A gentle offering…
There is something about this kind of loss that most of us haven’t been shown how to be with. When a baby dies, it often doesn’t sit anywhere familiar in our culture. There isn’t a shared way of knowing how to respond, and so often what happens is a kind of uncertainty. People want to be there, they care deeply, but they don’t quite know how, and underneath that can be a fear of saying the wrong thing, or making it worse, or not being able to fix what can’t be fixed.
And so sometimes people step back, or they reach for words that soften what has happened, or make some kind of sense of it. But what may be asked of us is a willingness to be present without trying to change what is happening. Not rushing someone through it, not trying to fix it, and not reaching for meaning in a way that asks the grief to become something else.
To sit and listen, to allow what is here, is a profound act of love.
There is also something in holding a wider view, one that doesn’t see grief as something that needs to be resolved or healed away, but as an expression of love. When we can meet it like that, with a kind of reverence, it changes the space around it. Grief is no longer a problem to solve, but something to honour.
And in a very practical sense, this looks like allowing whatever is arising for the mother and her family to have a place. The devastation, the tears, the silence, the anger, the sadness, the love, the gratitude, the tenderness, the confusion. There is a kind of blessing in that, in letting grief be exactly how it is.
And this is a gift I received from my first daughter, Honey, who was stillborn at 35 weeks. The grief was immense, and it changed me, and it continues to live alongside me, in ways that are both tender and at the same time beautiful.
There were also moments, even within the devastation, where something else was present. A depth of connection, to something sacred. I don’t speak about that to make sense of what happened, or to place meaning on it that would make it okay, but because it shaped the way I now understand grief and the way I sit with others in it. I hold both in my heart now, the grief and the love, how it broke my heart and, in the same breath, it opened my heart.
In the early days
Those first days and weeks and months can feel like a blur.
In Chinese Medicine, shock is understood as something that scatters the Shen (our spirit), disturbing the Heart so that it no longer feels fully housed in the body. It can create that sense of being here and not here at the same time, where everything is vividly real and yet also strangely distant. In the classical understanding, when loss is sudden or profound it can reach deeper, affecting the connection between the Heart and the Kidneys, and the very sense of where we are held in ourselves and in the world.
There is the physical reality of having given birth, the hormonal shifts that move through the body and then the way the world continues on as if nothing has changed, while everything has changed. There is also something profoundly physical in this, a kind of deep, instinctive longing where every part of you is oriented toward your baby, your body and your whole being expecting to be with them, to hold them, to care for them, and that absence can be felt in a way that is not only emotional but deeply biological.
This is where your presence really matters. Bringing food, and continuing to bring food, is one of the simplest and most meaningful things you can do. Not just in the first week, but in the weeks and months that follow, when the initial wave of support often starts to fall away.
Offering something specific can be much more helpful than asking what is needed, because in that state it can be hard to even know how to answer that question. Asking if you are welcome to come by with a meal on Tuesday, or that you can sit with them for a couple of hours, or that you will take care of something practical like walking their dog, picking up their other children, or doing their shopping, can remove the need for them to organise anything or to ask.
Often there is also a deep need to stay home, to be away from the outside world while everything is so raw and open. Being able to remain in that space, without having to step out or hold it all together, can be incredibly supportive. When you offer help in ways that allow that, taking care of what is needed beyond their front door, you are giving something that may seem simple, but is a gift.
Let them speak about their baby, their birth, and anything that is arising, in whatever way it comes. Say their baby’s name. You don’t need to have the right response, you can simply listen, or sit beside them, or say that you are so sorry that this has happened.
In those early days, let their story be the one that is held. Even if you have known loss yourself, there will be time for that to be shared if it is asked for, or if it feels right later. At the beginning, what matters most is allowing their experience to be met, just as it is.
Postpartum care
In Chinese Medicine, and in many traditional cultures, this time has been cared for through a few simple, essential ways of holding a woman, warmth and containment, nourishment, deep rest, gentle touch, and the presence of other women.
Warmth and containment: this can be as simple as keeping the body physically warm, warm meals, warm drinks, avoiding cold food and iced drinks, limiting exposure to wind and cold. After birth the body is considered open in Chinese Medicine, the pores and channels more vulnerable, and warmth helps to protect the Yang and gently gather the Qi back inward. It supports the body in closing and containing itself again, rather than remaining dispersed. Containment can also be felt through being wrapped, held, or simply not needing to be out in the world, creating a sense of being held rather than open or scattered.
