A Story of Love, Loss, & Purpose

My story begins in 2020—May 26, 2020, to be exact.

My husband and I had been together for five years at that point, and we were planning our wedding for the following summer. We were young, in love, and looking forward to the life we were building together.

 

But May 26th became the day I lost my first child.

We were living with my mother at the time, and that day, we were going to pick up food for her from Hardee’s. On the way there, I started cramping pretty badly, but I didn’t think much of it. I knew it was around the time my period was supposed to come, so I assumed that was all it was.

 

While we were sitting in the Hardee’s drive-thru, the cramping became so severe that I could barely breathe or move. My poor now-husband was terrified and kept insisting that he needed to take me to the hospital. But, of course, being as hard headed as I am, I told him absolutely not.

When we got home, I walked inside, told my mom, “Something is wrong,” and immediately went into the bathroom.

Trigger warning: pregnancy loss and graphic details.

What happened next is something I will never forget.

There was so much blood. So many clots.

And then, I saw the tiniest human being.

I just started screaming, “No.”

Everyone knew what was happening. At that point, with how much I was bleeding, I knew I had no choice but to go to the hospital.

This was May of 2020, right at the beginning of COVID. Because of the restrictions at the time, no one was initially allowed to come back with me.

I was terrified.

I was such a mess that eventually they allowed my husband to come sit with me because they couldn’t get my heart rate or blood pressure down.

But what did they expect?

I was 21 years old, and I was losing my child.

I remember every little detail of that day as if it happened yesterday.

I remember walking to the bathroom and leaving a trail of blood behind me. I remember asking a nurse to please stay with me in the bathroom because I was scared and my husband still wasn’t allowed back with me. I remember standing up from the toilet and seeing blood everywhere.

And then I remember being told that I would need a D&C. 

I was in shock. I was terrified.

Because this was during COVID, no one was allowed to be with me while I waited for surgery or when I woke up afterward.

I had to wake up alone.

No husband. No mom. No family beside me.

I remember that as soon as they told me I could leave, I was gone.

A couple of months later, I found out I was pregnant again.

So many people told me, “Most women miscarry their first baby,” so I held on to hope. I told myself that maybe what happened the first time was just a terrible, heartbreaking experience that wouldn’t happen again.

Then I started bleeding.

My doctors told me that bleeding during pregnancy could be normal and that I was probably fine. But the bleeding didn’t stop. It stayed pretty consistent, so, of course, I started Googling everything I possibly could.

I convinced myself that I had a subchorionic hematoma.

Eventually, I passed one large clot, and afterward, the bleeding seemed to improve. I even spoke with a doctor over the phone who told me that it was probably a subchorionic hematoma and that I was likely fine.

We went into our first ultrasound so excited to finally see our baby.

But I looked at the ultrasound technician’s face, and I instantly knew.

Something was wrong.

There was no baby.

That large clot I had passed—the one I had convinced myself was nothing to worry about—was my baby.

I later went back and figured out the exact date.

We lost our second baby on September 26, 2020. 

Fast-forward a few years to 2023.

On August 8, 2023, I found out I was pregnant again.

I was a wreck.

I wanted so badly to be excited, but after losing two babies, pregnancy no longer felt innocent. It came with fear. Every symptom scared me. Every trip to the bathroom scared me. I knew firsthand how quickly excitement could turn into heartbreak.

Then, on August 29th, I started bleeding.

I went straight to the emergency room.

Deep down, I felt like it was happening again. I just needed someone to tell me whether my baby was okay.

I remember going into the ultrasound room absolutely terrified.

But this time, the ultrasound technician’s face lit up.

She explained that it was against policy for her to tell patients what she saw because she wasn’t a doctor—but then she told me she saw a heartbeat.

She even gave me ultrasound pictures of my baby.

If I could thank that woman a thousand times, I would.

For that moment, she gave me hope.

The bleeding continued to come and go, but I kept being reassured that I was probably fine as long as I wasn’t passing clots.

Then, on September 22nd, I went into my OB-GYN’s office.

Once again, I looked at the ultrasound technician’s face.

And once again, I knew.

My baby no longer had a heartbeat.

Another D&C was scheduled for September 26th. I was told that if I didn’t pass the baby naturally before then, I would need surgery.

I didn’t want another surgery.

I was already devastated from finding out that I was losing another baby, and on top of that grief, I was terrified of having to go through another D&C.

On the morning of September 26th, right before I was supposed to have surgery, I began to pass my baby naturally.

In the strangest and saddest way, I felt lucky that I didn’t have to go through another D&C.

That was my third miscarriage.

