“EVERY loss is a loss. No matter how long or short. You have every right to be RIGHT where you are.”

Trigger Warning: This entry contains a specific person’s experiences with pregnancy loss. This may be triggering to readers with similar experiences. Discretion is advised.

My name is Katie Moore. I am wife to my hunky husband Garrett and Mom-Mom to my 3 year old son Zion. What an honor it is to share a little part of our family’s journey with loss. If you would have asked me what I wanted to do as a child, I would have said "Be a mom." The MOMENT we got married, I was like "LET'S HAVE BABIES!" We ended up waiting a few years and then finally started trying. When we got pregnant, to say I was walking on air was an understatement. Sadly, I had a miscarriage with Koda on Christmas Eve, 2018.

In 2020 when I found out I was pregnant with my son Zion, I threw up... from fear... and joy... and fear.

I remember July 13th, 2020, sitting in our nursery on what would have been Koda’s 2nd birthday, with Zion 7 months cooking in my tummy. Even now, every pain and heartbreak of the whole traumatic experience of loss can be so keenly felt. I went and read the poem I wrote — this poem — to help process the whole experience, and my heart broke for the devastated little mama that was just beginning her journey of grief.

I wish I could go back, hold onto her and let her know that it would take time. The suffocating pain would slowly ease. Triggers would become less and less frequent. The confusing taboo of hiding miscarriages was not required and I was free to grieve however I needed to. And that by the grace of God, peace would come.

Fast Forward to this year, 3 year old Zion brought in the positive pregnancy test to my husband Garrett— BURSTING at the seams to be a big brother! Due December 13th, we were going to have a Christmas baby! Those months with Adi were some of the funniest. All 3 of us just gushed over the arrival of our little one. We kept saying "This pregnancy has brought our family so much JOY and FUN!"

For those of you who have had a miscarriage before, you know the habit of checking for blood... When you go to the bathroom, when you feel a little wet, when you change your clothes... Well, one evening I checked and when I saw all the blood my heart dropped. Over the next 3 months I naturally miscarried Abi. Garrett and Zion were such a comfort through the loss of Abi. Watching Zion process death for the first time was both a challenge and healing. Both miscarriages had lots of complications as my body was not keen on letting my sweet babies go. I am so thankful we had a strong community around us to support us.

I originally wrote this poem to help me process the new "secret club" I had just found myself in... But through the years it has continued to help me process the new layers of grief as our journey with loss has continued. And I hope it will do the same for you <3

Our Little Cub.

While I carried you…

My hands shook with excitement as I wrote “Gar-bear, we are having a Cub!”

A little child, we had built together, and God had destined us to love.

While I carried you…

Your heart beat under mine.

We dreamed big dreams of who you would be and if you’d have your daddy’s eyes.

While I carried you…

You brought us oceans of joy, though you were hardly bigger than a pea.

We giddily giggled, calling each other mommy and daddy, and planned for what our family’s future would be.

While I carried you…

We talked to you.

Monitoring every change your little body made, week by week, as you grew.

While I carried you…

We rejoiced as we first saw you on the screen, a sweet little bean.

Holding hands, smiling like fools, we stood/laid there 3, a family.

Unfortunately, I cannot find a heartbeat…

Frozen. Time stands still as the words sink in.

Numb and cold, your daddy pulls me close and an ocean of tears being.

Unfortunately, I cannot find a heartbeat…

The weight of these words made our chests feel as though they might concave.

Unlocking a pain never imagined possible; grief for the life of our baby we couldn’t save.

Unfortunately, I cannot find a heartbeat…

These words rang within our ears,

as we went through the motions, got to our car and held each other as we wept bitter tears.

Unfortunately, I cannot find a heartbeat…

The denial is so real as you plead with God to fix your child’s heart.

The news contradicts everything your body feels, your heart just HAD to start.

Unfortunately, I cannot find a heartbeat…

If our baby had gone to be with Jesus, than my body sure didn’t know.

As days passed by everything within me still acted as though our baby would live and grow.

The pregnancy materials are still not evacuated…

Multiple days of painful contractions added to the emotional pain already at full dose.

No parents should hear these words spoken about their CHILD, an experience we’d have never chose.

The pregnancy materials are still not evacuated…

To endure our treasured child leave my body piece by piece;

Leaves an overwhelmingly, unfathomable cloud of devastation and loss that feels crushing to say the least.

The pregnancy materials are still not evacuated…

To an angel, I gave birth, a child we would never get to see.

The ultrasound, now empty and black, where our baby used to be.

