I’m Rayan’s mom, from Seattle, USA. A simple question like “Do you have children?” or “How many children do you have?” always makes me pause. For a moment, I wonder what to say, whether to tell the truth and risk making others uncomfortable, or to say “none yet” and move past it. But I’ve made a decision for myself. I will always answer honestly: “yes, I have one. His name is Rayan, and he is in heaven.” I will always include him. His name matters. His life matters. And I will never stop saying so.
I met my husband a few years ago, around the time I was finishing my academic program. We knew we wanted kids, but were not in a rush, especially with my tight schedule. When we decided to start trying, I felt almost immediately that something was off. I could not explain it. It was just a feeling deep down that this was going to take longer than it should. Month after month I would get a negative pregnancy test. I used to record myself thinking that I would capture my shock of finding out that I am pregnant on video, but I captured disappointment after disappointment every month. After five months I made an appointment with my PCP. I knew it was early by most standards, but I trusted what my body was telling me. Even my husband was like: it’s still too early, these things take time. But since we had recently moved and waiting to be matched with a new OBGYN takes months, I decided to start with my PCP, who did basic testing.
By the time I finally met with an OBGYN we had been trying for eight months, though I told them a year, because I knew they would not take me seriously otherwise. They did further testing and couldn’t find any issues and then referred us to an IVF clinic. In the IVF clinic, I was desperate, I asked for every single test, I needed to know why my body is failing me. Why can’t I get pregnant? Test after test came back normal. Eventually they labelled us as “unexplained infertility”. A term that to this day I hate, because it reduced something deeply painful and consuming into a word that explained nothing, gave no answers, and still left me with all the same grief. Then they started offering us treatment options, IVF or IUI.
I was 32. Part of me was still in denial that we needed help. I was very healthy, except that during an endoscopy done two months prior they found that I have celiac disease, and I was told that all I need to do now is go gluten-free. I asked the IVF clinic if this can explain our infertility, they said not necessarily, as many women with celiac get pregnant with no issues. Deep down I blamed my celiac disease. It had to be it. I became obsessed with my diet and decided instead of going straight to IVF, to give the IUI a try. I was so anxious about needles, and wanted to try the less invasive treatment first. So we tried IUI first, but I told my husband, if this does not work, we go straight to IVF. Again, deep down I knew this IUI would fail, and was preparing mentally to start IVF, and decided to take a two-week vacation. I needed to breathe. I needed two weeks away from all of it.
My period came on that trip. The IUI had failed. But I did not cry, which became my monthly routine of some sort: get my period, cry, get my head up the next day and try again. But something in me felt strangely calm, like this was just the road redirecting. I called the clinic and told them we would be starting IVF after the next cycle. They told me to let them know when Cycle Day 1 came.
It never came.
I was pregnant. Naturally. The clinic did not believe it. They brought me in for multiple ultrasounds, certain it must have been from the IUI: you must be two months pregnant. But the scans told a different story. I was carrying my miracle baby! He was 5 weeks old.
Nine months. Nine of the most beautiful, hopeful months of my life. I was probably the happiest pregnant woman you have ever met. I did not complain and even when it was hard, I would hold a tiny blue shark onesie in my hands and imagine my baby wearing it and think to myself, it will all be worth it.
Month after month he was growing beautifully. We found out the gender at 10 weeks — baby boy! I will be a boy mom! We saw him at the 20-week ultrasound, he had his father’s lips, and had the perfect 10 toes. I know he loved apples because I never craved them until I was pregnant with him. He was very active, and would kick me and wake me up in the mornings, and I would always joke, he is already at his gym. We heard his heart beating at each appointment, and he was passing every single medical test with ease, and I was forever grateful.
Two days before my due date, my contractions started. I called my OBGYN. I called my doula. Everyone was excited. We packed our bags and headed to the hospital. I was nervous about “the pain” of delivery, because that is what first-time moms worry about.
I had no idea what was actually coming. The pain I feared was nothing (truly incomparable) to what I was about to face.
I go into triage. They ask if I am having a boy or a girl. “A boy,” I grin. Then the nurse tries to find his heartbeat. She tells me she needs to call the doctor. The doctor comes and looks at me, and even though she has a mask on, I could tell from her eyes what had happened. And in that moment, in that room, my whole world collapsed. She said: “we are so sorry.” I screamed to get him out, to save him. Everyone kept saying they were sorry. And that is when I understood that he was already gone.
They leave us to process what had just happened, and because I was already in labor, they tell me I still need to deliver him. They asked if I would like a vaginal or a c-section, and I instantly think: “which is safer for him?” It’s something I had gotten used to doing during my pregnancy; thinking about him always first. I was also asked if I need any pain medications, and I wanted to ask, is it safe for my baby? That’s when I realized it’s just me now, no more us. And I told the nurse yes please, I don’t want to feel any pain…
I delivered him, and what kept me going was wanting to see him. My baby. But during the delivery I lost so much blood that I was rushed to emergency. And for the first time in my life I wished I could die. I kept thinking, if I died, I would be with him. Living without him felt impossible. Truly impossible.
I went back to the room, and he was there. I immediately asked to see him and hold him. My doula took some pictures of us together. As soon as I saw him I smiled, my baby. My Rayan. He was beautiful. The doula said she had never seen a mother after a stillbirth hold her baby and talk to them the way I did. He is my baby, my everything. He just left me too soon.
What followed was months and months of therapy. EMDR. Antidepressants. Faith. Grief that does not move in a straight line, that does not follow a timeline, that does not care how ready you think you are. I was diagnosed with severe PTSD. For three months I could not fully believe what had happened. I kept thinking I was trapped in a bad dream.
One of the things that hurt most, and I want to say this clearly because it deserves to be said, was how people responded. When I lost my son, people said things like at least you did not get to know him. Or hopefully you will have “another”. People say these things because your pain makes them uncomfortable. They want to make it smaller so they do not have to sit in it with you. But what actually helps, what I needed, was simple. Just say: I know this is hard. I am here if you want to talk. That is it. That is everything.
What brings me joy, real, bone-deep joy, is saying his name. Rayan. I love when people ask about him. Most people do not, because it makes them uncomfortable. But to me, every time someone asks about my baby, or mentions that they remembered him, it is a gift. Because how would you feel if the most important part of your life wasn’t acknowledged? As if you were holding something precious in your hands, something you love more than anything, something you love beyond words, and people kept brushing it aside saying, “you’ll have another.” But I don’t want another. I have him. And nothing replaces him.
That’s what being a mother without a child feels like.
I have learned that connecting with women who have walked the same road matters enormously. The women who have been through stillbirth understood me in ways no one else could. Our thoughts, our grief, our strange, complicated moments of joy and anger and love — they were almost identical. That recognition is healing in ways that are hard to describe.
He was here. He was loved. He was very much wanted. I am his mother forever, and I will never stop counting him.
With love and gratitude, Rayan’s mom
@Rayan’s mama — the love, strength, and courage it takes to share your son’s story is beyond words. There is only deep respect for the way you continue to carry and honor Rayan every single day.