After losing three babies, my regular OB-GYN told me there was nothing more they could do for me and that I needed to see a fertility specialist.

Within only a few weeks of seeing the fertility specialist, we found an answer.

I was diagnosed with Antiphospholipid Syndrome, also known as APS—a blood-clotting disorder that can cause serious pregnancy complications.

I cannot fully explain the anger I felt when I finally had that answer.

I had lost three children.

Three babies I loved. Three futures I had imagined. Three times my husband and I had allowed ourselves to dream about who they would become.

And now, finally, there was an explanation.

My fertility doctor told me that during pregnancy, my treatment would include a daily baby aspirin and blood-thinning injections.

For the first time, it felt like we had an answer. 

And then came our rainbow after so many storms.

On December 6, 2024, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

He became my absolute world.

After everything we had been through, for the first time, we got to bring one of our babies home, earthside and in our arms. 

Then, on October 9, 2025, I found out I was pregnant again.

But this pregnancy felt different.

This time, I was excited.

We had answers now. We knew about my APS. We knew how to treat it.

In my mind, we had solved the reason behind my miscarriages.

I truly believed I was going to have another living baby.

I believed I was going to bring this baby home.

But on June 5, 2026, our entire world turned upside down.

Because of my APS, I was monitored closely toward the end of my pregnancy. Starting at 32 weeks, I had weekly Non-Stress Tests (NSTs) and Biophysical Profiles (BPPs).

During my pregnancy, my sweet baby girl, Bexley, had concerning test results on two occasions, but I was reassured.

I repeatedly expressed concerns about her movement. I was told that if she met her kick counts, she was okay.

I went to Labor and Delivery more than six times because I felt decreased movement.

Each time, I was evaluated.

Each time, I went home believing my baby was okay.

Then came June 5th.

I went in for an NST.

I watched as the nurse tried to find Bexley’s heartbeat with the Doppler.

And just like I had experienced before, I looked at her face and knew.

I knew before anyone said the words.

Something was wrong.

I started screaming, “No.”

They took me for an ultrasound.

And then they confirmed the words no parent should ever have to hear:

My baby girl was gone.

I was 38 weeks pregnant.

We already had an induction date scheduled.

I was exactly one week away from the day I was supposed to be induced and finally bring Bexley into the world.

Instead, I was being told that my daughter had died.

I was given the option to go home and schedule a time to return for delivery or to go straight to the hospital.

I chose to go straight to the hospital.

When I arrived, I told my doctor that there was no way I could mentally handle being awake while delivering my baby knowing that she had already died.

I couldn’t do it.

My doctor agreed to perform a C-section under general anesthesia.

On June 5, 2026, at 5:41 p.m., my sweet angel baby, Bexley Ann Vaughn, was born.

She weighed 7 pounds, 2 ounces and was 21 inches long.

She was absolutely perfect. 

She was the most precious baby girl I had ever seen.

Ten tiny fingers. Ten tiny toes. A beautiful face that I could stare at forever.

She was everything we had dreamed of.

She was perfect.

And she was gone.

Because our hospital had a CuddleCot, we were able to spend two and a half precious days with Bexley.

Those days will never be enough, but I will forever be grateful that we had them.

Our family and friends were able to come meet her, hold her, love her, and see just how beautiful she was.

Of course, it was never supposed to be that way.

They were supposed to meet her alive.

They were supposed to watch her grow up.

But for those two and a half days, Bexley was surrounded by so much love.

And then came the part no parent should ever have to experience.

Leaving the hospital without your baby.

There are no words that can truly explain what it feels like to kiss your child goodbye and watch a nurse carry them away, knowing it is the last time you will ever see their body.

There are no words for what it feels like to walk out of a hospital with empty arms while your child stays behind.

You spend months growing this tiny human.

You feel every kick.

You imagine their face.

You prepare their clothes, their bed, their car seat, and their place in your home.

You imagine birthdays, first steps, first words, school days, holidays, and an entire lifetime.

And then suddenly, instead of bringing your baby home, you are leaving the hospital without them.

Instead of planning newborn pictures, you are talking to a funeral home.

Instead of choosing what outfit your baby will wear home from the hospital, you are making decisions about a casket or an urn.

Instead of introducing your baby to the world the way you dreamed, you are trying to figure out how to say goodbye.

No parent should ever have to make those decisions.

No family should ever have to experience that kind of heartbreak.

And no family should ever have to walk through it alone.

 

Life With My Babies in Heaven

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Now, my life as a mother to four babies in heaven and one on earth looks very different from the life I once imagined for our family.

I have three angel babies I never got enough time with and my sweet Bexley, whom I carried for 38 weeks, held in my arms, memorized every detail of, and somehow had to leave behind.

