She did not get over losing Jasmine. She learned to carry love and loss together, and in that carrying she found a way to help others find their own rainbow. She always knew having a baby might be hard. At sixteen she was told she had PCOS, which meant her cycles were irregular and ovulation was unreliable. Years later she met her husband, married in 2011, stopped birth control, and began the long road of trying. After one failed treatment, she conceived naturally and delivered a healthy son. A few years on, they tried for a second child. She had a chemical pregnancy, then another positive test through treatment that ended without a heartbeat. One more treatment failed, and then she conceived on her own again. This time they heard the steady thump of a tiny heart.
At thirteen weeks they learned their baby girl had a congenital diaphragmatic hernia, a hole in the diaphragm that let organs crowd the lungs. The outlook was poor. They named her Jasmine and held onto hope, consulting a specialist in another state who believed there was still a chance. Then came another blow: Mosaic Trisomy 15, a rare condition with very few known cases. Even so, they made plans to relocate for birth and surgery. Through the second trimester Jasmine seemed to grow well, but at about thirty two weeks the movements slowed. Tests showed hydrops, and doctors warned that the risk of stillbirth was rising. She called every expert she could reach, but the answer was the same. There was nothing more to do.
On the day of her son’s birthday party she went to the hospital for a movement check and felt, deep in her body, that Jasmine was gone. The ultrasound confirmed it. She delivered her daughter and held her small, perfect body. They took photos, bathed in silence, and left with a memory box instead of a baby. Nurses who chose to be present for loss cases wrapped the family in kindness she will never forget.
Grief was heavy and practical at the same time. Her milk came in. Her body ached. The stretch marks and extra weight felt like reminders of absence. She returned to work quickly to keep from drowning in tears. Friends and family brought meals and flowers. She chose to speak openly about Jasmine, sharing photos and telling their story, because love is love whether a child is here for years or hours. She wrestled with the why and finally settled on a truth that steadied her. Bad things happen, even to good people. There is no good reason to lose a child. What remains is love.
Six months later, she did another round of treatment and conceived again. The pregnancy was filled with fear. Each appointment brought relief that faded within days. She delivered at the same hospital where they had said goodbye to Jasmine. Walking into the room pulled her back to that day. When her newborn cried, she cried too, this time with relief. Their rainbow girl was here. She started to write about pregnancy after loss and volunteered with a support group.
She bought a rainbow skirt for maternity photos and then had an idea. What if other loss parents could borrow it and share their stories of hope, whatever hope awaited them. She launched Project Finding Your Rainbow and watched it grow from a worried guess to a community of more than seventy participants in a year. Some have rainbow babies. Some are still trying. Some find their rainbow in new work, advocacy, or everyday acts of care. The point is not that a new child fixes grief. It is that new light can exist alongside it.
She learned that many people do not know how to talk about loss. Some stay silent for fear of causing pain. Some tell parents to move on. She believes talking helps. Take the photos. Hold your baby. Share if you want. You are not alone. For families who wish, some photographers will come free of charge after a loss to capture the only images you may ever have. She keeps telling Jasmine’s story because it keeps Jasmine present. Every rainbow she sees feels like her daughter’s hello.
