International Bereaved Mother’s Day - 2026

Today is what is internationally recognized as Bereaved Mother's Day. It falls on the first Sunday in May (one week before Mother's Day) and is a "day to honor and recognize moms who have had to say goodbye to one or more of their children, as well as women who are unable to conceive a baby."

I have tried several times to write a post for today, and every time I got tears instead of words. But in the final hour (when I seem to do my best writing), I was able to pull something together.

Late last year, I told a group of people about my idea to plan a service for those who have experienced pregnancy or infant loss (PAIL). The plan was to hold the event today, on International Bereaved Mother’s Day. In January, I started pulling together resources, sketching out ideas, letting myself believe this could be something meaningful for our community.

And then, in February, two days before my birthday, I experienced another first-trimester pregnancy loss. Just like that, the vision I had collapsed. I knew I was too deep in it, too raw, to hold space for more grief of this manner. Because as soon as that test result popped up in February, I had a vision of the rest of the year.

I can’t speak for everyone, but as a planner, I love to have a vision, an idea of what the future looks like. This is part of what is so hard about infertility or struggling to conceive. You build something in your mind – a timeline, a baby, a family – and month after month it gets pushed further out. It’s like running towards a finish line that keeps moving. There is nothing you can do that can guarantee you will reach the dream you have.

Still, you hold on to hope.

You tell yourself, “This time next year I’ll have a baby in my arms.” You calculate, “If I get pregnant this month, it means I’ll be pregnant for these holidays.” You picture the holiday-themed pregnancy announcement, a sweet newborn dressed in a seasonal outfit, the life that could be.

Then the day comes! Two pink or blue lines. A test that says, “pregnant.” For a moment, everything shifts. It begins to feel real. You’ve passed the first mile marker of the race! Maybe this time you’ll get there. You start thinking about names and due dates and daycare waiting lists. You wonder if this child you’ve so desperately prayed for will be tall or short, a ginger or a blonde, athletic or artistic or both? You think about the next nine months. And your heart grows as you make room for someone you haven’t even met yet, but somehow you know them.

And sometimes, all you get are those early fleeting moments.

Because one day you start bleeding. Or you find out from your doctor that the pregnancy isn’t viable. And as quickly as you were in the clouds, you’re back on the ground.

“What do you mean there’s no baby?”

“What do you mean that’s the only time we get?”

“I didn’t even get to see them, to hear their heartbeat?”

“Am I just imagining all of this? Was I really even pregnant?”

Other times, you make it to those first appointments. You see them on the screen. You hear a heartbeat. You feel tiny flutters. You start counting the weeks until the next milestone, the next bit of reassurance that your dream is coming true.

Pregnancy and infant loss can happen at any point in pregnancy. There is no “better” or “worst” version of this. It all sucks. Completely. It’s a shitty situation all around. There is nothing poetic about being told your baby is dead or dying. Whether you’re still carrying them or you’ve already met them. The grief is real. The love is real. The loss is real.

Because your baby was real.

Your baby mattered. All of the things you dreamed about – the names, the nursery, the future – that mattered too. And it doesn’t just go away. Those dreams stick around and they hurt. You hear them, you see them, and you think, “It’s not fair.” Instead of snuggling your baby, you have the toy turkey you bought to announce your baby due on Thanksgiving. Like, what am I supposed to do with that?

And then you hear it, the well-meaning comments that are more like salt than salve.

“At least it was early!”

“You can always try again!”

“God needed another angel!”

“It just wasn’t the right time.”

And sometimes the not-so-well-meaning ones.

"Well, what did you do wrong?”

“What caused it?”

“Just don’t try anymore, and you won’t have to worry about it happening again.”

“Be happy with what you have."

Never in my life have I felt more like Cristina Yang than in the grief I feel after pregnancy loss.

So today, on International Bereaved Mother’s Day, I’m not hosting a service. I’m not standing in front of a room guiding anyone else through their grief.

I’m here. In it.

And maybe that’s what this day looks like this year.

If you are a bereaved mother—no matter how early, no matter how brief, no matter if anyone else knew—I see you. Your motherhood is real. Your grief is real. Your baby is real.

Say their name if you have one. Remember the dates. Hold onto whatever pieces you have. Light a candle, cry in the shower, sit in silence, go for a walk, scream if you need to. Do whatever it is that helps you survive today.

And if today feels like too much, you don’t have to honor it in any big or visible way. Simply making it through the day is enough.

Whatever you do or don’t do, whatever you choose or don’t choose, be gentle with yourself and let it be your choice.

I still hope someday to create that space I dreamed about—a place where this kind of grief can be held with honesty and care. But today, this is what I can offer.

Not answers. Not silver linings.

Just the truth.

You are not alone.