by Abbey Bongiorno, Associate General Counsel

Navigating pregnancy loss after celebrating Christmas was not how I had envisioned sharing with my family about our little one.

We found out I was pregnant in mid-November, right after the season’s first snow. By the time the holidays arrived, we had already had our first ultrasound at nine weeks. The technician showed us this tiny baby with a flickering heartbeat and printed pictures for us to take home. Our little one looked like a kidney bean, and I was completely in love with the small life inside me.

We were so excited to give both families the best Christmas gift: news of the first grandchild.

I photocopied our “little sprout,” bought “grandma” and “grandpa” apparel, and wrapped everything with anticipation. I am terrible at keeping a secret when I have a gift I know someone will love, so we told my husband’s parents before leaving town to visit mine. They were thrilled.

When we arrived at my parents’ home, I insisted they open two “special” gifts before Christmas. After a little encouragement, they, too, discovered our news and celebrated with us.

It was a quietly joyful five days. We attended Christmas Mass with our tiny secret tucked away, exchanging knowing glances when the baby Jesus was placed in the manger. The day after Christmas, I happily prepared lunch with my mom and grandmother for our extended family. I had just begun pouring dessert batter into tins when that quiet joy turned into fear.

The rest is a blur.

I remember arriving at the emergency room with my mother and husband. We waited for hours. Bloodwork showed that my hCG levels had dropped. An ultrasound was ordered.

This technician would not let me see the screen and told me she could not tell me anything. My husband, the technician, and I sat in silence for what felt like forever.

Then we waited again.

When the doctor entered with a nurse carrying a box of tissues, I knew.

The day after the universal Church celebrated the birth of the infant Jesus, I was told my baby had died.

Six hours after arriving, I was sent home with instructions to contact my doctor after the holidays, a folder of grief resources, and a small necklace with pink and blue baby feet.

My OBGYN later walked me through the science of miscarriage: how common it is, what my options were, what my body might do naturally, and when medical intervention might become necessary. I asked her what to expect because I wanted to prepare myself somehow.

She sent me home with another folder of grief resources.

I tried researching what I was supposed to do. Did my faith have rules for handling early pregnancy loss? Church resources directed me toward people I could contact, but I was not ready to talk. Online grief groups existed, but I was not ready to carry anyone else’s grief. Websites sold memorial items, but I was not ready to shop for the death of my child.

I simply wanted someone to tell me what I should do when my little sprout’s tiny body entered the world while their soul was already being held by Jesus.

The truth is, there is no “best way” to lose a baby. Ask five women and you may receive six answers. Pregnancy loss is deeply personal. Some information feels overwhelming. Sometimes your mind refuses to process any of it. Other times, you remember every detail and replay it endlessly.

Through all of it, God never leaves your side.

He is not punishing you or delighting in your suffering. Wisdom 1:13 reminds us, “God did not make death, nor does he rejoice in the destruction of the living.”

He sits with you. He weeps with you. He reminds your heart of His love. He holds you even when you feel completely unraveled.

And He reminds you of truths you may not yet be able to see.

First, God made you a mother from the moment your child was conceived. No matter how far along you were, you are a parent. Losing your baby before medical “viability” does not erase your motherhood. Coming home from the hospital empty-handed does not mean you are not a mother.

You are not a failure.

Your body was your baby’s safe place, and you gave your child everything you could for as long as you could. You carried your baby with love, just as God carries us with love.

Second, God’s plan is greater than what we can see.

When we learn we are pregnant, we immediately begin dreaming. We imagine birthdays, milestones, personalities, and futures. Pregnancy loss shatters plans we had already begun loving.

But every moment is a gift, not a guarantee.

That truth does not erase grief. It means grief does not have to become despair. Grief and love can coexist.

I know this because as Christmas approaches again, I carry both sorrow and joy: the anniversary of the death of my first child and the due date of my rainbow baby.

Our God does not leave us in the muddy pit of despair.

Jesus told His disciples in John 16:20, “Amen, amen, I say to you, you will weep and mourn, while the world rejoices; you will grieve, but your grief will become joy.”

And somehow, even through tears, God reminds us that mourning does not get the final word.

Our tears can still turn to dancing.

For those of us serving in the pregnancy help movement, this grief may be closer than we realize. Perhaps pregnancy loss is part of your own story, a sorrow you carry even as you walk alongside women facing unexpected pregnancies, difficult diagnoses, or losses of their own. Perhaps you have sat beside a woman as the future she had begun imagining suddenly changed. Perhaps you have searched for the right words when there simply were none.

This is part of the sacred work of pregnancy help, too.

We spend so much of our lives affirming that every life matters from the very beginning. That truth does not change when a life is heartbreakingly brief. The baby who was longed for, celebrated, carried for only weeks, or known only to his or her mother and to God is still a life worthy of love, dignity, remembrance, and grief.

And sometimes our calling is not to fix what cannot be fixed. It is simply to remain. To listen without rushing grief. To acknowledge the motherhood that remains even when a mother’s arms are empty. To make space for questions that may not have satisfying answers. To remind her, when she cannot remind herself, that neither she nor her child has been forgotten by God.

For those who serve while carrying your own loss, may you extend that same compassion to yourself. You do not have to set aside your grief in order to be strong for someone else. The Lord who meets the woman sitting across from you in her sorrow also meets you in yours.

Pregnancy help is, at its heart, the work of recognizing the immeasurable value of every human life and accompanying women through moments they never expected to face. Sometimes that means celebrating a new heartbeat. Sometimes it means mourning one that has stopped. In both moments, we have the privilege of bearing witness to a simple and eternal truth: this life mattered, this mother matters, and neither is unseen by God.