I’ve attempted to write this piece multiple times, letting it sit in my drafts for months. So, why haven’t I shared the photos of my son online? The truth is, I’m terrified.
I worry about how my son will be perceived—and how I will be judged. Having worked in social media for years, I know how unforgiving the internet can be. The thought of exposing my son to trolls is daunting. I’m fiercely protective; I don’t want anyone to make snap judgments about our loss or, even worse, dismiss my son as if he didn’t exist. My fears run deep, including the possibility that someone might misuse his photos for a political cause. I’ve seen stories of baby pictures being stolen online and misrepresented to further pro-life agendas. If that ever happened to my son’s images, trust me, I’d be on a relentless hunt to track them down. Consider this your warning.
Miscarriage and stillbirth are often viewed as taboo topics, making the act of photographing a deceased child equally so. In the hospital, we were asked two pivotal questions: Would we like photos of our child? And would we want to hold him? Without thinking, I immediately said, “No.” I hadn’t considered it before; after all, a few years ago, I had scrolled past a similar Facebook post of a stillborn baby, thinking how grim it was.
If only I had known then what I know now.
The idea of holding my deceased child and taking photos filled me with dread. I thought I wouldn’t have the strength to handle it. The logical side of me believed I would never look at those pictures. They would be too painful, too morbid, and I couldn’t put myself through that. Ultimately, my fear dictated my choices.
On that fateful day, my husband cautiously turned to me and expressed his desire to hold our son and take photos. I broke down in tears. I knew I couldn’t deny him that moment. Yet, I felt ashamed to admit that I was terrified of what our child might look like; I feared he might appear deformed, which would only deepen my sadness.
Our nurse, sensing our hesitation, offered her insight. She explained that in all her years working with stillbirth parents, not one had regretted holding their child or having photos taken. Regrets stemmed from those who chose not to hold or photograph their baby.
After considering her words, I called my aunt, who had a calm demeanor and could provide honest advice. She suggested I get the photos without looking at them right away—“At least you’ll have them if you change your mind.”
And, as it turns out, I did change my mind.
As each contraction hit, my resolve strengthened. I wanted to see and hold the little being my husband and I had created. My body was fulfilling its natural purpose, and that astonished me. I had nurtured this baby for 18 weeks, and now it was time to bring him into my arms. The fact that he was lifeless did nothing to diminish my desire to celebrate his life.
My husband held our son first, tears streaming down his face. I was still recovering, exhausted from the pain. When I finally sat up, my husband placed our son in my arms—just 3.5 ounces and 8 inches of pure sweetness.
I cried as I memorized every detail of his face: his nose, ears, and those precious little fingers. Even with the photos we took, I still have regrets. I wish I had held him longer, captured more moments, and taken a picture with my husband, both of us together. The moment I panicked and pulled back when I saw blood on his forehead still haunts me; I never got to kiss my child. That regret is a heavy burden, like a 400-pound weight on my chest.
For some, my son’s photos may be difficult to look at. After all, his heart stopped beating at 16 weeks and 5 days. He wasn’t a healthy, chubby baby. His neck was swollen from the umbilical cord, and his features were still developing. The photos were taken a few hours after delivery, and the environment had started to take its toll on his tiny body.
In the days following our loss, we were cautious about sharing the photos. We were told they might upset friends and family, or that children might find them hard to understand. We only shared them with those who specifically asked.
We understood why some might feel uncomfortable: James was a small, lifeless infant. Yet, we don’t see death in those images. We see our son, with his sweet hands resting on his belly. He is our baby—our son.
Recently, I’ve been grappling with a growing emptiness. The ache is becoming unbearable, and I feel as if I’m missing out on my “mom justice”—the right to share and celebrate my child. If it’s not posted online, did it even happen?
It was only recently that I found the courage to share his photos. I had a brief interaction on Twitter with reality star Kayla, who also experienced a loss. She shared her own photos, and I felt a wave of admiration for her bravery when she posted them. Her post garnered over 17,000 views, raising awareness about miscarriage and stillbirth. Kudos to her!
By sharing my story and his photos, I hope to heal the gaping wound I feel and combat the anger, jealousy, and fear that have clouded my heart. I’m tired of feeling this way.
We have only four photos of our son—just four. We will never have the typical milestones, like Halloween or first foods, just these few images we feel comfortable sharing.
In Summary
Sharing photos of my stillborn son is an act of love and defiance against the stigma surrounding loss. It’s a way to honor his existence and combat the deep sorrow I carry. If you’re navigating similar grief, know you’re not alone, and consider seeking resources like this excellent guide for support.
For more information on home insemination, check out this resource to help you on your journey. And if you’re interested in understanding more about privacy in this context, you can read about it here.