Today, my world changed in a way I never imagined. I lost my baby—my tiny piece of hope, my future, my heartbeat outside my own body. The grief is sharp and heavy, a weight that presses on every breath. Only the heartless could look at this and not whisper “Rest in Peace,” because a baby, no matter how small, is a life that mattered.
I carried dreams with this little one. Dreams of laughter, of small fingers curled around mine, of first steps, first words, first everything. I imagined seasons growing around them, years unfolding like petals. I imagined the moments we would share, the memories we would build. Even in the earliest stages of life, love grows fast—faster than we ever expect. And now that love sits inside me with no place to go, aching for what could have been.
There is a silence now that wasn’t here before. A silence that feels like a wound. It fills the spaces where hope used to live. Losing a baby is not just losing a life—it is losing a future, losing a version of myself I looked forward to becoming. People may try to offer explanations or comfort, but the truth is that nothing can make sense of losing something so precious. There is no “right thing to say,” except to acknowledge the reality and the depth of this grief: my baby existed, my baby mattered, and my baby deserves to be remembered.
Rest in peace, my little one. You were loved long before you arrived, and you will be loved long after this day. Your time here may have been brief, but your impact will last forever. The world might measure your life in minutes, days, or weeks, but I measure it in love, and love cannot be measured by time.
I will carry you always—in every heartbeat, every quiet moment, every tear. I will carry you in the soft spaces of my memory and in the deepest chambers of my soul. I will carry the hope you gave me, even if it hurts right now. Grief is only the shadow of love, and the shadow is so large because the love was so real.
Sometimes people say that time heals everything, but I don’t believe that. Time doesn’t heal this—it only teaches us to live with the shape of the loss. And that’s what I will do. I will wake up tomorrow and the next day and the one after that, carrying both the pain and the love. Carrying you.
So today, I say goodbye in the only way I can. Not with closure, because there is none, but with love. With reverence. With a whisper that comes from the rawest part of my heart:
Rest in peace, my baby. I will never forget you.
