Our daughter, Mia Joy, passed away just two hours after she was born. A placental abruption led to cardiac arrest and shock, and I underwent an emergency C-section. Because of that, I never had the chance to meet her while she was alive.

My husband spent those two hours with her in the NICU. When I woke up from surgery, I knew the moment I saw his face. He told me she was beautiful, that she looked like a little doll. Half him, half me. Then he asked if I wanted to meet her.

I said no.

In that moment, I wanted to hold onto the image I had of her from my ultrasounds, healthy and moving and connected to me. I wasn't ready to replace that with anything else.

Hours later, with the gentle encouragement of my husband and our nurses, I agreed.

Nothing could have prepared me for that moment.

I was still coming out of surgery, still in shock, still trying to understand what had happened.

And yet, as I looked at her, I had a very specific fear: that I wouldn't remember her. I was afraid the trauma and anesthesia would blur the details. The way her hair curled around her ear. Her long eyelashes, like her dad's. The little things that made her ours.

We tried to take photos ourselves and couldn't. We didn't know how to do it in a way that felt respectful or true to what we were feeling.

Our midwife told us about Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, and my husband arranged for a volunteer photographer to come to the hospital. Mia was in a cuddle cradle, which allowed us to keep her with us while we waited.

What struck me most was that this photographer was a volunteer. She has her own life, her own family, her own responsibilities, and yet she came to sit with us in one of the most heartbreaking moments a family can experience. She asked permission before approaching Mia, before touching her, before moving her. The way she handled our daughter, with such care and dignity, meant everything to us.

At first, it felt strange. There's a part of you that wonders why you are taking photos in a moment like this. But it didn't feel like a photoshoot. It felt like a memorial.

It felt like a way to honor her life and acknowledge that she was here, that she is our daughter.

I told my husband I would never look at those photos. Now I look at them every single day.

When people ask if I have any kids, I share that I have three stepchildren from my husband Garrett's previous marriage, and then I tell them I have a baby daughter who passed away. They trip over themselves, understandably, and look flustered. I soften the moment by asking, "Can I show you a picture of her?" I take out my phone and show them my lock screen. There she is, in color. Her cheeks still rosy, her lips pursed, the little curl of hair around her ear. She lies, sleeping peacefully forever next to her Pooh Bear stuffy, the one we sleep next to every night now.

I wouldn't have these moments to show the world my beautiful daughter without this incredible organization.

What Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep does is not just photography. It is one of the most compassionate services a family can receive in their darkest moment. We are so thankful for this organization and the powerful work they do. 

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.