I’ve sat down to write this several times, and yet, I’ve hesitated for months. Why haven’t I shared my son’s photos online? The truth is, I’m terrified.
I’m fearful of how others will perceive my son and me. After years in social media, I know firsthand the internet can be unforgiving. My greatest worry is exposing my son to potential judgment or misunderstanding. The thought of someone misusing his photos for their own agendas, especially in the heated political climate surrounding pregnancy loss, is distressing. I’ve heard of instances where such images have been misrepresented to serve pro-life narratives, and the idea of that happening to my son is infuriating.
Miscarriage and stillbirth are often seen as taboo topics, making the act of photographing a deceased child feel even more controversial. When we were in the hospital awaiting induction, we were asked if we wanted to hold our child and take photos. Without thinking, I replied, “No.” At that moment, I couldn’t fathom the idea. Years ago, I had seen someone share their stillborn child’s photo on social media and thought it was unsettling. If only I had known then what I understand now.
The fear of seeing my child, who I imagined might be deformed, overwhelmed me. I thought such photos would be too painful to revisit. My instincts were purely protective, born from fear. But when my husband expressed his desire to hold our son and take pictures, everything changed. I realized I couldn’t deny him that moment.
Our nurse offered us some insight, sharing that none of the parents she had worked with regretted holding their child or capturing those memories. Instead, the regrets stemmed from avoiding those moments altogether. I took her words to heart and reached out to my aunt, known for her level-headedness, who suggested that we get the photos, even if I didn’t plan to look at them. “At least you’ll have them if you change your mind,” she said.
As I went through labor, I found myself longing to see and hold the tiny life my husband and I had created. My body, in its most vulnerable state, was still accomplishing something beautiful. I had nurtured our baby for 18 weeks, and now it was time to embrace that reality, even in grief.
When my husband held our son first, it was a poignant moment filled with tears. Once I was able, I held our precious baby, just 3.5 ounces and 8 inches long. I studied his features—his tiny nose and ears, the resemblance to his dad. He was perfect in every way, despite the circumstances.
Even with those precious moments captured, I still carry regrets. I wish I had held him longer, taken more photos, and shared the moment with my husband. The pain of not being able to kiss my son, especially after seeing him with a bruise on his forehead, weighs heavily on me.
I understand that for many, seeing my son’s photos can be challenging. He passed at just over 16 weeks, not the typical image of a newborn. His body showed signs of distress, which can be unsettling for some. We were mindful about sharing those images, knowing they might provoke discomfort. But to us, those photos do not symbolize death; they embody our son and the love we have for him.
There’s a growing ache within me that feels insurmountable. I often feel like I haven’t received my “mom justice” and have missed the chance to share my son’s story. Lately, I’ve been inspired by others who have bravely shared their experiences, like celebrity Sarah Lane, who lost her child at a similar stage. After reaching out, I felt a sense of connection and support that encouraged me to share my own story.
By sharing, I hope to bridge the gap of isolation and injustice I feel. I’m ready to confront the anger and fear that have held me back. We only have four photos of our son, and I want the world to see them. It’s essential to acknowledge the realities of miscarriage and stillbirth, much like the resources available on this page about pregnancy loss.
In conclusion, sharing my son’s photos is not just about showing his face; it’s about honoring his existence and bringing awareness to the conversations around loss.