My story closely mirrors that of Eden's family. At 33 weeks pregnant, I lost my daughter, and my firstborn child, Scarlett Layne. She had been diagnosed with a chromosomal disorder called Triploidy, which meant that instead of the typical 46 chromosomes, she had 69. This condition was deemed “non-compatible with life” — words I can hardly put into any form that adequately describes the weight they carried. They are words no parent should ever hear.
When I received this diagnosis at 25 weeks, I felt as if time itself had frozen. I can still vividly recall the sensation of the floor giving way beneath me. After a brief, tear-filled conversation with my husband, we both agreed that as long as Scarlett had the will to fight, we would support her in that fight, no matter the outcome.
Though I thought I was preparing myself for the inevitable when my baby girl was born, nothing could have truly prepared me for the moment I learned she no longer had a heartbeat on August 22nd, 2019. Within hours, I was admitted to labor and delivery to begin the induction process.
I’ve never been particularly fond of the term "rainbow baby." After all, the rainbow is a symbol of God's promise to never again flood the earth, and it’s hard to reconcile that with the idea that God would promise not to take another child from a mother. Still, on the day I was admitted to the hospital, which also happened to be National Rainbow Baby Day, something extraordinary occurred. A rainstorm rolled through Oklahoma—typically a hot, dry month—and with it came the most breathtaking rainbow, stretching over the hospital where I would soon deliver Scarlett. In that moment, I felt as if Scarlett was sending me a message, a sign that she was still with me.
The next day, at 11:30 AM, I gave birth to the most beautiful little girl I will ever know. Her body was far from perfect due to the complications of her condition, but in my heart, she was perfect because I knew she was already whole, healed, and in the arms of Jesus.
After 26 hours of heart-wrenching moments, I made the hardest decision of my life — handing my daughter over to the funeral home. All I wanted was to stay with her, to hold her so she would never feel alone.
One year and three days later, I welcomed my healthy son, Emmett Graham, into the world, born at the same hospital, in the same room, with the same doctor, and the same nurse. It was a moment of healing that I will never forget, a moment that brought peace to my heart.
During my time at the hospital with both of my children, I was blessed with an incredible nurse, Jody. She was my source of strength, grace, and compassion during the most challenging days of my life. Because of her, I decided to pursue a career in nursing. My hope is to offer the same comfort and care she gave me to others who walk the path I once did. I aim to touch the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, just as she touched mine.
Sadly, Jody passed away in 2024 after a courageous battle with cancer. I can only pray that one day I will make her proud.
The church bells rang out in the crisp fall air. The gentle breeze blew my sweater around me as we walked through the parking lot to five o’clock mass. In my Social Entrepreneurship class, we were asked to come up with a lifelong ministry through which to serve. I didn’t even know where to start. My mom encouraged me to find a cause close to my heart. To find something in my life that I cared deeply about, and start from there. I decided to offer it to God at mass.
Lost in prayer, a memory suddenly flooded back to me. My family, standing around a small grave as the priest read the prayers for burial, heartbroken after another miscarriage. My sister and I in our plaid skirts, standing in the parking lot between the cemetery and the church, where a statue of the Holy Family stood. Then, walking back into school right after the funeral, continuing with schoolwork and classes as if nothing had happened. On the outside, it appeared I had just gotten pulled out for an appointment before returning to school, but inside, I was still shaken. I then pictured the gravesite as it stands today, a small, carved stone marker surrounded by grass, and wondered, as I had many times before, what it would have been like to be the eldest of six. What would our family be like if my little sister had an identical twin? What if I had a younger brother? Coming back to the present as Father closed out mass, I still felt the heartache of losing them. What if there was something I could do to help other families who were grieving as we once had? Recalling my own family’s grief, I decided that I needed to do something to offer comfort to other families like mine.
With a vision in mind, I got straight to work. I began to use my class time to sew miniature memorial baby quilts as a reminder of the babies which families have lost, and Layers of Love was born. The mission of Layers of Love, Miscarriage Ministry, is to provide comfort to grieving parents, acknowledge the loss as a real baby, and supply something beautiful and tangible for the mother and father to keep in remembrance.
Despite my doubts, my eighth grade service project has transformed into my lifelong ministry. I have been creating quilts for five years now, and I plan to continue for many more. Through my ministry, I have been able to bless families both locally and internationally. Throughout my journey, I have been blessed to see the work which I have put my heart and soul into, comforting grieving parents. I have learned that God may not call us to do big things or great things, but rather small things with great love. I pray that through every candle lit and every quilt sewn, God’s light may penetrate the grief and suffering of these families.
Looking back, I realize now that all that my family has gone through is a gift, given so that I may use it to better understand and comfort those whom He places in my life. Layers of Love Miscarriage Ministry has brought me joy and healing, and I hope that through it, I may extend the same healing to the world.
