The Nursery for No One

On a quiet street, between apple trees and grapevines, there is a room in a house for no one. Its walls have been carefully curated with animal prints, and a handmade, ocean-themed mobile hangs above the crib. A hand-me-down from your brother. Dust has settled into the grooves of the rocking chair in the corner by the window, and the closet hosts a row of tiny hangers, waiting to do their job. Every now and then, a whisper of wildfire smoke snakes its way through the room, urging us to flee from this place, even though the flames are many mountains away. But it doesn’t matter if we leave; the fire’s already burned down an entire life we were supposed to have.

For many mothers, there is a story that begins long before their child is born. As soon as that test confirms new life, mothers everywhere start planning. Co-sleep or bassinet? Gender neutrals or classics? Will a jogging stroller be best for walks with new mom-friends and coffee? Should we get a passport photo right away, and will the water wings fit in the suitcase? It’s only natural to wonder what comes next, right? It’s only natural to build a nursery for no one.

But what if what comes next wasn’t part of the plan. No mother plans to lose the baby they wanted. That’s never part of the fantasy. In fact, the very thought of losing a baby can create so much fear and anxiety in a mother that they end up in my office trying desperately to get back to the dream. Unfortunately, the jarring reality is that early pregnancy loss (up to 12 weeks’ gestation), second trimester loss (between 13 and 20 weeks), and stillbirth (after 20 weeks of gestation) can happen to any mother, and if it does, the loss itself is excruciating and impossible to make sense of. The search for answers is unsuccessful, the pursuit of meaning is futile, and all the while a mother is grasping to unmade memories and the fairytale life she had planned. Because this is lost now, too. Like a cloth pulled out quickly from a beneath a table of clutter. A kind of swift, dark magic. Or maybe it happens slowly, quietly, like the choking of a fire.

Pregnancy loss is a transformative experience. The loss itself is earth-shattering, but the less-noticed loss happening in the background is the loss of the life a mother imagined: maternity leave, playdates, mommy-and-me classes, first words, first steps, first day of school. The loss of what could have been, what should have been. What will never be.

Reconciling loss knows no timeline, and the loss can ripple through partners, siblings, family members, friends and sometimes, even the greater community. At times you may be angry. So very angry. There might be days, weeks, or months where all you seem to do is cry. You may feel confused or become withdrawn. You may think you could have or should have done something different. You may feel hopeless. Helpless. All of these feelings are a natural response to loss and part of your unique experience of grief.

My patients often ask me what they should do now; there is an urgency to do something to get relief from the pain. This, again, is a natural response to threat: we want to get as far away from discomfort as possible. My response to this question is, in its simplest form, how do you want to cope? The doing is the coping. We acknowledge the pain, and then we cope. Some days this may not look like much, maybe you stay in bed all day. That’s ok. In order for our nervous system to return to some semblance of regulation, we need rest. Maybe other days you have the capacity for music, a walk with your dog or a yoga class. In time, perhaps your coping toolkit evolves to include things like writing, cooking, hiking, painting, sex or whatever it is that helps you self-soothe in a safe way (if your coping choices are not safe I encourage you to find professional support. No judgement, grief can hijack our sensibilities). Perhaps you create a ritual that keeps you connected to your baby, like a place in your home for pictures or keepsakes, somewhere you can visit with words or touch or simply passing by.

Healing and hurting can happen simultaneously, and what comes next is the slow work of living in your altered, singed landscape. And somewhere between the trees and the vines, you’ll rebuild from what’s still standing.

This article appeared in the Summer 2026 issue of Island Parent Magazine. https://islandparent.ca/summer-2026/