by Kimberly Lockhart, Founder and Executive Director • Butterfly Support Network
Today I walked back into the room where they told us our son Wilder had died.
It’s just an ordinary hospital assessment room. Neutral walls, standard equipment, nothing remarkable to anyone else. But for me, this room holds a weight that feels almost impossible to describe. I had not returned to it since the day we learned his heart had stopped beating, the day our world split into the before and after.
The memories in that space rise quickly and fiercely, like a wave that catches you off guard and takes your breath away, no matter how prepared you think you are.
On the drive to the hospital for a scheduled non-stress test, I wondered: what if they bring me to that room? I tried to steady myself. I told myself I could handle it. I repeated a quiet mantra over and over, “different pregnancy, different baby, different outcome”.
And then of course, that’s exactly where they brought me.
Before the appointment, they asked for a urine sample. I stepped into the same small bathroom and immediately felt time collapse. The last time I was in that space, I was pregnant with Wilder. I didn’t know yet that he had died. It was still the ‘before times’ before the devastating silence, before the grief, before the life we knew disappeared.
Standing there again, tears filled my eyes. I felt the sharp contrast between then and now, between innocence and knowing. Between hope untouched by loss, and hope that now has to coexist with fear and uncertainty.
Again, I whispered to myself “different pregnancy, different baby, different outcome”.
Outside of losing my son Wilder and the lifetime of grief and longing that comes with that, navigating pregnancy after loss is the hardest thing I have ever walked through.
It is a constant tug-of-war between heart and mind.
There is so much love for this coming baby. So many dreams and anticipation for the life we hope to build together. But alongside that love lives fear and anxiety. Fear that something could go wrong again. Fear that history could repeat itself. Fear of allowing myself to fully attach, just in case. It is incredibly complicated and hard to walk through.
I once heard someone say that the ‘right’ time to try again after loss is when the desire for another baby outweighs the fear of another pregnancy. And while that may be true in some ways, the reality is that fear doesn’t ever fully disappear. It comes with you. It sits beside you at every appointment. It shows up in quiet moments. It whispers in the middle of the night.
Our desire for this baby is enormous. We are excited. We are hopeful. We cannot wait to meet this little person and learn who they are. And yet, as I move further along in pregnancy, the fear grows louder too. For me, there is no safe zone.
There is no milestone that guarantees everything will be okay. There is no week in pregnancy where I suddenly feel at ease. That sense of safety and the ability to exhale fully, it will not come until I am holding a living, breathing, crying baby in my arms.
Even writing that feels risky. There’s a superstition that creeps in, a hesitation: Am I jinxing this? Should I say it out loud? I have learned that after loss, even hope can feel fragile.
But today, in that same room, something else happened.
I sat on the exam bed and listened to the steady rhythm of my baby’s heartbeat. A sound that fills the space, and puts my own heart at ease for the moment.
I thought about who this baby might be. I felt gratitude for these appointments, small checkpoints that offer a few days of reassurance, just enough to carry me to the next appointment.
And at the same time, I thought of Wilder. I remembered the last moments I spent in that room with him. I remembered the love I carry for him, the love that has not diminished, and never will. I reminded myself that he is still my son. That he will always be part of our family. That time does not change that truth.
Pregnancy after loss is not about ‘moving on’. It is about carrying both, love for our son who died, and love for the baby who is coming. It is about holding grief and hope in the same space, even when they feel like they might break you.
For families walking this path, support matters deeply.
No one should have to navigate pregnancy loss, infant loss, or the complexities of pregnancy after loss alone. And yet, so many families do, quietly, privately, unsure of where to turn.
Organizations like the Butterfly Support Network exist to change that.
Butterfly Support Network is a Canadian charity offering free mental health programs and peer support for families facing pregnancy loss, infant loss, and infertility. Through support groups, resources, and community connection, they provide a space where families can share their stories openly without judgment, without the need to explain, and without feeling alone.
For many, connecting with others who truly understand can be life changing. It creates space to grieve, to process, and to speak freely and genuinely.
Here in the Okanagan, that sense of community will be especially visible on October 3, 2026, at Kelowna City Park, during the 4th Annual Butterfly Run Okanagan.
This memorial walk/run brings families, friends, and supporters together to honour babies gone too soon, raise awareness, and ensure that no individual face this alone. It is both a memorial and a movement, a place where our grief is acknowledged, our love is celebrated, and community is built.
Whether you’ve experienced loss yourself, you love someone who has, or simply want to support this important work, the Butterfly Run is a powerful reminder that these stories matter and that every baby is remembered.
If you are currently pregnant after loss, I want you to know that I think you are incredibly brave. It takes immense strength to open your heart again while carrying the weight of what you’ve already endured. It takes courage to have hope when you know how fragile life can be. It takes resilience to keep moving forward, one appointment, one day, one breath at a time. There is no ‘right’ way to feel.
You may feel joy and fear at the same moment. You may feel deeply connected to your baby one day and guard your heart the next. You may celebrate milestones quietly, or not at all. All of it is valid.
You are allowed to love this baby fully. You are allowed to miss the baby who is not here. Both things can be true at once.
As I left the hospital today, I carried both the past and the present with me. The memory of the moments spent with my stillborn son. And the sound of a heartbeat gives me hope. And once again, I whispered the words that are helping me move forward “different pregnancy, different baby, different outcome”.
For more information about Butterfly Run Okanagan or Butterfly Support Network please go to www.ButterflySupportNetwork.ca.