Since the age of 15, I was told carrying my own child would be almost impossible, so when I saw those two pink lines one early morning, I could not believe it. I held the secret close to my heart, yet secretly began dreaming of all the hope and joys to come. Sadly, those dreams were short-lived, as I miscarried at 8-weeks. Almost as soon as I knew pregnancy, I knew loss. With this came a sense of shame and guilt that I did not anticipate. I was filled with questions about whether my grief counted, whether I got to call myself a mom, whether I would be accepted by those who had lost later or walked through infant loss. Did I get to grieve? Yet, I knew I was filled with grief, so I began writing about it and sharing it as a means to process it. I was overwhelmed by how many others had walked through this same story. So many of my friends and family had a similar story but never shared it. I found a sisterhood I never wished to be a part of, yet I was so grateful for. They walked me through the fear as we tried to get pregnant again, and miraculously, almost exactly a year later, my daughter was born. I would know the grief of early pregnancy loss as we again experienced a miscarriage at 8 weeks during my third pregnancy. Two years later, I would hold our son in my arms, which would be a blessing in the midst of a global pandemic. While I am so very grateful for my two beautiful children, there is not a day that goes by that I don't wonder about my other two. I think about these beautiful sparrows, tiny ones who are still so precious and important. I know that the length of motherhood does not change the value of the experience. I wish all experiencing early miscarriage would know they are valued, loved and supported and so are the babies they carried

I am a photographer and provide services to those who are experiencing stillbirth and infant loss. It is a precious privilege to tell the stories of these families and provide them with images of their babies.