The PPROM Foundation

“It’s the little rituals that make a family feel like a family - the bedtime stories, the silly routines, the small traditions that turn ordinary days into memories.”
Some of my favorite childhood moments were snuggling with my mom on the couch as she read us a bedtime story, or sharing a late-night snack, usually nachos, with my dad before bed. There were ridiculous bathtime routines with soap markers and a Tupperware bowl for rinsing that my mom still has in the closet. There were Party Packs, Meatless Fridays and Sunday mornings at Nana’s house after church. Those rituals were the heartbeat of my childhood, the rhythm that made life feel full and safe.
I couldn’t wait to create that same kind of magic for my own children.
I dreamed of a book-themed baby shower, cozy family storytimes, matching pajamas for special occasions, birthday traditions that grew richer every year.
But all of those moments live only in my imagination now. Losing our babies meant losing those daily joys - the laughter that would’ve filled the quiet spaces, the memories that never had the chance to take shape. Some days, even the simplest routines feel hollow, considering what could have been.
Throughout October, will be taking over our Instagram for a 30 day series of reflections on the many invisible losses that families suffer when they lose a beloved baby.
What family traditions or daily moments did you most look forward to sharing? How have you found ways to keep that love and creativity alive, even in their absence? Please share in the comments, and feel free to screen snip these daily reflections and share with your own personal post or story to help raise awareness about the weight of these invisible losses.

“Some losses are easy to name: the baby, the heartbeat, the future you imagined. But others are invisible: the traditions that won’t be passed down, the family photos that will never be taken, the stories that end too soon.”
Growing up, my paternal grandparents were the center of our family universe. Every celebration, every holiday, every milestone revolved around their home. Our family traditions weren’t just routines - they were the rhythm of my childhood.
As an adult, I dreamed of carrying those traditions forward - of watching my children grow up surrounded by that same love and legacy. When we got our first positive test, I recorded a video of my Nana reading the news in a card I wrote her. It’s one of my most cherished memories, especially now that she’s gone.
I used to imagine a generational photo - Nana, my mom, me, and my baby. But we lost Nana in October 2021, just after our second loss. That photo will never exist. And at 41, I may never have the chance to continue her bloodline. These are the quiet griefs - the ones that don’t have names, but live deep in your bones.
Throughout October, will be taking over our Instagram for a 30 day series of reflections on the many invisible losses that families suffer when they lose a beloved baby.
How has loss changed your sense of generational connection - the legacy you hoped to carry forward or continue? Please share in the comments, and feel free to screen snip these daily reflections and share with your own personal post or story to help raise awareness about the weight of these invisible losses.

“I never expected motherhood to change me so deeply. But when I lost her, I realized I’d also lost a part of myself I didn’t know was there.”
My first pregnancy happened at 35 - “geriatric,” as the doctors like to call it. By that point in life, I had already built so much of who I was: a teacher, a wife, a coach, a friend. I didn’t expect motherhood to become such a defining part of my identity. Maybe that was naïve.
When we lost Coral, it felt like something inside me shattered - not just emotionally, but physically. The emptiness was unlike anything I’d ever known, like a piece of me had been torn away before it even had the chance to fully form.
I’ve always been the kind of person who keeps it together in public. But after losing her, I couldn’t. I’d find myself sobbing in the grocery store line, at Target walking past the baby aisle… anywhere, at any moment. The grief came in waves that swallowed me whole.
What I came to realize was that losing Coral meant losing a part of myself - the version of me who was just beginning to exist as her mother, who was dreaming her into life.
Not long after we shared our loss, a friend sent me an article about microchimerism: the scientific truth that during pregnancy, even after loss, a mother carries her baby’s cells within her forever. Somehow, that gave me comfort. Even though she’s not here, a part of her, and that part of me, still lives on inside.
Throughout October, will be taking over our Instagram for a 30 day series of reflections on the many invisible losses that families suffer when they lose a beloved baby.
What part of yourself do you feel you lost through your own experience with grief or loss? What, if anything, has brought you comfort in the aftermath? Please share in the comments, and feel free to screen snip these daily reflections and share with your own personal post or story to help raise awareness about the weight of these invisible losses.

“The hardest part of the holidays after losing a baby isn’t what’s there—it’s what’s missing.”

Everyone who knows me would tell you I love a theme, and I live for a great outfit. With Coral’s due date in late September, I was ecstatic to be able to celebrate all her first holidays - Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas - with adorable matching family outfits (yes, we are THOSE parents!) and my husband and I talked constantly about the little traditions we wanted to build around each holiday.

Now the holiday season carries a heaviness it never used to. After two losses and with no living children, it’s hard not to escape the weight of absence - the empty stocking, the seat left unfilled at the table, the quiet ache of what if when we see little ones in their costumes. What was once a time of joy and wonder now often feels hollow. Even six years later, there are moments when it feels like we’re simply going through the motions.

Throughout October, will be taking over our Instagram for a 30 day series of reflections on the many invisible losses that families suffer when they lose a beloved baby.

What traditions had you hoped to celebrate with your little one? And what helps you find moments of comfort as you move through the holidays? Please share in the comments, and feel free to screen snip these daily reflections and share with your own personal post or story to help raise awareness about the weight of these invisible losses.