08/08/2026
š¤ For families who know their baby may not come home:
I want to offer my camera, my time, and my heart at no charge to families walking through a stillbirth or a life limiting diagnosis.
If I am able to get there, I will come and document your babyās birth and the precious time you have together. My husband works offshore, so there may be times I simply cannot make it, but if I can find a sitter and get there, I will.
I am offering this because of our son, Ezra.
But also because I know what it is like to long for a baby. I have walked through nearly 20 years of fertility struggles and pregnancy loss. I have experienced loss many times before, although never at the stage or age that we lost Ezra. I would never pretend that I know exactly what your loss feels like, because every baby, every pregnancy, every story, and every grief is different. But I know what it is like to desperately want a baby. I know what it is like to pray for a baby. I know what it is like to lose babies. And I know the ache that comes with loving someone you donāt get to keep.
So when I tell you that I feel your pain, I donāt mean that I understand every detail of your grief.
I mean that I see you. I understand that this isnāt just photographs. I understand that this is your baby. And I understand why having someone there to preserve those moments can mean everything.
On May 12, 2025, I found out that my babyās heart had stopped beating. A few weeks before that, we had walked into our anatomy scan hopeful and excited to finally find out if our baby was a boy or a girl. Instead, we learned that he had bilateral clubfeet, a severely enlarged bladder, and a cyst on his brain. Within two days, we were with Maternal Fetal Medicine. The following week, we traveled from Florida to Texas Childrenās Hospital. That is where we learned just how complicated our little boyās condition was.
Ezra had Trisomy 18, LUTO, DORV, and other anomalies.
We met with so many different providers. Specialists who sat with us, explained the possibilities, and prepared us for the worst-case scenarios, but they did it with so much love.
They didnāt just give us statistics. They saw our baby. They told us that if we made itā¦ if Ezra made it, we wouldnāt be alone. They would be there for the journey. They would be there for every step, every decision, every complication, and every possibility along the way.
And one thing one of our providers said has stayed with meā¦ something like, āHe is alive right now, and that means something.ā
They werenāt going to give up on him. Neither were we.
We went through more scans, testing, an amniocentesis, an MRI, and procedures to drain his bladder in hopes that they could place a shunt. They drained roughly 165 mL from our tiny babyās bladder. But they ultimately could not place the shunt.
I donāt think I will ever be able to explain what it feels like to hear numbers like that when youāre talking about your child. We knew the prognosis wasnāt good. We knew how serious his diagnoses were. We knew there were so many things working against him.
But we had faith.
Maybe some people would call it ignorant faith, but I couldnāt accept that this was going to be the end of his story.
I believed Jesus could still do something miraculous. So we prayed. We hoped. We held onto every possibility we could.
We stayed longer than we probably should have because I wasnāt ready to give up hope, but eventually we left Texas early because I simply couldnāt bear to stay there any longer.
And then came May 12.
I went to my OB appointment with my toddler. My husband was offshore, and although I donāt blame him, not even for a second, and I know he would have been there if he could, there was something absolutely devastating about sitting in that room without him and realizing that the thing I had been praying so desperately would not happen.
They couldnāt find his heartbeat. I remember the feeling of that moment, but I donāt know if Iāll ever have words big enough for it. That Brandon Lake yellā¦ thatās what I heard coming from me.
It was like the entire world stopped while mine completely shattered. I was sitting there knowing that my baby was still inside of me, but he was already gone. And my husband wasnāt there to hold my hand. I had to walk through those first moments of learning that my son had died without him beside me. And the truth is, I donāt know that having him there would have made it hurt any less. I think it would have been just as devastating. But there was something about being the one sitting in that room hearing those words while also hearing the one thing I want to hear, his heartbeat and the person I wanted most in the world beside me was hundreds of miles away.
My husband made it home from offshore just in time. On May 14, I spent hours in labor and gave birth to our son. It was agonizing. I tried so hard to push him out of me in hopes that there would be our Lazarus moment. Maybe I was delusional, but I really thought that it was possible. And as heartbreaking as that day was, I wanted to remember him.
I wanted to see him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to memorize every tiny part of him because I knew I would spend the rest of my life wishing I could go back and see him again.
Before his birth, I had desperately tried to find a photographer who could come document those moments for us. I reached out through a nonprofit organization that connects families with photographers, but I didnāt hear anything back so I reached out to photographers myself.
No one ever got back to me. And I donāt say that with anger or blame. I know what itās like to be a photographer. Emails get missed. Messages get lost. Life happens.
But I wish someone had been there. Our nurse was incredible and took one photograph of my husband, Ezra, and me. The rest of the time, my husband and I were passing the camera back and forth, trying to take pictures of every little thing we could.
His tiny fingers. His little feet. His face. Every feature. Every detail.
And I am so grateful we have those photographs. But there is a part of me that wishes we hadnāt had to think about the camera at all. I wish someone else had been there to document those moments while we simply held our son and loved him.
To let us grieve. To let us be his parents. To soak in every second we had with him without worrying about whether we were capturing enough.
That is why I am offering this now.
Because I know what it is like to desperately want photographs of your baby. I know what it is like to be terrified that you will forget the smallest details. I know what it is like to look at a photograph and realize that this is all you have left of a moment you would give anything to live again. And I know what it is like to have a baby whose entire life is measured in moments instead of years.
Ezraās life mattered.
He was here.
He was loved.
He was wanted.
He was prayed for.
He was fought for.
He is our son.
And even though his life was incredibly short, God used his life to change ours forever.
So if you are walking through this right now, I want you to know that you donāt have to explain your grief to me. You donāt have to make it less uncomfortable for me. You donāt have to apologize for crying. You donāt have to worry about whether the pictures are ātoo sad.ā
Your baby deserves to be remembered. And you deserve to have someone there who understands that these moments arenāt just photographs.
They are memories you will carry for the rest of your life.
I will come with my camera, but I will also come with compassion, gentleness, and an understanding of what it means to love a baby you cannot take home.
Because Jesus met me in the deepest, darkest valley of my life. And now I pray that He can use Ezraās story to let another family knowā¦ Your baby matters. Your story matters. Your grief matters. And you are not alone.
š¤ For Ezra. For the babies who were here too briefly. And for the families learning how to love them from this side of Heaven.
