Evelyn James Webb- The girl who changed the world.

November 17th, 2018, was the day we found out that I was pregnant with our third child! Jon (the hubby) was underway at the time (Navy speak for gone for several days, weeks, months, we never really knew), preparing for their pending deployment in March of 2019. Luckily, we were able to video chat that night and tell him the surprising and incredible news. I knew immediately that it was another girl. Everything my dreams were made of, being a girl mom. The complete opposite of the tumultuous relationship I had and still have with my mother, who could not love me without conditions and blind obedience. May of 2019 was the month that my mother and I became estranged. She wanted to break every boundary that I had and refused to realize I was now an adult and these were MY children. It was devastating, but I was always my worst self when I was around her or talking to her– any proximity to her made me feel as though I needed to be tougher on my girls so that she would be impressed with how I handle their “disobedience.” I just wanted her to be pleased with me and to love me. Needless to say, the toxic pattern had to be broken, and I was the only one who could do it. 

I was terrified and elated at the same time, knowing we would be having another baby. Joy exploded from every corner of my heart. The same day I found out she was a she, I was on Etsy buying a ‘Girl Mom’ shirt. 

Motherhood transformed me in ways I never expected—and it happened fast. I wanted nothing more than to be the best version of myself for my girls. Life as a military spouse was hard, but the women in my community became both my lifeline and my light. They saw something in me that I hadn’t yet seen in myself—my strength, my heart, my fierce intention to be an incredible mom. The joy and love shining through my daughters reflected everything I was becoming. These women showed me what adult friendship looked like, and I couldn’t believe I had gone so long without this kind of support. I was deeply blessed—and so were my girls.

My husband Jon left the last week of March for a 7-month deployment with the Navy. Knowing he wouldn’t be home for the birth, I hired a local birth doula, Kendra, who came highly recommended by a fellow military spouse. 

This was the best I had ever felt in a pregnancy—out of all three, this one was different. My girls and I spent our days outside, walking at least twice a day. As spring melted into summer in the Pacific Northwest, the sun finally broke through the gray, warming everything it touched. I’d sit in the sunshine with my face tilted toward the sky, eyes closed, soaking it in, feeling my mood shift with the season.

I loved watching my daughters, just 3 and 4, ride their bikes, laugh with the neighbor kids, and live so freely in the joy of the moment. We’d come inside to cuddle on the couch for afternoon naps, watching Frozen and Moana for what felt like the hundredth time. We'd video chat with Jonathan on Facebook Messenger, laughing together, savoring those simple but sweet and cherished moments of connection. I couldn’t believe that in just a few short months, we’d be welcoming our third baby girl.

On June 24th, 2019, with just a month to go, I began my weekly checkups. That day, my belly was measuring a little small, so my midwife sent me for an ultrasound. I remember wondering—just for a moment—if she had stopped growing, if something wasn’t quite right. But the ultrasound tech assured me everything looked fine. Her heartbeat was strong. She’d be here soon. I let the worry drift away.

Then came July 19th, 2019. The day Evelyn took her last breath. My contractions started around 10 am, which is around the time I also stopped feeling her move. There is a feeling I had subconsciously– a knowing. But what full-term mom, without evidence, thinks something is wrong when it has been good all along? I could still feel her body moving when I moved, which reassured me, but I did not understand that this movement was different, subtle, but different. 

As the day went on, I felt such joy and relief that my body had gone into labor on its own. My first two births had been inductions, but this time, I had dreamed of an unmedicated, natural experience—and it felt like everything was finally aligning. I spent the day bouncing on my yoga ball, walking the girls around the neighborhood, and stopping by our tiny playground, savoring those last moments of life as a family of four.

By evening, I had a friend come pick up the girls for their sleepover, and I settled in, feeling ready. But around 10 p.m., a quiet unease started to creep in—I realized I hadn’t felt her move in a while. My mind immediately went to the things I had been told about babies during labor: they slow down at the end, they sleep more, there’s no room to move, they’re just getting into position. All the things people say. (Let me be clear—none of that is true. If you’re not feeling movement, go in. Do not wait.)

I was in constant contact with my doula, Kendra, and we talked through my concerns. She reminded me that we could go in at any time. But I was hesitant—I didn’t want to be sent home for not progressing “enough.” I decided to lie down for a nap, trying to calm my nerves.

