A Reflection on Loss and Unspoken Grief

This week was… rough.

July 24th would have been my first child’s 23rd birthday. That sentence feels surreal every time I say it. Me, a mom to a grown adult? I can’t even begin to imagine what that life would look like. And yet, here I am, still remembering, still grieving, still carrying that love.

What’s wild is how life just keeps moving forward, even after a loss like that. Time doesn’t pause. People don’t pause. Even we don’t always pause.

You hear the stories about teen moms. The struggle. The way they had to grow up quickly, raise a baby while they were still growing themselves. The judgment they faced, the responsibility they carried, the way they had to fight for themselves and their children. And while those stories matter, there’s another story that rarely gets told.

What about the teen girls who got pregnant… but the baby didn’t make it?

What about us?

I was one of those girls. A teenager who experienced miscarriage. A young girl navigating trauma, fear, and grief without the words or tools to process any of it. And it’s still such a taboo subject. We whisper about miscarriage, when really, it’s so much more common than we’re willing to admit. We talk about teen pregnancy, but we rarely talk about teen loss.

Adults didn’t know what to do with me back then. I didn’t know what to do with me either. I was bleeding. I was terrified. I was in a hospital bed on January 23rd, 2002, not understanding what was happening to my body, my baby, my world. And the world just kept turning.

And him? The teen dad? He got to move on. At least that’s what it looked like from where I was standing. I often wonder if he remembers. Does he know July 24th, 2002, was our child’s due date? Does he remember January 23rd when everything changed? Does he think about it at all? Does he ever say, “Happy heavenly birthday,” even just in his mind?

Or did it all just disappear into the rhythm of his current life?

These are the things I still carry. Not every day, not always heavy, but when the anniversary rolls around… it stings. It aches. It whispers.

I’m sharing this now not for sympathy, but because I know I’m not the only one. There are so many women—teen girls who became women—who carry stories like mine. Who carry names they never got to say out loud. Who mark dates no one else remembers.

You’re not alone. Your grief is valid. Your story matters, even if the world tries to forget it.

And even though I never got to hold my baby, I will always be a mother. In my heart. In my memory. In my soul.

Happy heavenly birthday, my sweet one.