

Include a verse, blessing, or spiritual line that speaks your heart:

Psalm 23 from Grace: “Yea, though I walk through the valley…”
Kaddish lines from Sarah: “Zichrono livracha – May his memory be a blessing.”
A secular reflection, or a single word: “Thank you.”

6. Upload Two Images

Bring your tribute to life with up to two visual offerings:

A photo of your baby’s footprints, birth certificate, or swaddled body
A drawing — like Emma’s yellow star
A candlelit vigil, hospital name card, poem, or sacred object
A symbol of remembrance: rose, rainbow, cradle, or crib

These images allow others to witness the weight and beauty of your memory.

7. Share Two YouTube Music Videos

Let your memorial come alive with beauty, sound, and sacred memory. You may include up to two meaningful YouTube videos:

Sarah added “Shalom Aleichem” – Traditional Jewish Lullaby to capture Eli’s spiritual presence.
David chose "Here Comes the Sun" • Acoustic Guitar Beatles Cover as a private lament.
Emma asked for “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” – a lullaby version, for her brother’s drawing.
Grace added “It Is Well with My Soul" — Mahalia Jackson

“Music makes grief visible in ways words cannot.”

8. Finalise, Save, and Share

When you’re ready, save your tribute. You may choose to keep it private or make it public. You can return later to revise, revisit, or reread.

You may also share the memorial link with family, friends, or spiritual communities — locally or globally.

A Tool for Healing, A Catalyst for Change

"Memories After" is not just memory — it is medicine.

For grieving families, it offers:

A ritual of expression.
A way to validate the reality of their loss.
A way to include grandparents, siblings, partners, and friends.

For caregivers and institutions, it becomes:

A trauma—informed resource.
A pastoral care tool.
A conversation starter in schools, churches, clinics, and counselling rooms.

And for the world, it says something revolutionary:

“These lives were not wasted. These losses were not shameful.
These children are remembered. And are loved.”

Reflection and Application

If you are grieving:

Have you created your tribute? Would it bring comfort to share it?

If you are a caregiver:

Could you include Memories After in your resources, rituals, or support materials?

If you are a leader, teacher, or friend:

Are there people in your community who have never been given space to remember

Please support us.

"Help us build a world where love is louder than silence,

and where the unborn are never unwitnessed."

Chapter 16: From Loss to Legacy

"Memories After" is not the end of the story. It is the continuation. The quiet revolution. The refusal to let these lives disappear into clinical notes or private anguish.

Stillbirth silences the cries of the newborn — but it does not silence their impact. These children may not have taken a breath, but they have taken root. In families. In stories. In faith. In action. In compassion. In the courage to remember.

This final chapter is not about closure. Stillbirth offers none. Instead, it offers something rarer: continuation — a legacy that begins not with years lived, but with love given, even when there was no time.

This is the legacy of the child you lost.

This is the legacy of those who stayed beside you.

This is their legacy — and now, it is also yours.

The Legacy of the Child

Your child may never have opened their eyes, but they opened yours.
To a love that does not depend on time.
To grief that is real, even if unrecognised.
To the sacredness of life, however brief.

Their name may not be in family trees or school registers.
But it lives on candles, on certificates, on stars drawn by siblings,
on the lips of mothers whispering you mattered,
and on the screen of "Memories After", glowing with quiet witness.

“Eli changed me,” Sarah said. “Not through what he did, but through what he was.

A life I still carry. A name I still speak.”

Their legacy is that you love differently now.
More slowly. More attentively. More bravely.

That is what it means to be marked by someone who never spoke a word… and yet speaks forever.

The Legacy of the Parents

You have walked through fire.
You have wept in delivery rooms and driven home with empty arms.
You have heard the world move on, while your world stood still.

But here you are. Reading. Writing. Remembering.
Building tribute instead of a nursery.
Naming grief, not hiding it.
Transforming pain into sacred presence.

Your legacy is not that you “moved on.”
It’s that you refused to forget.
It’s that you let love keep speaking.

