The Baby With No Name: A Journey Through Grief, Faith, and Healing

I used to be a gym teacher, running, jumping, and laughing with little ones every day. I wasn’t sure how far along I was when I found out I was pregnant; my periods had always been irregular. I had gained a few pounds, missed a cycle, and felt… different. When the test came back positive, my husband and I were surprised, but our hearts filled with joy. We hadn’t planned it, but what a beautiful, unexpected gift.

I kept teaching, just as the doctors said I could. A little spotting here and there seemed normal. I took a few days off, just to be safe. But one day, there was a sudden, sharp pain, followed by contractions. It was far too early. The baby wasn’t supposed to come until April.
He was born in January, at just six and a half months.

That’s when the real story began.

At that time, medicine didn’t have the tools or drugs to stop preterm labor. The doctors gave me an alcohol drip, yes, alcohol, the kind you drink, to slow contractions. I remember feeling disoriented, my mind foggy and detached. Somewhere in the haze, I remember saying, “I don’t have insurance for this.” Beyond that, my memory fades. They told me later that I had delivered the baby, but I had no recollection, no image of my son, no first moment to hold him.

He was transported to another hospital that had a neonatal intensive care unit. My husband went with him and watched as our tiny boy, covered in wires, struggled for life. The next day, he returned to tell me our baby hadn’t survived.

The doctors said I had an "insufficient cervix,” a medical term that only deepened my feelings of guilt. Somehow, I believed it was my fault.

I still remember my husband’s words:

“We are going to treat this like it never happened.”

Those words became a wound I carried in silence. I didn’t talk about our baby. I buried my grief as deeply as I could.

When my mother came to stay with me, we quietly folded and packed away the baby clothes, each tiny piece a goodbye. One by one, I said farewell to the dreams I had of holding him, raising him, hearing him laugh. I kept only one thing: a small pillow shaped like a cross that my mother gave me. It became a symbol of both my faith and my loss.

As a Christian, I eventually sought counseling, my first time ever reaching out for that kind of help. I had no job, no baby, and no one in my family who really knew how to support me in my grief. All I had was my faith, and that was enough to take the first step toward healing. I pursued my master’s degree, poured myself into learning, and in time, God blessed me with two sons. Life moved forward, but my heart still carried the weight of that unspoken loss.

Years later, on a trip to Ireland, something unexpected happened. The song “Danny Boy” began to play. Danny had once been a name we had considered for our first child, a child who lived only one day. We never decided on a name back then. Listening to that song, tears filled my eyes. All the years of silence broke open. My husband and I looked at each other, and without saying a word, we both knew, it was time to give our baby his name.

We named him Danny.

Back home, we donated a columbarium to our church chapel and placed both his birth and death certificates inside. A plaque was made with his name and birthdate. We had a private memorial service with close friends and immediate family. For the first time in twelve years, our son was recognized. He had a name. He had a place. I wrote him a letter, pouring out everything I had kept inside, the love I felt, the sorrow of not holding him, the apology for pretending he hadn’t existed.

Naming him brought peace.

For the first time, we spoke of him freely. Danny became what he always was, the firstborn son, the first grandchild, the first cousin. He was, and always will be, part of our family’s story.

Grief doesn’t disappear, it transforms. Healing didn’t come all at once, but through faith, time, and the courage to finally speak his name, I learned that love never dies.
Danny’s life, though brief, continues to shape mine.
And through his story, I’ve learned this truth:

Even in the deepest loss, God’s grace whispers hope.