I’ve started writing this piece multiple times over the past few months, but it’s always gone unfinished. So why am I hesitating to share my son’s photos online? The truth? Fear.
I worry about how my son might be perceived, and by extension, how I will be judged. Having spent years in social media, I understand its unforgiving nature. The thought of exposing my son to online negativity terrifies me. I’m fiercely protective, not wanting anyone to dismiss him or our profound loss. My anxieties even stretch to the possibility of someone misusing his images for a political agenda. I’ve seen stories of baby photos being misappropriated to fuel pro-life causes, falsely labeled as an abortion. If that ever happened to my son’s pictures, let’s just say I’d be on a personal mission to track that person down.
Miscarriage and stillbirth are often shrouded in silence, making the act of photographing your deceased child feel taboo. At the hospital, we were asked two critical questions: Would we like photos of our child? And did we want to hold him? Without a moment’s thought, I blurted out “No.” I hadn’t really considered it before. Years ago, I’d seen a Facebook post featuring a stillborn baby, and my reaction was one of horror—how morbid! If only I had known then what I understand now.
The idea of holding my lifeless child and capturing photos filled me with dread. I thought I wouldn’t have the strength to confront that reality. My logical brain reasoned that I’d never want to look at such pictures; they would be too painful. I made those decisions out of sheer fear.
However, my husband, looking at me with a cautious expression, expressed his desire to hold our son and take photographs. Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t deny him those moments, but the conversation left me feeling exposed. I was terrified of what our child might look like and worried he’d appear malformed, which would only deepen my sorrow.
Our nurse, sensing our uncertainty, shared her perspective from years of experience: not one parent she had encountered regretted holding their child or taking photos. The regrets came from those who chose not to do so.
After deeply considering her words and seeking advice from my aunt, who suggested taking the photos even if I didn’t look at them, I eventually changed my mind. As labor progressed, I felt an overwhelming urge to see and hold the little life my husband and I had brought into the world. It was a miraculous experience, and I wanted to celebrate my baby, despite the tragic circumstances.
My husband was the first to hold our son, and his tears struck my heart. When I was finally able to sit up, he placed our baby in my arms—just 3.5 ounces and 8 inches of pure love. I gazed at him, memorizing every detail: his tiny nose, his delicate fingers, and his perfect little features. He was beautiful.
Still, I carry regrets. I wish I had held him longer, taken more photos, and had a picture of us together with him. I even panicked during a moment when I saw a slight bruise on his forehead, and I never got to kiss him. That regret sits heavy in my chest, like a weight I worry may never lift.
I understand that for some, my son’s photos may be difficult to look at. His heart stopped beating at 16 weeks and 5 days, and he wasn’t the typical chubby baby you’d expect. His little body had signs of trauma. We were advised to be cautious about sharing his pictures, as some friends and family may not handle them well. We kept the images private unless someone specifically asked.
But here’s the thing: we don’t see death in those photos; we see our son. He’s ours, with his sweet hands resting on his belly. There’s a growing void within me, an ache that feels like it’s intensifying. I crave the recognition of my motherhood, the chance to share my child with the world. After all, if it’s not on social media, did it even happen?
Recently, I found inspiration from a brief Twitter interaction with reality star Emma Lane, who had also lost her child. After sharing photos of her son, I felt a sense of courage to do the same. Her post reached thousands of people, raising awareness about miscarriage and stillbirth. And while my journey may be different, I hope that sharing my son’s story will help fill the void and ease the pain.
We only have four photos of our son—just four. We’ll never capture those milestone moments like Halloween or his first taste of solid food, but those four photos are our precious memories.
In Summary
The journey of losing a child is fraught with emotional turmoil and societal taboos. While the decision to share photos of a stillborn child can be daunting, it’s a powerful way to honor their memory and break down barriers surrounding this painful topic. Embracing vulnerability can lead to healing and connection with others who have experienced similar losses.