Do I still count as a mother?

One moment, there is an avid dialogue, We were either talking to you or thinking about you, and you relied on me in every way.

The next moment, there is silence. A deep loneliness that turns life the color grey.

Do I still count as a father?

Daddy’s hurt too. As they lost their child and see their other half break down, day after day.

Enduring the grotesque details no one speaks of, going to work, and tries to cope in their own way.

Do we still count as parents?

Kind hearted, “Well, at least it was early” or “Just try again” feel like a smack in the face,

to parents who had to give their child back. People mean well, and some don’t understand, so you have to practice grace.

Do we still count as parents?

We unwittingly became members in an underground secret society for parents who suffered, partially or fully alone, in silence.

Privately, couples began to approach us with, “We have lost a child too, and eventually it will hurt less” as our main source of guidance.

We begged God to save our baby, and He didn’t choose to do so…

After what feels like months, you finally leave the house and see a mother with her newborn, or something as simple as a dumbo song.

You break down crying, it all rushing back, though no one knows whats wrong.

We begged God to save our baby, and He didn’t choose to do so…

When your grief turns to anger and nothing you throw, punch or scream can temper the ferocious burning in your chest.

And you cannot wrap your head around why God took your baby, though you try your best.

So we lean hard…

On the everlasting arms of our heavenly father, who also feels every ounce of our grief.

And though we don’t see the plan, we know He does, and we will be thankful for our time, though brief.

So we lean hard…

You’re so wonderful to think of, but so hard to live without.

We have seen God care for us through His people, which is what the family of God is all about.

Our little cub, Koda…

You were and remain our CHILD, not a fetus or a mass of pregnancy materials.

You had a brain (maybe a dyslexic one), arms and legs, your own DNA and you are our little miracle.

Our little cub, Koda…

Though we never got to hold you, see whose laugh you got, or if you had our massive ears,

We named you. You are our child. And we will love you, Koda, just as if you had lived for years.

Now, while He carries you…

We would have loved to teach you about this big world and our Savior up above.

But how, He is holding you Koda, teaching you about the family he entrusted you with; parents to care for you and love.

Now, while He carries you…

In a way, we get to experience a glimpse of our heavenly Fathers grief filled separation,

He too mourned the loss of a child, all his children, as sin entered the world and He couldn’t dwell among the nations.

Now, while He carries you…

We are comforted that you never had to experience pain, fear or felt so low, you fell to pieces.

And we are comforted to know the first thing your little eyes saw, was the loving face of Jesus.

Now, while He carries you…

Jesus is our Hope for seeing you and our love for you will remain deep.

We hold onto Jesus, until heaven we meet you, and into our arms, you leap.

Until we carry you…

I carried you your whole life and we will carry you for all of ours.

A special song, from a special childhood book comes to mind, that my mommy read to me…

“We will love you forever.

We will like you for always.

As long as we are living, our baby you’ll be.”

In loving memory of our baby, Koda.

December 2018.

See you in heaven, our little Cub.

My deepest hope is that through my sharing— you would no longer feel isolated and alone. That you would feel hope and peace knowing that wounds heal in the gracious and comforting arms of Jesus. And know that EVERY loss is a loss. No matter how long or short. You have every right to be RIGHT where you are. Sad, or not, there should be no guilt. I also came to realize that joy and grief can exist at the same time. They do not have to be exclusive. If you have experienced loss I would like to say... I am so sorry you had to endure the depths and layers of pain/grief that come with it. I weep with you even now. You ARE a mama, You ARE a dada. You did an amazing job caring for your baby for its whole life, no matter how long that life was. You did not fail in any way.

And friends... God has been so faithful to our family through it all. We learned many foundational truths and were carried through so much of our weaknesses. Across the last 5 years, God has used our losses to reveal in many ways how He has cared for us. We don’t always have answers for every “why” but we can rest on the consistency and truth of God's character that is unchanging. Everything God does is to bring us closer to Him, teach us who we are as a child of God and reveal His Glory through us (sanctification). Earth is not Heaven. So there will be pain and loss. Through our loss, we can honestly say that our roots have gone deeper as our understanding of our source has grown. We have been able to speak to grief and loss with a more full understanding. Zion still prays most nights for God to put a baby in mom-mom's tummy, as do I. And that is okay. I will soak up/focus on the special aspects of only having one kiddo, and hold my other two babies in my heart.

Disclaimer: This article is based on personal experience only, not to be used as medical advice. For more serious questions, consult a medical professional.