When Dads Grieve Too: What My Husband Shared After 25 Years of Silence
We often hear about how stillbirth breaks a mother’s heart. But what about the father?
This Father’s Day, I sat down with my husband, David, on the Navigating Baby Loss podcast to have a conversation we’d never fully had before—not like this. Raw. Unscripted. And long overdue. It’s been 25 years since we lost our twins, and this is the first time he truly told his story.
I want to share pieces of that conversation with you—not because it was easy, but because maybe another dad (or another couple) needs to know they’re not alone either.
When Everything Changed
We had two young sons—five and two years old—and were eagerly awaiting the arrival of twins. But at 32 weeks, everything changed. A sonogram confirmed what my heart already feared: our babies had died.
David was working in the ER when I found him. The look on his face when the staff said, “She’s in the physician’s room,” said everything.
He remembers how helpless he felt. I remember how shattered I was. Together, we walked into a storm we couldn’t have prepared for.
Grieving on Two Different Islands
We came home to tell our sons, and the hospital advised we “wait and see” if I would deliver the babies naturally. The idea of carrying our deceased twins for even another day was unbearable.
What followed was a three-day induction, a C-section, and grief that didn’t match.
David tried to stay strong. I felt like I was unraveling. He coped by justifying the loss with logic—telling himself (and me) that maybe the babies weren’t healthy, that this was “meant to be.”
But I didn’t want logic. I wanted someone to say, “This is unbearable. I’m here.” He couldn’t. I couldn’t either. We drifted.
The Silence Between Us
David admitted something I never fully knew: that he felt useless. Like he couldn’t fix me. Like nothing he said made a difference.
And I—well, I judged him for not grieving “right.” For being quiet. For not breaking apart like I was. I resented him. He felt it.
I was bitter. Angry. Distant. And I couldn’t even enjoy our living children for a while.
David, on the other hand, went back to functioning. “In medicine, you learn how to compartmentalize,” he said. But what happens when you try to compartmentalize the loss of your own children?
The Weight That Doesn’t Go Away
We both carried guilt—but in different forms. I blamed myself. I had taken a fall days before the sonogram. Even though I knew it wasn’t my fault, I lived with the what ifs.
David didn’t blame me. But he watched me spiral. And that helplessness—the inability to pull me back—was his version of heartbreak.
We stopped talking. We co-existed. We tried counseling, but I didn’t connect with the therapist. David said he feared I’d never come back to myself.
And honestly, for a while, I didn’t think I would either.
The Turning Point
It wasn’t time that healed me. It was work. And a coach who didn’t try to “fix” me.
Kathy—my grief coach—was the first person to say, “It’s okay to feel awful.” And she also asked me, “What do you want to do with this pain?”
That changed everything. It gave me permission to feel—but also a path forward.
Finding Our Way Back
What saved our marriage? David said it best: “We always came back to communication. Even if we yelled first—we always came back to talk.”
It wasn’t clean or pretty, but we gave each other space to grieve differently. And eventually, we realized… we didn’t have to understand each other’s grief. We just had to respect it.
David became a safe place again. And I became someone who could love and laugh again—not instead of grieving, but alongside it.
His Message to Other Dads
At the end of the interview, I asked David: What would you say to another dad whose baby just died?
He paused.
“Support her. But also, let yourself grieve. You don’t have to be the rock. You’re allowed to cry too.”
In Essence
This story isn’t just about my marriage. It’s about how loss reshapes everything—our identity, our relationships, our ability to trust ourselves and each other.
Maybe your partner doesn’t show their grief the way you do. Maybe that hurts. But behind the silence, there might be a storm you can’t see.
And just like grief—it doesn’t have to match to be real.
Jennifer Senn is a certified life coach who is also a bereaved mom of twin girls born at 32 weeks. She helps stillbirth moms let go of guilt, process their grief, and figure out what’s next for their future. You can learn more about her and schedule a free support session at jennifersenn.com.
