Being a Mother Without A Child on Earth

Side view young woman looking away at window sitting on couch at home. Frustrated confused female feels unhappy problem in personal life quarrel break up with boyfriend or unexpected pregnancy concept

How can I be a mother without a child on earth? 

This has been the question for me ever since I lost our baby. I trust God to take care of my baby and myself, but what am I supposed to do as a mom here on earth without a child in my arms?

This question made me reflect on how we think of mothers. Is motherhood defined by the lack of sleep? By the willingness to sacrifice everything? By the amount of diapers you go through each week? By the conflicts that arise from wanting to balance work and life and family?

When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t have a very clear picture of what it means to be a mom. I was thinking about those childhood days when I’d play with my baby dolls, changing their diapers and clothes, carrying them around all day, and singing them to sleep. That was a long time ago, and I wasn’t sure if that was really what motherhood looked like. How would this new role fit with my current life of spending the majority of my days at work after years of education. But I was confident I’d figure it out—after all, those nine months would give me plenty of time, and I loved this baby with all my heart. 

Little did I know my pregnancy would only last 20 weeks. I was unprepared for the depth of emotions and for saying farewell to my baby that I had just learned existed. Could anything have prepared me? Probably not. 

I gave birth to my sweet baby girl, Joanna, after her heartbeat had stopped at 20 weeks. Was I a more accomplished mother after giving birth? Was I more of a mother when my baby was still alive? Leaving the maternity ward without a baby definitely does not make you feel like a mother. Bless the nurses and doctors who addressed us as mom and dad nevertheless!

What defines me as a mother is my never ending love for my baby. She’s on my mind first thing in the morning and late at night. In both the happy and sad moments of life, I am thinking of her. I cannot hold her. I cannot speak words of love to her. I cannot sing to her. But I feel a deep, deep love for her regardless. She is loved and cared for by me. I am grateful for her and honored to be her mom. And I long to hold her again one day in heaven.

While the measure of love might be the same in both situations, the daily life of a mom caring for a baby in heaven is definitely not the same as the life of a mom caring for a baby on earth. For the grieving mother, there are no happy baby clubs, no play dates, no running-with-stroller groups. Most of the information on postpartum you receive is targeted towards postpartum with a living baby. Postpartum workouts are designed to make you strong “so you won’t get tired lifting your baby.” 

Then my breastmilk came in, my own body still assuming that I had a living baby to feed. It feels like you’re falling through the cracks, being in a state that was not supposed to exist. 

I had 18 weeks of paid maternity leave that was meant to give me time to feed and care for a newborn. What was I supposed to do with this time now? I assumed that I would probably need it, and that I was probably supposed to deal with grief, figure life out once again, and then return to work as if nothing had happened. But that’s impossible. There are no instructions for being a mother with a baby in heaven, there’s no grieving agenda to complete within 18 weeks. I’m still working hard to free myself from the expectations that others might hold.

This sudden change of life reminded me of the beginning of the pandemic when we started working from home—entering a new reality from one day to the next—working, communicating, and hanging out virtually. We came up with ways to bridge the distance with virtual social games and virtual coffee breaks. We made use of new tools, adjusted our work spaces, and learned to enjoy wearing sweatpants at work.

This comparison might not go very far, but in a way I feel like a virtual mother now. My baby is out of reach. I can’t talk to her, hold and kiss her, or make new memories with her. I had to come up with new tools to express my love for her. I can pray and honor her life in my daily rhythms by lighting her candle, showing her photos, and celebrating her birthday. I can revisit and preserve the memories of her precious life here on earth. I can now do good in her name, and share with others what her life has taught me. I can help others because in the Lord I am strong, and through my daughter’s life He has shown me new ways to express my love. I can be empathic towards my fellow humans because through loss the Lord has taught me how to be compassionate and vulnerable. I can be brave because I know that life is a gift, and it is not to be wasted in fear. 

I am a mother—strong, yet vulnerable—fueled by great love for my child.

Julia is the proud and loving mom of Joanna. Together with her husband, Daniel, she likes to hike, cycle, and explore the outdoors. She usually writes research papers, but believes that words of hope and encouragement can be even more powerful.

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