I’ve tried to write this post multiple times, letting it linger for months on end. What has held me back from sharing my son’s photos online? To be honest, fear.
Fear of judgment—both for my son and myself. I worry about how others might perceive us. Having worked in social media for years, I’m all too familiar with its harsh realities. The thought of exposing my son to online trolls terrifies me.
I’m protective of him; I don’t want anyone to dismiss our loss or form negative opinions about it. My anxiety extends to the idea that someone might misuse my son’s photos for their own agenda. I’ve heard stories of baby pictures being co-opted, misrepresented as part of a political narrative, and that haunts me. If anyone were to take my son’s images without my consent, trust me, I would find you.
The subjects of miscarriage and stillbirth are often shrouded in silence, and photographing a deceased child is even more taboo. When we were in the hospital preparing for my induction, there were two questions posed: Would we like photos of our baby, and did we want to hold him? Without a second thought, I said “No.” I hadn’t considered it beforehand. A few years back, I stumbled upon a Facebook post featuring a stillborn baby’s photo and thought it morbid, quickly scrolling past.
If only I had known then what I know now. The idea of holding my lifeless child and capturing those moments frightened me. I believed I wouldn’t ever look at the photos—they would be too painful, too morbid. My initial decision was driven by fear.
However, my husband, looking at me with concern, expressed his desire to hold our son and capture photos. Tears streamed down my face. I could never deny him that moment or prevent him from documenting our child, but I felt too vulnerable to engage in that conversation. I was ashamed to admit that I feared what our baby might look like; I feared deformities that would break my heart even more.
Our nurse, sensing our hesitance, offered some wise counsel. She shared that none of the parents she worked with ever regretted holding their child or taking photos. The real regrets came from those who chose not to have those moments.
Reflecting on her words, I reached out to my sister, a level-headed individual who could provide me with honest advice. She hadn’t gone through a loss like ours but suggested, “Get the photos and don’t look at them. At least you’ll have them if you change your mind.”
And I did change my mind.
As contractions intensified, the urge to see and hold the little life my husband and I had created grew stronger. My body was functioning as it was meant to, and it amazed me. I had nurtured this baby for 18 weeks, and my body was now preparing to bring him into my arms. The fact that he was no longer alive didn’t diminish my desire to celebrate his existence.
My husband held him first, weeping openly. I was still recovering and tired, barely able to focus. But when I finally mustered the strength to sit up, my husband placed our precious baby—3.5 ounces and 8 inches of him—into my arms. I stared in awe, memorizing every detail: his nose, ears, and those tiny fingers and toes. He was so incredibly cute and perfect.
Yet, even after holding him and capturing those precious images, I still harbor regrets. I wish I had held him longer and taken more photos. I regret not being in one of the pictures with him and my husband. I wish I hadn’t panicked when I leaned in to kiss him and noticed the bleeding on his forehead. My husband quickly took him from me, and that moment of affection was lost forever. The weight of that regret feels unbearable, as if a 400-pound man is sitting on my chest, and I fear it may never leave.
I understand that for some, my son’s photos are difficult to view. His heart stopped beating at 16 weeks and 5 days; he wasn’t the typical round, chubby baby. The umbilical cord had wrapped around his neck, causing swelling. The photos were taken about four hours after my delivery, and the environment began to affect his fragile body, which is why I saw the bleeding.
In the days and weeks following our loss, we were cautious. We were told that some friends and family might find the photos too upsetting. We understood that our images might make some uncomfortable: our son was a small, deceased baby. But we don’t see death when we look at those photos; we see our son, his hands gently crossed over his belly. He is our baby, our son.
There’s an emptiness that has been steadily expanding over the past few weeks. The ache is becoming more profound, making breathing feel laborious. I feel excluded from the parenting community; I didn’t get my “mom justice”—the right to share and celebrate. I want everyone to see my son because, let’s be honest, if it’s not on social media, did it even happen?
It’s only recently that I’ve begun to feel ready to share his photos. A brief exchange on Twitter with reality star Grace Simmons, who also experienced a loss, inspired me. She bravely shared her own story and photos, which brought awareness to the realities of miscarriage and stillbirth. Her post reached over 17,000 people, spreading knowledge and understanding about these important topics.
By sharing my son’s story and images, I hope to fill the void I feel and highlight the injustices of loss. I might not feel better after this, but I’m willing to take that risk. I’m tired of feeling anger, jealousy, and fear.
We have only four photos of our son—just four. Those will be all we have; there will be no first Halloween pictures or shots of him trying solid foods. Just these four images that we feel comfortable sharing.
Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Emily Johnson bravely shares her journey through the loss of her stillborn son. Overcoming her fears of judgment and societal taboo, she recounts how she ultimately chose to hold her baby and capture those precious moments. Through her story, she seeks to break the silence surrounding miscarriage and stillbirth, advocating for the recognition and celebration of lost lives.