28 Weeks With and 28 Weeks Without
This is a blog I’ve been wanting—but not wanting—to write. I never really want to write these, but it’s the best way for me to express my emotions, to grieve, to get my feelings out on the table. Because honestly, I don’t sit with my emotions much unless they’re happy ones.
But today, I need to sit with them.
The Day Everything Changed
Most of you know that I lost my daughter at 28 weeks pregnant. She was stillborn.
I went in for my 28-week appointment—I had just turned 28 weeks the day before. It was supposed to be a routine visit, part of my glucose testing. But when they checked for her heartbeat, there was nothing. That’s when we found out she was gone.
That night, I went to the hospital to be induced. By the next morning, she was born. But she had already passed.
I carried her for 28 weeks—28 precious weeks. And lately, I’ve been thinking about something that hurts so deeply. There was going to come a time when I would have been without her longer than I had carried her.
And That Time Is Now
As I sat down to write this, I searched Google: What is 28 weeks from the day we found out?
And today is that day.
Twenty-eight weeks ago, I found out my baby no longer had a heartbeat. Tomorrow, I will have been without her longer than I carried her.
That hurts so bad.
It’s strange to think about time this way. It makes me wonder how I can explain to someone that I only carried her for 28 weeks, yet she is always a part of our family. She was here, and now something is missing. I feel it in the small, everyday things—the empty space in the stroller, the missing car seat in the back of the car. I catch myself looking, wondering, Where is she? Because she should be here.
Holding On and Letting Go
Her signs are still up in her room.
We had a name sign made for her—just like we did for our other daughter. One sign spells out her name, and another includes details like her weight and birthdate. They’re still hanging in the room because her room was supposed to be shared.
She was supposed to be here.
At some point, we’ll have to take those signs down. Maybe when we move, maybe someday down the road. And that thought wrecks me. Because that space was hers.
Some days are easier. Some days are harder. Grief is like that.
Finding Hope in the Hard Days
The other day, it snowed here in Austin.
I know, shocker. But as I watched the snow fall, I thought about how she should be here for this—her first snow. And she’s not. She never got to see the snow, never got to experience this world.
But then I remind myself—she gets to experience something far greater.
She gets to see the beauty of heaven. She gets to be with Jesus. And while she never saw the most beautiful things here on earth, it doesn’t even matter, because she’s seeing something even more incredible.
And maybe, just maybe, she was too perfect for this world.
That’s what I tell myself. That’s what gives me hope, even if it’s not theologically perfect. Sometimes, we just need something to hold on to, something to help us get out of bed in the morning. And that’s one of those things for me.
Time Flies, Even in Grief
It’s Super Bowl Sunday.
Last Super Bowl Sunday, I didn’t even know I was pregnant. A few days later, I would find out. I took the test on Valentine’s Day.
And now, in five days, it will be Valentine’s Day again—the day we first knew about her.
Time flies, doesn’t it?
To Anyone Grieving…
If you’re going through this—whether it’s a miscarriage, a stillbirth, or losing someone you love—grief is hard. Some days we drown. Some days we float. Some days, we dive into the deep end and somehow find joy in the waves.
And some days, we just sit with it.
If that’s you today, just know—you’re not alone.
