Catherine's Speech - October 15, 2026 - Wave of Light - Rex Hospital,  Raleigh, NC

Good evening.

I’m grateful to be here tonight. When I think about the Wave of Light, I think about how fortunate we are to have spaces like this. We can talk about our babies while we’re still living through the grief. We can tell people who they were, what we remember, and how much we love them.

But I also think about the women who came before us, who endured the impossible thing and then somehow had to keep going. Our mothers, our grandmothers, and the generations before them who experienced these same losses but weren’t necessarily given that opportunity. Women who may not have had the words, the support, or even the permission to grieve openly.

That’s one of the reasons the Wave of Light is so important to me. We get to share our stories today, but we can also make space for the women who weren’t given that same chance. We can acknowledge their experiences, the babies they loved, and the grief they often had to carry in the dark.

And this is personal for me, because those women aren’t just some distant part of history. They’re part of my own family, and likely part of yours.

Both of my grandparents experienced miscarriages. My aunt lost her daughter, Christina, just two days after she was born. My mom lost three babies before my youngest brother was born. We didn’t even learn about those losses until years later. She carried that pain silently while caring for us.

And my neighbor lost her sweet firstborn, Megan, 30 years ago. Megan is still her daughter. She is still part of her story. Your babies are part of your story, just as the babies lost by the people who came before us are part of theirs.

These precious souls existed. Their families loved them. And their losses mattered, even when the world around them didn’t know how to acknowledge them, then and sometimes now.

I know that because I’m also a mother who has lost babies.

I lost my daughter Charlotte in 2019, at 12 weeks. I lost my son, Jonah, in 2022, and another precious soul, Kit, in 2024, both at eight weeks. And in September 2023, I lost my daughter Camille just before I got to bring her home.

Four babies. Four very different losses, at different points in my life. All four of my children, all part of my family, and all part of the story that brings me here tonight.

Camille was a miracle after so much loss. She was active, beautiful, and already so loved by our entire family. For nine months, she was my constant companion. I knew her movements, her rhythms, and the songs that encouraged her impressive gymnastics moves inside my belly. We loved playing and singing songs for her to see what she liked most. We will always cherish those memories.

Getting to see her was breathtaking and magical, even though it wasn’t how I had ever imagined meeting my daughter. She was born still, but she was perfect. Every feature, captivating. She was beyond words.

I had four days with Camille. Four days to hold her, love her, take photographs, and make memories I’ve spent every day since holding onto.

I have her heartbeat recordings, ultrasound videos, photographs, and little locks of her hair. I treasure all of it, and I carry those pieces of my daughter with me every day.

I can’t change the tragedy that has befallen us, and I certainly can’t explain it. For the past three years, I’ve been trying to make sense of how my life changed in a split second. But I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer. All that I do know is that our babies mattered.

While celebrating the lives of our sweet babies, I also want to acknowledge the people who helped and continue to help us survive the moments we never imagined we would face. The healthcare workers who care for us when we are breaking, physically and mentally. The people who help us through birth and recovery, who make handprints of our babies’ tiny hands, and who understand that even the smallest gesture can become something we carry forever.

The nurses who cared for Camille made her a bracelet with her name on it. A birth photographer took pictures of Camille wearing that bracelet. I will have those photographs and that bracelet for the rest of my life.

Those nurses are forever part of Camille’s story, and part of mine. They cared for me at a time when I couldn’t imagine how I was going to survive what happened. I don’t know if I will ever be able to thank them enough for what their kindness meant to me.

That is part of why a space like this matters so much.

I’m grateful that we can gather here, say our babies’ names, and talk about them as the children they are. I’m grateful for the people willing to listen, and for the healthcare workers who understand that our care doesn’t end when we leave the hospital. Some go above and beyond to hold us through our darkest moments. I was blessed with some of the best people caring for me, right here at Rex. You know who you are, and I am forever grateful for you and your love.

Tonight, when we light our candles, I hope we can hold space for every baby represented in this room, and every family carrying a loss. The babies we held in our arms, the babies we never got to bring home, the babies whose lives were brief, and the babies whose names we may be hearing for the first time tonight. Every one of those lives matters, and tonight, we get to remember them together. 

I am so honored that we can be part of each other’s stories as we gather to honor the love and lives of every baby we carry in our hearts.

Thank you.