Two hours later, it was time. Kendra arrived to pick me up, and we headed to triage. 

I was excited and terrified at the same time. I’ve never given birth without my husband by my side, especially not a world away. We checked in and waited to go back for about 5 minutes. By this time, it was 1 or 2 am, and it was quiet! I was called back, and they put the belt on to measure contractions and started in on checking for the baby’s heartbeat. 

Our nurse had trouble finding her heartbeat. She would say things like, “there she is”, or “oh, she moved,” or “I can’t get a good read”. The 2nd nurse came in and did the same thing. Kendra and I looked at each other, and she held my hand and said things to comfort me and keep my hopes up. They brought in the ultrasound machine and brought the midwife in, and by now, we knew there was something wrong– my “knowing” from earlier in the day was right. Why didn’t I listen? The moment the midwife placed the Doppler on my belly was the moment we knew she had died. Her heart was no longer pumping, and the red and blue splashes of color were nowhere on the screen. She quickly stopped and had the OB come. The OB came in and put the Doppler on my belly, and we all just stood there, listening to the static of the wand moving around, but there were no heartbeat tones. It was plain as day; my daughter's limp, lifeless body proved she was dead.

Everyone just looked at me, and they didn’t say anything. Quite frankly, it pissed me off. So, I blurted out, “She’s dead, isn’t she?” My midwife put her hand on mine and dropped her head, and they both said yes, she had died. 

From there, it was a blur. Being moved to the birthing room, far, far away from everyone else, it seemed. I felt ashamed and so afraid about what was coming, and so mad that other people were happily having their babies. From there, it felt like a nightmare. Things were happening to me; I was not in control, and my choices were taken from me as I was heading into hard labor and being coerced by my providers to give birth vaginally after begging for a c-section, which should have been my choice. I was screaming and crying for an epidural that they wouldn’t give me until I “agreed” to give birth vaginally. My doula was holding me as they scolded me for moving while trying to give me an epidural, which is not an easy feat when your body is laboring closer to 2- and 1-minute contractions at a time. I wasn’t functioning, my body was forcing me to give birth, and my providers were now unsafe for me. I couldn’t trust what was happening around me; the only person I could trust was Kendra. 

Once the epidural and the fentanyl kicked in I was calm enough to sleep and then wake up to the news that my daughter died, this happened over and over again, putting me through 6-7ish more hours of labor of this emotional trauma, rather than if I had a c-section it could have been over sooner and I would have been given more time to hold my sweet baby. 

During the rest of the labor process, I had time to call my dad and my husband, and it was 2 of the worst calls I have ever had to make. My husband was being paged on base in Japan, thinking our baby had been born, and we were both happy and healthy. That phone call gutted us both; it was unbelievable. He was devastated and even angrier that he couldn’t be with me, and there was nothing he could do to protect me with him being so far away. For a man, that is the worst possible situation, feeling helpless and not able to protect the woman he loves. In my mind, what God allows me to go through 40 weeks and 5 days of pregnancy just to let our baby die. My already wavering and fragile faith in the unseeable God was now shattered and gone. Anger filled every inch of my soft, now baby-less body, along with a deep, life-altering sadness and longing for what was supposed to be. This wasn’t the life that I had visualized and dreamt about. How can babies die?

The conversation with my Dad was not any better. He is a disabled Veteran and has a hero complex that is so admirable, but it doesn’t allow him to be vulnerable with me when it comes to his granddaughter. He believed that if he had been there, he could have saved her… saved me. Til this day, he will not talk to me about Evelyn. He feels he failed her and me by not saving her life and being able to protect me from the pain of losing a child. If only he would understand that it could be what heals us and grows our relationship.

Leaving that room and saying goodbye to my daughter was the most devastating thing I have ever had to do. I thought I was ready, I thought I was ready to say goodbye, but even as she started deteriorating, the thought of leaving was becoming harder to think about. It was more of me trying to run away. Jenna, my friend, had grabbed my bags. She was the only other person on this earth to hold Evelyn other than me and my nurse, Michelle. We were new friends, and she lovingly and selflessly showed up for me that day. I will never be able to repay her love and kindness. Another person I don’t think I would have survived without. She was in the clear, baby bassinet, all new babies are put it, in her purple and teal coming home outfit and a pink crochet blanket to keep her comfy and warm, I was so worried she would be cold or scared. The thought of her going to the morgue was grotesque and morbid. She would be cold and scared and wouldn’t understand why she wasn’t with her mommy. These thoughts may seem crazy to someone who hasn’t experienced this, but we are trying to parent our babies even after their lives have been taken away. Our love doesn’t end because they are no longer here. No one mentions the irrational thoughts you’ll have after losing a baby. 

