There are stories that change the shape of your life. And then there are stories that become the shape of your life. This is one of those.
Our daughter was stillborn. Those words still feel impossible to write, even a year later. Her birth, in some ways, was everything we imagined. And in so many ways, unimaginable. The story of Remi’s birth began like so many others. I began laboring at home, and after a few hours we headed to the hospital, diaper bag and car seat in tow. When we arrived, the unimaginable happened.
The nurse couldn’t find her heartbeat. It felt like a fever dream. Like our doctor would walk in and say, “Just kidding, let’s have this baby.” But that was anything but true. The moments that followed are ones Andy and I both wish we could forget and never lose at the same time. That has been the theme of this past year: living in duality.
Our doctor was called, and somehow, defying all odds (like she would so many more times), arrived from home in what felt like two minutes. She stepped into action with a kind of care I had never witnessed before. She made sure we were kept away from the sounds of newborn cries and new parents. She ushered us to a quiet room, far from the joys of new parenthood we would be missing.
From there, we were given the time and space to feel exactly what we needed to feel, with support from Dr. Swift and her team to help us make decisions that felt too big to hold. She guided us through grief with kindness, knowledge, and a calm sureness that made us trust every single decision she made. When everything felt out of control, her steadiness mattered more than I can explain.
When it was time, Remi’s birth was quiet and devastating. The room held a kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but heavy with meaning. Time moved strangely. Everything went slowly and too fast at once. What could have been chaos was instead held by an extraordinary care team.
Nurses who moved gently.
A doctor who treated her not as a loss, but as a person.
As our daughter.
As someone who mattered.
They honored her life, even in death. They honored us as parents. They gave dignity to a moment that could have been clinical and cold, and instead made it human, sacred, and compassionate. That kind of care changes you. It stays with you. It becomes part of your healing.
There is no language that fully captures what it feels like to give birth and not hear a cry. To hold your baby and know the world will never meet her the way you imagined. There is nothing that can prepare you for coming home to a quiet house when you planned for the exact opposite. The crib meant for little toes, empty. The halls meant for midnight cries, silent. The onesies neatly folded, never worn.
Your body feels the effects of having a baby, but your arms are empty. Nights are sleepless for a different reason. Hugs are for consolation instead of congratulations. And through all of it, we were not alone. Our family. Our friends. Our support system. People who showed up without needing words, who honored Remi and grieved with us without trying to fix either. That kind of love is rare. We will never be able to thank our army enough.
Today, on January 27th, we celebrate her first birthday.
In the last year, it hasn’t gotten easier. It hasn’t healed everything. Our grief hasn’t disappeared. We still miss Remi every day. But we celebrate her because she is the baby who made us parents. She matters. She changed us. No matter the length of a life, it can still leave an imprint that lasts forever. She is our first child. She is Otto’s sister. She is part of our family story forever. We do not move on from her. We move forward with her.
Happy first birthday, sweet girl. You are known. You are loved. You are remembered. You are part of everything we are becoming.
Educational Note on Stillbirth and Umbilical Cord Length: Stillbirth affects about 1 in 175 pregnancies in the United States. It is a loss that often arrives without warning and without a clear explanation, even when parents have done everything “right.” In Remi’s case, we later learned that her umbilical cord was nearly three times the average length. While the typical umbilical cord is around 20–24 inches, hers was significantly longer. This can increase the risk of cord entanglement or compression, which can disrupt oxygen and blood flow to the baby. What makes this especially painful is that umbilical cord length and related risks cannot be reliably seen or predicted on ultrasound. There was nothing we could have done to prevent this, and nothing that could have been detected ahead of time. Stillbirth is not caused by stress, diet, movement, or a parent’s choices. Sometimes, tragically, it is the result of circumstances beyond anyone’s control. We share this not to explain away Remi, but to honor her story with truth, and to remind other parents that this kind of loss is not a personal failure.
For Remi: Remi, you changed us forever. You made us parents.
You made us softer, braver, and more aware of how fragile and miraculous love
is. We carry you in the way we love Otto, in the way we notice small things, in
the way we hold joy and grief side by side. We miss you every single day, in
quiet moments and loud ones, in ordinary Tuesdays and in the milestones that
ache. Your birthday will always be sacred to us. You are part of our family,
part of our story, part of who we are becoming. We love you beyond language,
beyond time, beyond what we can see. Happy first birthday, sweet girl. You are
here, with us, always.
If you are reading this and carrying a loss of your own, I want you to know that your baby matters. Your grief is real. Your love is real. And the relationship you have with your child does not end because their life was brief. We are learning that grief does not disappear, but it changes shape. Remi is part of us. She is part of our family. She is part of who we are becoming.
And so are the babies who changed you.
