My journey began over the summer of 2018. It was my first pregnancy, and at my eight-week ultrasound, I learned I had experienced a missed miscarriage.
"We see a sac, but we don't see a baby."
I felt confused, heartbroken, and unsure of what had just happened.
I waited a couple of weeks, holding on to hope that maybe my baby was simply too small to be seen or that it was too early to detect a heartbeat, but eventually my loss was confirmed and I underwent a D&C.
A year later, my second pregnancy brought hope again.
My husband and I were excited, but we were also cautious. We knew how much hope could hurt, but we allowed ourselves to dream again.
At our 19-week anatomy ultrasound, those dreams changed.
As the technician spent time taking measurements, the room grew unusually quiet and I could feel something wasn't right.
After the ultrasound, a doctor came into the room and asked me a question I will never forget.
“How tall are you?”
When I answered, she explained that our baby’s arms, legs, and chest were measuring nearly five weeks behind. She told us our baby appeared to have a rare skeletal condition that was likely incompatible with life.
I couldn’t believe it. I was in complete shock.
I remember sitting there trying really hard to understand.
That same day, I had an amniocentesis that confirmed the diagnosis: Thanatophoric Dysplasia.
With this condition, our baby had very little chance of surviving after birth.
Hearing those words was devastating. But even in the middle of the heartbreak, we knew our baby was already loved, and we wanted to cherish every moment we were given with him.
We traveled together. I visited the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., for the first time with him. We spent a lot of time at the beach, explored new places, took countless photos, celebrated holidays, and made memories with family who already loved him deeply. We tried to make every day count while also trying to hold on to some sense of normalcy.
I prayed for a miracle. I cried myself to sleep. I wanted more than anything to wake up and find out it had all been a mistake, that somehow our baby would be okay.
On Wednesday, January 29, 2020, at 31 weeks, our baby was born.
We named him Sage.
Sage weighed four pounds and measured fourteen inches.
When he entered the world, the room fell completely silent. I only heard him take one big gasp when he was placed on my chest.
His heart beat slowly.
He never opened his eyes, and he never cried.
Surrounded by an incredible team of doctors, nurses, and our family, we spent every moment we could with him. He was held, kissed, and loved.
An hour later, he died peacefully in my arms.
We were together for a total of 32 hours.
We bathed him, dressed him, wrapped him in the little dinosaur blanket we had picked out before he was born, and held him for as long as we could. We talked to him, took photos, and tried desperately to memorize everything about him.
Letting him go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
When the funeral home came to take him, I watched the door close behind them and collapsed onto the floor.
Sage's life was brief, but his place in our hearts is permanent.
We think of him daily. We talk about him, and we carry him with us in everything we do.
Over the years, our story has continued to hold both grief and joy. We welcomed Sage's little brother in 2021, and in 2025, I experienced another loss. At 10 weeks, I had a miscarriage. Through testing, we learned our baby was a girl, and we named her Sara.
Sage and Sara are the names my husband and I chose for our babies long before we knew loss. They were the names we imagined giving to our future children, and today these names represent two babies who have changed our lives forever.