Nourishment: this is regular, easy to digest, mineral rich food, broths, slow cooked meals, warm and simple foods that are easy for the body to receive. After birth there has been a loss of Blood and fluids, and nourishment supports the rebuilding of this. In Chinese Medicine, Blood is not only physical but deeply connected to the emotional body and the Heart, so replenishing it supports both the body and the landscape of grief. Eating regularly, even in small amounts, helps to restore what has been lost without asking too much of the digestion.
Rest: this is not just sleep, but being relieved of the need to do or manage. In Chinese Medicine, this is about conserving Qi, allowing the body to direct its energy toward repair rather than outward activity. Rest allows the Heart and Shen to settle, giving space for the Spirit to gently return after being unsettled by shock and loss.
Gentle touch: this care might look like soft touch, massage, acupuncture, osteopathy, or simply being held in a way that helps the body settle back into itself. After birth and loss, Qi and Blood can feel disordered or not fully anchored, and gentle, respectful touch can help regulate and guide them back into a sense of coherence, supporting the body to feel inhabited again without force.
Connection: the presence of others, particularly women, is part of what has always carried this time. In Chinese Medicine, the Spirit is not something that heals in isolation, and being witnessed and held by others supports the settling of the Heart. Not being left alone in the experience, having someone nearby who can witness, tend, and quietly hold what is unfolding, helps to re-establish a sense of safety and belonging within the body and the world.
When these are offered alongside grief, they become part of the holding. The body is given something to lean into, even as everything else feels undone.
Even with all of this, the body can still be overlooked in this space, because the grief is so present, but the body is carrying so much of the experience.
There may be bleeding, milk coming in, a deep tiredness, a sense of vulnerability that is hard to put words to. If milk comes in, it can be an incredibly tender experience, and something that is not often spoken about. Simply acknowledging that this is happening, without trying to rush it away or fix it, can be supportive in itself.
There can also be something very important in recognising that this person has given birth, that they are postpartum, that they are a mother, even if their baby is not in their arms.
As time moves on
One of the things that becomes very apparent is how quickly the world moves on. There is often a lot of support in the beginning, and then gradually people return to their lives, which is natural, but grief doesn’t follow that same rhythm.
In many ways, it can become more pronounced as time goes on, as the reality settles in, as the space where the baby would have been becomes more visible, and this is where continuing to stay connected matters.
Reaching out months later, remembering dates that might be significant, acknowledging the baby’s presence in small ways, these gestures can carry a lot. Remember their baby’s birthday, not just in the first year but in the years that follow. Continue to include their baby in your understanding of their family, in the quiet ways that let them know their child is still seen and held. It doesn’t need to be anything elaborate, just a message to say that you are thinking of them, that you remember, that their baby is not forgotten.
And often it is the months after, when the initial support has fallen away and there can be an unspoken sense that life should be returning to normal, that can feel the most lonely. To be someone who stays beyond that, who doesn’t expect grief to have an endpoint, is deeply meaningful.
Grief changes over time, but it doesn’t disappear. It becomes something that is woven into the person’s life, and having people around them who are willing to hold that, without needing it to be different, is deeply supportive.
The Return
There is also something that often isn’t spoken about, which is what happens after.
In many traditional cultures, experiences like this would be understood as a rite of passage, something that changes a person, that marks a before and an after. And within that, there would be space not only for the experience itself, but for the return. A way of being received back into life, where what has been lived through is heard, witnessed, and slowly integrated.
What I have come to see is that this part is often missing.
There can be space for the birth, space for the immediate grief, but much less space for what comes after, for the ongoing unfolding, and for the meaning that reveals itself over time, not imposed from the outside, but arising from within.
To be heard in this matters. To have someone who can listen, not to fix or interpret, but to receive the story as it continues to live and change, allows something to settle more deeply. It honours that this experience does not end in those first days or weeks, but becomes part of a person’s life in a way that deserves to be held.
Deep Listening
What I have come to see, both through my own experience and through sitting with others, is that it is the being heard matters. There is something in deep listening, in allowing someone’s experience to unfold in its own time, without interrupting it or shaping it, that is profoundly supportive. Not listening in order to respond, but listening so that what is being felt can be fully met.
Everyone’s grief has its own shape. There will be moments where you feel unsure, or where something you say doesn’t quite land, and that is part of being with something this tender.
My Prayer
May we honour grief and love, as they live side by side.
May those who are grieving be held, in all that they are carrying, in all that is unfolding.
May their babies be remembered, always.
May we allow all that is here.
May we trust life, even in the heartbreak, may our hearts be open.
May we have the courage to walk beside each other through these profound moments of love and grief.
Love, Bo
