I was never completely sure I wanted to have children. Then I met my husband. He also wasn’t sure, but we fell in love, got married, and eventually decided to try. To our surprise, we got pregnant quickly — we hadn’t even been married a year.

For most of my pregnancy, everything went smoothly. But at 30 weeks, something felt off. That morning, I realized I hadn’t felt her move much. I tried all the usual tricks to wake her up, but nothing worked. Just to be safe, we went to the hospital.

Once we arrived, things moved quickly. The medical team began preparing us for her early arrival. We were nervous, but hopeful. We knew she would be tiny, but we believed she would be mighty.

At 11:05 that night, our daughter, Remi Rose Willis, was born. As a first-time mom, I didn’t know exactly what to expect. But I knew something was wrong. It was too quiet. We heard one small cry before she was rushed to the NICU. My mind was racing, and all I could think about was holding our baby girl.

A little while later, while I was recovering, my husband walked in with the neonatologist. My first question was, "Did she die?" He told me no — but she was very sick. Then I asked, "Is she going to die?" And he quietly said yes.

It’s hard to explain what happens to your mind in a moment like that.

All I wanted was to see her. I needed to take in every inch of her — her sweet face, her huge feet, her tiny nose. I wanted to memorize everything. I knew I needed to carry those details with me forever.

Then a nurse gently asked if we’d like photographs taken. My first instinct was to say no. It felt strange and too hard in that moment. But she helped us understand that these images would be more than just photos. They would be how we remembered her, how we introduced her to our loved ones, and how we kept her close.

I don’t remember our photographer’s name. So much of that day is a blur. But I remember her presence. I remember her gentleness. I remember the quiet care she gave us, making sure we would have something to hold on to when our arms were empty.

Years later, when our second daughter was old enough, we shared the photos with her. It was a moment filled with both beauty and heartbreak. She got to meet her big sister through those images. She saw Remi’s big feet — and we compared them to her own baby footprints.

Because of those photographs, our youngest knows her sister. She knows she existed. She knows she is part of our family, forever.

Today, those photos hang on our walls. They are how we remember Remi. How we honor her. How we share her with the world.

The first year after losing Remi was incredibly difficult. We were newly married and navigating the kind of loss no one imagines. We leaned on each other. We leaned on our therapist. And we leaned on the love of family and friends.

It took me three months to look at the photographs. At first, I felt guilty for waiting. But the truth is, I wasn’t ready. When I finally opened them, I was alone. That same day, I opened her hospital memory box for the first time.

In that first year, I often wondered how to honor her. I thought I needed to do something big — something meaningful enough to show the depth of our love. But in time, I realized I didn’t need a grand gesture. What I needed was to share her story. To show her photos. To say her name.

And that’s exactly what I do.

My sweet Remi Rose.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, a dedicated 501(c)(3) non-profit, offers families experiencing pregnancy and infant loss with complimentary remembrance portraits, capturing precious moments with their babies. Your generous donation can help us extend this heartfelt service to more families in need. Please consider supporting us here.