Living after the death of your baby is something you never thought you'd have to figure out. It’s not something we plan for. It’s not something we ever think will happen to us. But then it does. And everything changes… forever.
When my daughter Evelyn was stillborn at 40 weeks and 5 days, I wasn’t just devastated, I was unmade, I broke. My world split into a before and after. I remember looking around at the life I had built and wondering how I would ever return to it. How do you mother your living children while mourning the one you’ll never get to raise? How do you make space for joy when your heart has shattered? How do you live after loss?
Before Evelyn, I thought motherhood would be where I found wholeness. But it turns out, it’s where I discovered all my fractures. Mothering after loss meant that I had to mother myself, too. I had to be what I never had: compassionate, forgiving, patient. I began to understand that healing wasn’t about forgetting the pain; it was about becoming someone who could sit with it and still choose love.
There is nothing linear about grief. I still remember the feeling of the sun on my skin that summer, watching my older girls ride their bikes, laughing at their silly songs, feeling Evelyn kick. I had never felt so grounded in motherhood. And then, she died.
How could life be so good and so cruel in the same breath?
After loss, joy felt like a betrayal. How could I laugh when she was gone? How could I smile while my heart was bleeding? I had to learn that joy and devastation can live in the same house. That loving life again didn’t mean I loved her less. And honestly, that was one of the hardest lessons.
There are days I laugh now. I dance in the kitchen with my kids. I smile at sunsets. I find awe in simple moments. And it’s all real. But so is the grief. It rides shotgun in everything I do. And I’ve learned to let it. Because joy doesn’t replace grief, it rises beside it. Learning to hold space for both joy and sorrow is one of grief’s most complex teachings.
Evelyn’s death wasn’t just an emotional loss. It was a betrayal. My body, which had grown her so perfectly, couldn’t protect her in the end. I stopped trusting myself. I started questioning every gut feeling, every instinct. If I couldn’t save her, what did I know?
And then there were the providers. The ones who forced me to labor for hours after my baby had died, when I begged for a cesarean. The ones who acted like I didn’t matter. That trauma still lives in my body. And it’s why I advocate fiercely for patient-led care and trauma-informed support now.
And then… God. What kind of God lets a baby die? I don’t know what I believe anymore, but I know that my faith broke that day. And maybe I’ll rebuild it in pieces. Maybe not. But I no longer accept the idea that “everything happens for a reason.” Because sometimes, no reason can soothe this kind of loss.
After Evelyn died, my grandmother called me and told me something she had never told anyone. In the 1960s, she lost a baby. They took the baby away. She was told nothing. Given nothing. Not even a name. She was sent home empty-handed and full of shame. And she never spoke of it until she told me. I carry her grief with mine now because I know how to hold it.
There are so many of us who have walked this path, and too few who feel safe talking about it. That’s why I created Evelyn James & Company. That’s why I speak openly. Because silence serves no one. Shame dies in the light. Your baby matters. Your grief matters. Your story matters. Say their name. Write their story. Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes. I am not “over it.” I never will be. But I am changed. And that change has become my purpose.
In the years since Evelyn died, I’ve poured everything I’ve learned into building a place for loss families and the professionals who support them. Evelyn James & Company is not just a business, it’s a movement. A grief-informed, trauma-aware, compassion-led revolution in how we support families through the worst experience of their lives. I’ve also had to work on my marriage, my parenting, my mental health. I’ve tried therapy, coaching, Reiki, movement, art, podcasting, rest, medication, and meditation. I’ve taken every tool I could find and used it to keep going, to keep trying to move forward.
And that’s what I want for you too…not to fix it, not to make it go away, but to build something beautiful from what was shattered.
Because the truth is, grief never leaves. But it can become your compass.
If you’ve lost a baby, I want you to know this: there is life after loss. It does not look the same. It does not feel the same. But it can be meaningful. It can be sacred. It can be yours.
Your grief is not a problem to be solved. It is a love story with nowhere to go. So let it build things. Let it speak. Let it rage. Let it soften. Let it guide you.
There is no timeline for healing. There is no “right way” to do this. But there is a path forward, and you do not have to walk it alone.
I’m Vallen Webb. I’m a mom to five, a bereavement and postpartum doula, a podcast host, a grief advocate, and the founder of Evelyn James & Company. But more than that, I’m just a mom who had to learn how to live again after her baby died.
And if you’re walking that path too, I see you. I love you. And I’m here.
Find more resources created by Vallen at Evelyn James & Company.
Empty Cradle, Broken Heart by Deborah L. Lewis
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken
The Worst Girl Gang Ever by Bex Gunn & Laura Buckingham
The Baby Loss Guide by Zoe Clark-Coates
Whole: Navigating the Trauma of Pregnancy Loss by Heather Dolson
Pregnancy Loss Affirmation Coloring Book
Pregnancy and Baby Loss Guided Journal
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep Remembrance Photography
Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support Groups
Postpartum Support International (Hotline, Provider Directory & Resources)
Evelyn James & Co Support Guides
Evelyn James Grief Marketplace
{{subscribe}}
{{trendingoffer}}