Anyway, my hands were on Evelyn for the very last time. I was trying to memorize her, whispering how much I loved her and would always love her, and that I would see her again. My brain and body were fighting each other. I had decided to leave because it felt right, and I couldn’t bear to be there anymore. My brain tried to prepare me while simultaneously trying to protect me. 

As I turned my back to leave, tears were streaming down my cheeks, and I instinctively turned around to try and get back to her. They gently nudged me out of the room, and I was instantly filled with so much regret, and I was so angry that I wasn’t allowed to change my mind. I slowly and reluctantly walked down the hall away from my daughter forever. My heart broke even more as I sat on the bench outside the hospital, waiting for my ride to pull up on one of the most beautiful days of summer.   I remember the sun shining so bright on that evening drive home, after we stopped at Walgreens to get a sleeping medication from the pharmacy- I still have to fucking idea why they couldn’t just give me some from the hospital. Instead, they made me go into a place of business to wait in line in tears, leaking breasts, and wearing a huge diaper to get the meds. It didn’t seem humane, to be honest. But there I was, getting medication that I would take one night and keep for the next 5 years as a reminder of my daughter. 

That day, I lost more than our baby. With each passing day, the weight of what I had lost continued to grow. Time didn’t heal—it just uncovered more of what had been taken.  I lost my identity. I was a mom of three little girls, but only two were living. How does that add up? What do I tell people when they ask how many kids I have? Who am I as a woman who lost a child? How do I go through life now? Who am I? How do I function knowing that life can be so fucking harsh and can take anything it wants? How do I survive the anxiety I have, knowing that my other living children could just die at any time? How do I live in a world without one of my children? I couldn’t protect this little life inside of MY own body; how do I protect the two outside in the world? 

I became a severe helicopter parent; I didn’t want my children holding or carrying pain or getting hurt in any way. I used shopping as a distraction from our pain, which only masked the grief I wasn’t feeling. I was walking around in this world, disassociating most of the time because I didn’t know how to be anymore. It is a very hard feeling to express. I lost the sense of safety in my body. My body could not sustain my daughter's little life. There were no obvious signs; how could I trust myself or my judgment anymore? What kind of mom doesn’t know something is wrong? I lost the sense of trust in my providers. They forced me to do something I said no to over and over again. Don’t they work for me? Aren’t they supposed to take my wants and needs into consideration? They prolonged and traumatized me further by making me sit with my dead baby in my belly for seven more hours. They took my freedom to choose away. 

I lost the marriage we had before Evelyn died. We refer to this part of our life as our 2nd chapter. We could no longer pretend that our marriage was what we wanted and that the way we had been living and communicating was ok. It wasn’t. We were never taught to have healthy relationships, nor were we shown a good one modeled. Along with an affair my husband had after going back on deployment and then a suicide attempt, we were more broken than ever. When he got home in October of 2019, we started marriage counseling in an attempt to see if we were still willing to try and rebuild what was left. I lost the ability to look the other way when it came to pregnancy loss. I was now part of the 1 in 4 statistic, including a very early miscarriage I had in college. I had to do something. How were we not talking about it? I lost the ability to be a victim of my circumstances. I was sick and tired of the person I had been. I was so fucking tired of the old stories and habits I was keeping because it felt easier than trying to be different or growing. 

Losing someone you loved, a child for me, was like a flashlight being shined on all the parts of us we had avoided for so long. The feeling of knowing our lives are so short and not being who we were meant to be or wanted to be would be such a waste of our human lives here on earth. I lost the will to be surrounded by people who were stuck and unhappy. 

I lost the will to listen to people complain about their health or their problems. Their problems could be solved with a bit of action and a change of attitude. I was tired. I was angry and resentful that they couldn’t see what I had lost and how much bigger that was than their typical, everyday problems. How annoying– now, of course, their problems are valid, and they can state them, but sitting in it and not trying to find a way to feel better or come up with solutions is the issue. I learned that not everyone is for us or deserves a space within our lives, and that's OK. Some people were only meant to make small stops in our lives for a lesson or a season. 

