The Lost Trimester - the Art of Mending

Trigger Warning - Sharing of infant loss 

There is so much conversation about the fourth trimester — the tender months after a baby arrives — yet far less about the support needed postpartum when a baby does not come home in your arms. How do we prepare (when loss is known), and how do we support mothers through the hardest goodbyes?

In honor of Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day (Oct 15th) , I want to share my own story of loss and the care I received along the way — support that continues to nurture my healing journey.

At a routine 35-week ultrasound, the technician noticed that both of my baby’s kidneys were abnormally large and that there was almost no amniotic fluid. I was quickly referred to Mount Sinai for a rescan with a specialist, who then connected with the nephrology team at Sick Kids. The likely diagnosis was devastating and completely unexpected: ARPKD — a rare, lethal disease with very low survival rates after birth. Inside the womb my baby thrived, but once they left, it was uncertain how long they could survive on their own.

The next two weeks were consumed with doctor consultations and heart-wrenching decisions: hospital birth plans, palliative care, potential funeral arrangements, and finally setting a date for it all to unfold. It felt surreal, as if there were never any “good” options. Which of plan A, B, C, or D did we hate least? As the days passed, I kept searching for a Plan E, F, or Z that simply didn’t exist. The waves of grief began to crash relentlessly against my shore.

I was scheduled for an induction at 37 weeks, but this little one had their own timing as I went into labor the night before we were scheduled. In a way, I believe they wanted me to feel some fulfillment in all of this — granting me pieces of the home birth I had envisioned. I labored in the comfort of my home, flowing through each surge, trying to find rhythm while still searching for answers. My doula joined us there before we made our way to the hospital to meet the rest of our team.

As the sun set the following day, my daughter, Aurora Blue, arrived earth-side — the most beautiful, calm, and delicate piece of me I had ever seen. She was quiet, gentle, yet determined, taking a few staggered breaths on her own. I felt she stayed with us just long enough to meet us, gathering all the strength she could to grant us time together.

My eyes and heart soaked in every detail of her: a full head of dirty-blonde hair with waves already forming; a strong forehead like her papa’s; and a delicate heart-shaped birthmark at her third eye, mirroring my own. Her eyelids remained closed, but a glimpse revealed dark blue rims with lighter blue inside — a perfect blend of her parents. She carried my nose and cheeks, Papa’s lips and chin, and his unique feet with a wide gap between the big and first toes. When the midwife asked who she got them from, Papa proudly claimed them with a smile, bringing unexpected joy to my heart. I hadn’t realized how distinctive his feet were until I saw them in her — and now, I see her every time I see his.

Aurora spent just under an hour with us before taking her last breath. Sharing her story has been both humbling and empowering. In connecting with other grieving mothers, I realized I was not alone — and in that connection, my spirit was lifted during one of the saddest chapters of my life.

There is freedom in telling our stories, rather than staying silent because they don’t fit the “fairy tale” ending we long for. Her arrival — and her exit — remain the most profound and beautiful experience of my life, and I believe that is worth sharing.

The days that followed were, as expected, immensely difficult. As my due date approached, friends and family continued to check in, unaware of what had happened. I often felt overwhelmed by not knowing how to respond. I worried about burdening others with my grief or shocking them with news they weren’t expecting. Yet, each time I did share, the weight lifted a little, and I was met with compassion, tenderness, and love.

Some days, the grief was sharp and raw. I cried often, reliving the trauma in moments as small as the shattering of a ceramic baby bowl. Other days, hope stirred softly, reminding me of my deep longing to one day complete our family.

Today, as I watch my rainbow baby boy sleep peacefully beside me, I feel a new strength when answering tender questions like, “Is he your first?” Grief has no timeline. There are still days when the ache rises, but more often now, it is softened by gratitude — gratitude for Aurora, and for the capacity to love beyond words.

How I Supported Myself Pre- and Post-Loss (in no particular order)

• Therapeutic Care
  I leaned on my therapists — yes, multiple. I worked with three psychotherapists: a talk therapist, an EMDR/IFS specialist, and a couples therapist. Each offered unique perspectives, and repeating my story across these settings brought clarity to my experience, emotions, and integration. Beyond psychotherapy, I was supported by a multidisciplinary team including an Osteopathic Manual Practitioner, massage therapist, physiotherapist, chiropractor, acupuncturist, and naturopathic doctor. Together, they prepared, nurtured, and cared for me in their own unique ways. 

• Inquiry
  I asked questions — all the questions I could think of. I turned to specialists, trusted allies, and others who had lived through similar experiences. Listening and inquiring helped me process, understand, and feel less alone.

• Writing
  I journaled every day for months. Sometimes I summarized information from specialists and therapists to help absorb it. Other times, I poured out feelings, asked myself questions, or simply let my pen wander. Some entries were long reflections, while others were just scribbles, lines, words, or small sketches. Each one was a release.

• Expression
  I shared my journey openly with a select circle of trusted friends and family — those I knew could listen without judgment. After her passing, it felt authentic to acknowledge and share her story, though that timing will be different for everyone.

• Movement
  Walking became a ritual. Each evening, I watched the sunset — sometimes with my partner and dog, sometimes alone — as a way to connect with my baby before and after her birth. I practiced yoga, shifting between restorative/yin and more active flows, and I honored my commitment to postnatal classes as a way of keeping my promise to both her and myself.

• Rest
  There were times I needed to numb out — to watch TV or escape my mind — and I gave myself permission to do so. I also embraced true rest: early bedtimes, naps, and allowing myself to do nothing, instead of “keeping busy” to distract from grief.

• Creativity
  Macramé became a meditative outlet, letting my hands move while my mind wandered and processed. I also baked often — especially lactation cookies for friends in my circle who were expecting. Having prepared postpartum snack ideas for myself, it was therapeutic to extend that nourishment to others as well.

• Nourishment
  Cooking felt heavy at times, so I leaned on the generosity of loved ones who brought homemade meals, frozen dishes, and gift cards. When my appetite was low, I chose light, comforting foods — warm brothy soups, herbal teas, and small protein-rich snacks like energy balls, egg cups, and trail mix. As my appetite returned, I enjoyed porridges, stews, eggs, avocado, nut butters, and sourdough bread — eaten slowly and mindfully, often shared with others.

• Connection
  Most importantly, I continued to connect with my baby — spiritually, energetically, and through meditation. Our bond transformed after her passing, and it continues to evolve as time moves forward. I honor her memory through storytelling, ritual, and each sunset that passes.

Grief is not just an intense sadness. It’s a whole-body, whole-heart experience that shifts day by day — sometimes hour by hour. It’s okay if your grief doesn’t look like mine, or anyone else’s. My advice: stay present with your body and emotions, however that unfolds for you. And if you’re not sure how, reach out for guidance — you don’t have to navigate this alone.

Losing a child is a profoundly transformative experience. My heart shattered, yet it also grew in ways I never imagined possible. Like the golden seams of Kintsugi — the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold — Aurora’s presence expanded me, allowing me to hold more love and compassion than I ever thought I could. I would choose to meet her, even if it meant losing her a thousand times over, rather than never having known her at all.

The “lost trimester” is daunting — but it can also be a revolutionizing one.

Additional Resources for Infant Loss Support

https://pailnetwork.sunnybrook.ca/

https://sunnybrook.ca/content/?page=wb-nic-gresources