The Legacy of the Siblings

Like Emma, many siblings never meet their brother or sister — yet grieve them with unspoken depth. When we teach children to remember instead of pretend, we hand them tools for truth.

“I made him a star,” Emma said. “Now he has a place.”

Their legacy is not confusion. It is clarity: that love includes those who are no longer here. That family means even those who didn’t stay long. That grief does not weaken children but shapes them to be honest and kind.

The Legacy of the Grandparents

You were the ones who waited by the phone.
Who prayed across oceans.
Who lit candles in churches or sat silently in kitchens holding back tears.

You grieved the child and the sorrow of your own child.

“I never held him,” Grace said, “but I still held space for him.”

Your legacy is bridge—building:

Between generations. Between cultures. Between heaven and earth.

The Legacy of the Caregivers

You were the midwife who wept.
The chaplain who sat in silence.
The pastor who didn’t try to explain.
The nurse who whispered, “I’ll remember him too.”

You bore witness to what the world often avoids.
And your presence became part of the healing.

“She didn’t say much,” Sarah said of her midwife Rachel. “But she looked at Eli like he mattered.”

Your legacy is mercy—in—motion.
It is knowing that staying is sometimes holier than speaking.
That showing up is a form of prayer.

Living Legacy

“Legacies aren’t built only in what we do.
They’re built in what we carry forward.”

Sarah now speaks to Jewish communities about pregnancy loss.
David writes.
Emma draws.
Grace still prays Psalm 23 on Eli’s birthday.
And all of them return to "Memories After", together, once a year.

They add a single line: “Still remembered. Still ours. Still love.”

Each memorial is unique. Each name, a lasting light.

“This is what memory looks like when love refuses to be silent.”

Chapter 17: Your Invitation

If you have read this far, you are already part of this story.
You have stood in the sacred space of another’s sorrow.

Now you are invited to act:

Sign up and Create your Free memorial
Help someone else create theirs
Share the Wall in your school, hospital, church, clinic, or family
Tell others: You are not alone. Your grief is welcome here.

The memorial is not the end.
It is the beginning of a world where the unseen are seen.
Where the unborn are remembered.
Where grief is no longer hidden, but held.

Join us. Not only to grieve — but to honour.
Not only to remember — but to transform loss into legacy.
Not only to say goodbye — but to say: You still belong to us.

Share this with someone else who may be silently grieving. With a friend. With a community.

Remembrance is contagious. And love deserves to be seen.

Our Global Heart

One day, this Wall will hold thousands of names. Then tens of thousands. Then more.

Not because we glorify loss — but because we refuse to let it disappear.

"Memories After" is part of a wider calling:

To educate
To honour
To equip
And to build a culture where grief is not hidden, but holy

From Perth to Lagos, New York to London, Manila to Nairobi — each tribute is a lantern in the dark. Each family who contributes says: We remember. We forgive. We hope.

Final Words

“They were not here long.
But their lives still speak.

They were never baptised, registered, or named in public.
But they are recorded in love, etched in mercy,
and now — inscribed forever in the hearts of those who will not let them vanish.

This is their legacy.
And now it is yours.

"Carry it well.
Carry it gently.
Carry it forward.”

Thank you for reading.
Thank you for remembering.

— Eugene Wynyard
Author & Founder of Memories After

Share Memories After Stillbirth

Memories After Stillbirth – Volume I

Healing After Stillbirth for Grieving Hearts, Families, and Care Givers.

When a baby is born in stillness, the world feels both full and empty at once—a nursery prepared, dreams interrupted, and arms left longing. Memories After Stillbirth – Healing After Stillbirth was written to honor those feelings. It speaks directly to grieving hearts, families, and Care Givers who carry the profound and often silent sorrow of stillbirth.

Prefer a smoother reading experience? Want to support my work?

Now available as a beautifully designed PDF download—just $4.95 AUD.

Your purchase not only provides you with a compassionate resource to revisit and share, but also helps fund the FREE creation of unlimited memorial, access to online support and resources, and my ongoing global outreach efforts that bring comfort to individuals and families in need.

With gratitude,
Eugene Wynyard