Though her short life and her death were a tragedy, it stirred a dream and purpose deep within me. It became a catalyst for my transformation. Compared to what I lost, I also gained many truths and lessons. To be honest, I wasn’t always a silver-lining person. I hated them. How can any good come from a baby dying? 

It wasn’t until about a year ago, in 2024, that I started seeing how much Evelyn and her sweet, short little life and death had changed me. I gained such beautiful insight and grace from my little girl. I became softer, kinder, and more empathetic. I allowed myself the space to become vulnerable again in all parts of my life, especially my marriage. I allowed myself to set boundaries and then ruthlessly protect them. I found significant value in our short human existence. 

I believe we all had the choice to be here, and that Evelyn chose ME to be her mama. There is so much we don’t understand, but one thing I know is how thin the veil between life and death truly is. Evelyn was brought to life inside my magnificent human body, which also allowed her to die. It is such a profound experience, and I still have anger surrounding that part of my grief. The thoughts that maybe I could have saved her and that I would have five living children right now. I believe those thoughts will come and go as different parts and seasons of our lives come to pass. 

What I want you to know is that if you have suffered the loss of a sweet baby, you will be okay one day. This “okay” isn’t that things will be just like they were before, and you will find peace in this loss. No, no, no. This “okay” is that you will find a new way to move forward and to continue living. You may pick up a coping mechanism that helps you survive the acute or beginning grief, but eventually, you will find a way to move forward with your baby’s memory. Your baby will be a part of everything you do if you want them to. Some people cannot process this loss for years and years, and sometimes not at all. 

My 80-year-old grandma called me a few days after losing Evelyn to tell me how much she was hurting for me. She then shared that in the 60s or 70s, she lost a stillborn daughter. And the grief and hurt that echoed in her words were heartbreaking. They took her baby away, not letting her see her or hold her or take pictures. They swept the baby away to medical waste and sent her home. No support, no one to talk to, and no one to tell her what she might experience in her lifetime after such a profound loss that was often looked at as shameful. She had never told anyone until she told me. 

My Grandma was the person I loved the most in my life before I had my husband. Knowing my Grandma had held this secret for 40 or 50 years was almost too much to bear. I wouldn’t have survived the loss of sweet Evelyn without my friends, family, and military community. I found a little bit of peace, knowing she knew what I was feeling. This is where I realized that sharing our stories can truly help someone else. 

I want you to know that it will not be easy. So many women and men have suffered this tragedy, and they are more than willing to support you in any way they can. You will need to let go of the expectations you have around “healing” and “getting over it,” which just will never happen. We tend to set really heavy expectations on how we grieve, how long we grieve, and whether it is acceptable to us or those around us or not. Please know how unique your journey is, and the most underrated tool in your healing journey is YOU. 

In the first few years, it is so crucial to understand the ups and downs and how real your pain is; there is no rush. Your pain, your loss, and your love are all valid, and you need to feel these things to process them through the new lens that you now have. The lens of being a loss parent and how life looks now. 

The most important advice I can give you is that personal development/self-development will be the key to moving forward. I learned that bad things do happen to good people, and life is hard, but it can be just as beautiful. 

We have to change our mindset to understand the enormity of the loss and how it has changed us, and how we can allow it to be for the better. I’ve spent the last 5 years of my life learning, reading, hiring coaches, doing Reiki, sound baths, taking medications, music, going to therapy, creating art, writing, podcasting, creating businesses to support moms and families after loss, searching for the thing that will take my pain away and make me feel better. But it wasn’t just one thing. It was a culmination of all the tools I tried, the people I had therapy with, and the experiences I was having after my loss that wholly supported my healing journey. 

The pain softened; it became manageable, and I realized I didn’t have to sit in the grief all day long, so that I didn’t feel guilty for not. This is an easy trap to fall into, thinking that if we don’t feel it all the time, we aren’t thinking of our babies, so therefore, we are bad parents. This isn’t valid. The feeling is valid because it crosses our minds, but it is NOT true. If we couldn’t take a vacation from our pain, we wouldn’t survive. 

We have to be able to immerse ourselves in the present moment to be able to feel other things like joy, laughter, and happiness, and to be able to think about other things again. There is hope; there is life after losing your baby. You will find your way with the support of others who have also gone through this pain. We are here for you. 

Evelyn's Mama, Vallen Webb