Honoring Oatley, Holding Hope, and Parenting in the Space Between

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The ache of loving after loss

When I found out I was pregnant again after losing our son Oatley, I thought joy would flood in. I thought it would feel like a fresh start. A new beginning. A gift for surviving the worst pain of my life.

But instead, I found myself crying through ultrasounds. Bracing for bad news. Googling every symptom. Wondering if it was even okay to feel excited.

Grief doesn’t end when the second pink line appears. In many ways, it deepens. I knew what it was like to carry a baby I wouldn’t get to keep. I knew what it was like to hold a tiny body and whisper goodbye. My whole body remembered. So when I carried life again, I also carried everything else.

People told me, “This baby is going to bring so much healing.” And while there’s truth in that, it also put a quiet pressure on my heart—I felt like people around me thought that this baby was supposed to fix something. I was so afraid that after my next baby was born, everyone would just forget about the one who came before him, and that was my worst fear. What I had to learn, and make others understand was that rainbow babies don’t erase the storm. A rainbow baby does not replace the one you lost, they bloom because of it.

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Oatley made me a mother. He made me different.

Oatley Vernon Dale was diagnosed at 21 weeks with a rare and terminal condition. A large tumor grew rapidly in utero, compressing his tiny lungs and shifting his organs. We knew his chances of survival were impossible.

But I chose to carry him as long as I could. I treasured every heartbeat we were lucky enough to hear. For eleven more weeks, he was mine to hold on the inside.

I delivered him at 31 weeks—on November 18, 2017. We said hello and goodbye in the same breath. His birth and death live in my body like a scar that is both beautiful and brutal.

I left the hospital with empty arms, and a broken heart so full of love it almost broke me. He changed me.

So when I found out I was pregnant again, my joy was braided with fear. I knew too much now. I wasn’t the same kind of mother anymore. I was a mother who buried a baby. A mother who knew just how quickly a life can change forever.

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Pregnancy after loss: a different kind of waiting

I wanted to feel excited. I wanted to glow and dream and nest. But in reality, I felt like I held my breath for nine months straight each time.

I worried constantly. I obsessed over every movement. I panicked if I didn’t feel kicks. I felt triggered during ultrasounds and sobbed when the doctor said, “Everything looks normal.” Because normal felt foreign, and was also such a relief.

There’s a specific kind of loneliness in rainbow pregnancy. It’s hard to talk about. People expect gratitude. Joy. A fresh start. But inside, I felt like I was holding two worlds at once: the one where I was still grieving the baby I lost, and the one where I was terrified to let myself believe this one might stay.

I was happy. But I was also hurting. And that’s something I’ve had to learned to make space for.

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Parenting rainbow babies: more joy, more fear, more presence

When my first rainbow baby Leonardo was born, I was flooded with emotions. Love so big it took my breath away. Relief. Awe. And a quiet ache for what could never be.

The NICU nurses taught me the term “Rainbow Baby” He came out pink and perfect, wailing strong cries into the room. I held him and sobbed—because I had dreamed of this moment for so long, and also because I knew exactly what it meant to not get it.

Bringing home a rainbow baby isn’t the end of grief—it’s the beginning of a whole new chapter. One where joy and sorrow live together. One where milestones come with memories. Birthdays feel like miracles. And ordinary moments feel sacred.

I parent differently now. I know we parent differently than we would have if we had not known loss and pain.

I stare at them longer. I rock them when they sleep. I cry when they’re sick. I try not to take any of it for granted. Because once you’ve walked out of the hospital with empty arms, and broken hearts, you never forget what a gift it is to hold your child in your arms.

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Oatley lives here, too

Sometimes people ask me how I talk about Oatley with my kids. The truth is, he’s part of everything.

His photo is in our home. His footprints hang in the living room. His name is written in every family card we send. When my kids talk about their siblings, they say, “Oatley is our big brother in heaven.”

We celebrate his birthday every year—with cupcakes and song and quiet tears. We light a candle for him when we miss him most. We tell his story. And I remind myself that I am still his mother, even if the world doesn’t see it every day.

My rainbow babies don’t replace him. They know about him. They live their lives in the space he left behind, filling it with laughter and love. They are the light that followed the storm—but they also carry his shadow.

They each have had to grieve his loss as well. This was something I was not prepared for. Watching them each process and understand their brothers story, was one of the hardest parts of all of this. But helping them navigate it and find ways to feel his presence, through the teddy bear they each carry with his name and birthdate on it, to asking the tough questions. Its all part of the process.

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Healing through creation

One of the ways I’ve learned to process my grief is through creativity. Art has always been a language for me—a way to say what my heart can’t put into words.

I’m currently illustrating a children’s book I wrote called Rainbow Baby. It uses the colors of the rainbow to guide families through their story of grief, love, and healing. Each color represents a part of the journey and by the end explains to the child what it means to be a Rainbow Baby.

This book is for parents like us—for the ones who carried babies they never got to raise, and the ones who love again even when it hurts.

It’s how I keep Oatley’s legacy alive. It’s how I honor the child who made me a mother. And it’s how I say to every grieving parent out there: you are not alone. I hope to publish it soon.

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To the rainbow moms reading this…

I want you to know something, mama: it’s okay if you’re still scared. It’s okay if this Mothers Day your joy is tangled up in grief. It’s okay if you cry when others think you should be happy.

There is no right way to walk this path. Just your way.

And if no one has told you this lately—you’re doing an incredible job. You are loving, and living through layers of pain most people will never understand. You are parenting from a place of deep knowing. You are rising from the asses and brave enough to try again. You are raising miracles with a heart that knows an abundance of love, and remembers the pain of loss.

That is not weakness. That is sacred strength.

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Let’s talk, mama to mama…

If you’re in the storm, or living in the beauty that came after it, I’d love to hear your story. Drop a comment, send me a message, or connect with me on alliedale.com.

Let’s keep telling the truth. Let’s keep saying their names. Let’s keep honoring our angels and loving our rainbows with everything we have.

Because joy after loss isn’t simple—but it’s real. It’s sacred. It’s ours.

With all the pieces of my broken heart,