On a warm July afternoon in 2017, Kailey and her husband walked into their doctor’s office thinking it would be just another routine checkup for their first baby. They were twenty-five weeks along, full of excitement and plans, when the room suddenly grew heavier. The doctor couldn’t find a heartbeat. She brought in the ultrasound machine, and there he was, little Cayden, still and silent. One of those moments split life, making the world tilt sideways. Kailey whispered, “It’s okay,” even though nothing was okay at all. Hours later, she was in the hospital, praying through tears that maybe, somehow, her son would cry when he arrived.
At 12:15 in the morning on July 7, Cayden was born in silence. They held him, kissed his tiny face, and said hello and goodbye in the same breath. Their firstborn, the one they had already imagined trick-or-treating in October on their wedding anniversary, was gone before he even had a chance to live outside the womb. Lying in a hospital bed with an empty belly and a heart that felt just as empty, Kailey asked herself, “What happens now?” She wouldn’t know the answer until a year later.
The year that followed was a storm and a sunrise simultaneously. There were days when Kailey couldn’t breathe under the weight of grief, when she sobbed on the floor of the unfinished nursery or felt jealousy sting her heart at the sight of other pregnant women. She had nightmares that dragged her back into that hospital room. Her husband often had to hold her like a child, rocking her through the pain. But there were also days when God’s grace broke through like light through cracked blinds, small moments reminded her she was not wholly lost.
Kailey had been a Christian since her early twenties, but losing Cayden changed her faith. It wasn’t a distant belief anymore; it was something lived out in the rawest way possible. She learned to lean harder on God, to trust when trust felt impossible. Strangely, the year after losing Cayden also became the best year of her life. She found blessings she may have otherwise missed, moments of joy tucked inside tragedy.
She started writing again, something she had loved when she was younger but abandoned when adult life got too busy. She created a “Stillborn Still Strong” page to share her journey. At first, she thought she was reaching out to encourage others, but soon, she realized it worked both ways. Women from across the country shared their own losses and triumphs; somehow, they all felt less alone.
Her marriage changed too. Watching her husband sit at the kitchen table, preparing cold cabbage leaves to soothe the milk her body had produced for a baby no longer here, grew her love for him in ways she couldn’t describe. He was the one who took charge of the funeral planning when she had no strength left. Those painful acts became proof of his quiet devotion. Their relationship deepened, becoming something more tender and steady than it had ever been.
Kailey also quit her job and stepped into freelancing, something she might never have dared to do without the perspective of loss. She figured, why not leap, when she had already survived the worst? Surprisingly, the work flourished, and she discovered joy in it. Financially, they were taken care of in ways they hadn’t expected. They paid off debts, tithed more generously, and even found themselves in a position to bless others. Life still wasn’t free of pain. In January of 2018, she miscarried again. But even that loss, devastating as it was, brought her into community with other women who knew the ache. She and her husband carried on, finding healing in unexpected places. He even started a wrestling club, pouring his love for the sport into mentoring young men while weaving Cayden’s memory into the work.
Now, looking back, Kailey sees the strange paradox clearly. The year after losing Cayden was both the darkest and the brightest season of her life. She still carries sorrow, but she also carries hope. Her prayer for others who suffer loss is simple: that they don’t let broken pieces define them but trust that even shattered lives can be rebuilt into something whole.
