A Letter: On Planting Forget-Me-Nots For The Children I’ve Lost

You were the dream I never let go of.

My dearest reader,

This is a deeply personal letter about miscarriage. If this is a tender topic for you, please feel free to pass it by and wait for the next one to arrive in your inbox.

But if, like me, you carry an intimate history of losing babies, I hope these words feel like a kind reminder, you are not alone.

Love,
Jody x

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Dear Baby, (in the sky)

I trace the path of water droplets sliding down the shower screen as steam thickens the air around me and the raging hot water meets my skin. It’s one of those showers where you suddenly come to, the intensity of the water remembered only after moments spent somewhere else entirely. I catch a glimpse of my soft belly, it hasn’t ‘bounced back’ like it did the times before. Instead, it lingers, sticking out just enough to remind me you were here with me, not so long ago. Maybe it’s my age, or my confused hormones, or maybe it’s simply that this time, letting you go has been the hardest.

It’s Mother’s Day, and your Daddy sneaks his head inside the shower curtain just in time to watch the first tears escape from my eyes. His face comforts my heart before he even speaks. ‘But what about all our babies?’ I ask. ‘I know,’ he says, softly, honestly, with that look I’ve come to recognise. The one that says, I’m so sorry, my beautiful wife. I know my words will never be enough in these moments.

I let the water engulf me, and I cry.

I’ve come to understand that grief doesn’t always announce itself. It waits quietly in the corners of your heart, folded into some hidden box you try not to open. But sometimes, something slips the lock. And suddenly, the ache rushes in, larger than your body, heavier than your heart knows how to carry. It seemingly stops everything for a brief moment, as if the grief itself needs to hang in the air just long enough to let its presence be known. Over time, I think I have become better at walking alongside it in those moments, allowing the box to be slightly ajar, no longer locked, but not fully open either. Just enough to let love back through, again and again.

Let me tell you a funny story about your brother, River. My desire for him met me in a cafe ten years ago. I was sitting across from a friend when it arrived suddenly, unmistakably, like being swept up by something invisible and vast, right there in the middle of suburbia. I went home that afternoon, sat on the bar stool across from Daddy, and said, “I want a baby.”

Four days later, your brother was conceived.

It couldn’t be more true to character that he cannonballed into the womb. And while we still laugh about how fast and furious his arrival was, the truth is—I never had time to long for him. Longing never had the chance to take root. He was already here, claiming space in my body before my heart could catch up. And in some ways, that shaped the way I came to know him with velocity, a heart flung wide open, and my eyes still adjusting to the magnitude of his presence.

But you, you were the dream I never let go of.

My womb has known four babies. Only one made it to my arms—but you, my darling, you felt different from the start. I could almost see you. Every detail of your sweet face. It was as if holding you in my arms was already written. Certain. You were chosen, and right on time for my heart and for our lives.

Like your brother and the sweet surprise babies that arrived before you, you didn’t wait long to make yourself known. Those breath-held, heart-in-throat moments waiting for two faint lines never came. Instead, there you were bold, immediate, unmistakable. The ink ran deep, and so did my joy. You were finally here.

In the months leading up to your conception, I began making peace with what might come, readying my body, steadying my spirit for the weight of another Hyperemesis Gravidarum pregnancy. After years of trepidation, tangled with longing and fear, something in me finally settled. I had read countless articles about the delicate interplay between a mother’s and baby’s genes, and how Hyperemesis Gravidarum isn’t always guaranteed. I read about personal environments, histamines, parasites, all the possible contributing factors to a condition still considered a mystery, with no known cure. If I’m honest, there was a naive, maybe even hopeful, part of me that quietly believed it might miss me this time. As if I’d cleared some invisible karma, or enough time had passed that my body had simply forgotten it was ever an option.

The joy of being pregnant with you lasted for days, and days, and days, and days before the nausea hit. Enough so, I felt a glimmer of what it would be like to be pregnant and not sick.

But as the weeks passed, the rolling waves of nausea compounded on themselves until I could no longer see straight. And before I knew it, I was back in that familiar dark and lonely place, facing off with each day from the four walls of my bedroom. I can only describe Hyperemesis as a dark depression of the heart, an entangled place where both joy and despair live equally and where, only by the grace of God, we are able to birth babies from that place.

But as time would reveal, that would not be our story, my sweet child.

Given my history of miscarriage, specifically missed miscarriage, I knew I wanted an early scan in the first trimester. And if I’m honest, my nauseous, weary body longed for that moment... to see you, safe and real, bobbing around on the screen. There’s a moment I’ve come to know too well, lying on the ultrasound bed, white-knuckled to your Daddy’s hand, holding my breath as they say again, “We might need to do an internal, I’m not quite getting the full picture”. They told me you were measuring too small, that maybe my dates were off, and to come back in a couple of weeks to check if you were growing. But I knew the exact day we conceived you. The dates weren’t wrong. And deep down, in a quiet corner of my heart, I knew you weren’t growing. Two of the longest, slowest and most tender weeks of my life followed. I cried tears that could have flooded an ocean, whispering silent prayers on repeat—please, not again.

“There is no viable heartbeat” were the next words we heard in that synopsis room.

My friend Tara recently said to me, “It’s one thing to lose a love, but it’s another thing to have fought hard for that love and lost it.”

I fought hard for you, and I lost you.

What if you were my daughter?
What if it was your hair I learned to braid,
your little face I’d watch in the mirror as you got ready for school?
What if I were the one to hold you in the confusion of your first period,
to celebrate that sacred threshold with reverence and excitement,
to teach you about the wild, wondrous, glorious nature of our womanhood?
What if it was your hand I held through heartbreak,
your dreams I helped carry,
your name I whispered at night?

What if you were my daughter, and I lost you?

I found out your big brother told his class about you during show and tell.
“We lost our baby,” he said.
Just like that.
Small voice.
A big truth.

I didn’t just lose you,
we lost you, my love.

Your brother lost the chance to become someone’s big brother in the everyday sense,
to teach you games,
to tell you silly jokes,
to roll his eyes when you took too long in the bathroom.
He was already holding space for you before he knew what that meant.
And somehow, even now, he still is.

Your Daddy carries you, too, in his own quiet way.
He reaches for me when he sees the ache rise behind my eyes.
He talks about what could have been, and sometimes, he doesn’t talk at all, but I see it.

I recently read about a woman who planted Forget-Me-Nots in memory of the baby she lost. And I saw myself in her, scattering seeds across our garden like confetti, patiently waiting for little pops of blue.

And it felt... light. And beautiful.

So that’s what I’ll do.

I’ll grow a garden of Forget-Me-Nots for all of my children.

Love,
Your mama x