Four of my children live somewhere I cannot reach them yet.

Instead of carrying Bexley in my arms to special occasions and holidays, we carry her urn with us so she can still be a part of those moments.

Instead of picking out bows to match her little outfits, I put different bows on her urn for every season and holiday so she can always celebrate with us.

And in everything we do to remember Bexley, I carry the memory of my other three angel babies with me, too.

Their stories may be different. I didn’t get to hold them the way I held Bexley. I didn’t get to see their faces, learn what they would have looked like, or watch them grow.

But they were here.

They existed.

They were wanted.

They were loved from the moment I knew they were growing inside of me, and losing them changed me forever.

Being their mother means loving children I cannot physically hold.

It means wondering who they would have been.

What they would have looked like.

What their personalities would have been.

It means sometimes looking at our family and knowing there are four little people missing from the picture.

It means imagining what our home would sound like if all five of our children were here together.

There should be more little voices.

More laughter.

More toys scattered across the floor.

More chaos.

There should be five children growing up together.

Instead, I have one child here in my arms and four children I carry in my heart.

So now, I look for my babies everywhere.

Every time I see a butterfly, I like to think one of my babies is stopping by to say, “Hi, Mom.”

Every time I see a beautiful wildflower, I think of my Bexley, because she will forever be our wildflower.

I find them in beautiful skies, little signs, quiet moments, and things that happen at exactly the right time.

Maybe other people would see them as coincidences.

But to me, they are reminders of my babies.

Reminders that a mother’s love doesn’t end when her child’s heartbeat does.

I still talk about my babies.

I still think about who they would be today.

I still wonder what life would look like if they were all here.

I still say their names when I can, honor the lives I carried, and make sure they are included in the story of our family.

Because they are still my children.

All five of them.

One here on Earth and four in Heaven.

I will always be their mother.

And I choose to believe that my four babies found each other in Heaven.

I imagine my three angel babies there with their little sister, Bexley. I imagine them together, knowing how deeply they are loved here on Earth and watching over the brother who should have had the chance to grow up beside them.

I choose to believe they are safe.

That they are together.

That they know their mommy and daddy have never forgotten them.

And that one day, when our time here is finished, we will finally get the reunion we have spent a lifetime waiting for.

Until then, I will carry all four of them with me.

Through every holiday.

Every celebration.

Every milestone.

And every ordinary day in between.

I will continue to honor them.

I will continue to talk about pregnancy and infant loss.

I will continue to make sure that their lives—no matter how short—mean something.

Because my babies were here.

They existed. They mattered. They are loved. And they will always be our children.

 

Because of Bexley

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Bexley is my why.

My children are my why.

Every baby we lost changed me.

Every loss became a part of who I am.

But Bexley changed the entire direction of my life.

Because of Bexley Foundation was born from the deepest heartbreak of my life and an overwhelming love for my daughter that did not end when her heart stopped beating.

I cannot change what happened to us.

I cannot go back and bring my babies home.

I cannot rewrite our story.

But I can choose what I do because of them.

Because of Bexley, I will say their names.

Because of Bexley, I will speak about miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy and infant loss—even when those conversations are uncomfortable.

Because of Bexley, I will fight to bring awareness to all forms of pregnancy and infant loss.

Because of Bexley, I want grieving parents to know that their baby mattered—whether they carried that baby for six weeks, six months, or held them in their arms.

Because of Bexley, I want families to have access to resources, support, remembrance opportunities, and the things that can make an impossible experience even slightly more bearable.

Because of Bexley, I want hospitals and families to have access to resources like the CuddleCot that gave us two and a half priceless days with our daughter—days that gave our family the opportunity to meet her, hold her, love her, and make memories that we will carry for the rest of our lives.

Because when you cannot have a lifetime with your child, every extra minute matters.

This foundation is how I continue being Bexley’s mom.

It is how I carry her with me.

It is how I turn my love for her into something that reaches beyond our own family and into the lives of other families walking through the unimaginable.

I wish more than anything that there was no reason for this foundation to exist.

I wish pregnancy and infant loss did not happen.

I wish no parent ever had to leave a hospital without their baby or had to hear the words “I’m sorry there’s no heartbeat.”

But as long as there are families walking out of hospitals with empty arms, babies whose lives deserve to be acknowledged, and parents trying to figure out how to survive a life they never imagined they would have to live, Because of Bexley Foundation will be here.

Bexley may not be here in the way we dreamed she would be, but her life has meaning.

Her name will be spoken.

Her story will be told.

And her impact will continue.

Because of Bexley, every baby is remembered, and every family is supported.