Karla Crivelli
Mom of James Emmanuel who passed away in November of 2024
I was diagnosed with cancer when I was 17. Against all odds, I survived—but the treatments and efforts to keep me alive brought many challenges afterward. From a young age, I had to advocate for myself and ask hard questions. One of the hardest was: Will I ever be able to be a mother? The answer was always no. Doctors told me many times that it would be nearly impossible, and that if it ever happened, it would be a miracle.
That miracle came just five months after my husband and I got married. It felt like we were dancing on a cloud. We had prayed for this baby for so long. Like any expectant parents, we dreamed: what our baby would look like, how our lives would change with a little one, what color to paint the nursery, which car seat to buy, even what classes we should take. All those little questions that fill your heart with hope. We didn’t wait to share the news. our miracle was here.
Being my first pregnancy, I didn’t know what to expect, what was normal, or what was alarming. But I did know I was feeling very sick. After weeks of going in and out of doctors’ offices, it was confirmed that something was wrong, my liver enzymes were very high without a clear reason.
At 19 weeks, my water broke in the middle of the night. We were told the devastating news that our sweet baby had no chance of survival. Still, we waited one more week, holding onto hope for a greater miracle. We prayed, we pleaded. But when I developed an infection, I had to be induced.
On November 17, 2024, our James Emmanuel entered this world silently, yet making the most powerful sounds in our hearts. A love like no other.
“Something I wish others knew is that grief doesn’t have a timeline. It doesn’t ‘end’ or get neatly wrapped up...it changes, and we learn to carry it. Every parent’s journey is different, and every loss matters, no matter how far along you were.”
At the time of your loss, what did you find most helpful?
The most helpful resource for my husband and me has been Empty Arms. Being able to connect with other parents who have experienced loss has meant so much. There’s something incredibly healing about being vulnerable together—sharing these hard experiences. Even though every story is different, we all understand the pain. I’ve also found writing to be a lifeline. I’ve always written, but after losing our baby, it became my safe place—my “trash can” where I could pour out all the fears, pain, and anger onto the page.
Lately, what resources are you turning to for support?
Lately, I’ve continued to lean on Empty Arms for support, especially through connecting with other parents who truly understand. Writing also remains a big part of my healing—it gives me a place to release everything I can’t always say out loud. I’ve also found comfort in gardening and being outdoors. Planting and nurturing life has become a gentle reminder of hope and love. Spending time with my husband, my dog, and close friends has also helped me feel less alone on this journey.
What else are you willing to share about your loss?
One thing that has surprised me is how much love continues to grow for my son, even though he isn’t physically here. It’s beautiful and powerful, but as big as that love is, that’s how much it hurts. All of my love for him is contained in my heart and body with no outlet, and that ache is heavy. I’m learning to make peace with the fact that our lives will always carry this. What helps is knowing that I honor his life when I choose to live mine fully...for him. On the darkest days, that thought keeps me going.
I also find comfort in believing that he is in heaven, watching over us, filled with joy and pride because his parents are doing the best they can with what they’ve been given. When we lost our sweet baby, I truly thought I was going to die. I didn’t want to, but I thought the pain would kill me. Breaking news: it didn’t. Days went by, and somehow we found ourselves laughing again at silly things, trying to plan our lives again, and then the guilt would come crashing in like a wave. It has now been eight months, and my days still look like that. I can feel joy, excitement, gratitude, and love, then grief hits me unexpectedly. I feel nostalgic. I wish so deeply that he were here. I wish things had been different.
To other parents going through this, I want you to know you are not alone. The pain can feel unbearable, but your love for your baby is real, powerful, and everlasting. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting—it means finding ways to carry your child with you, always
We know certain aspects of life after loss—like holidays or returning to work—can be especially difficult. Beyond the obvious challenges, was there anything unexpectedly hard or triggering for you?
Everything after loss became harder. Even taking care of myself has felt almost impossible at times. I started a new job just four months after my loss, and even though I knew I needed to for my own sake, I was still in postpartum—just without a baby in my arms. My body had changed, but I didn’t feel like a mother in the way the world expects. We didn’t buy many clothes for him, but the few we had I placed in a box. I still haven’t been able to open it.
Seeing babies everywhere. Pregnancy announcements filling my feeds. The endless conversations about “when are you going to try again?”—as if it were that simple. As if James could ever be replaced. As if infertility were something we could just control.
Every day, something reminds me that our baby is gone. Every day, I see something, hear something, or think something that makes me feel “less” of a mother, simply because my baby isn’t here. And holidays… they hit completely differently now. But I’ve learned that the memory of our babies will never die if we keep talking about them and sharing their stories. Speaking their names keeps their lives present and real.
Can you share a moment when someone showed you kindness or support that had a meaningful impact on you?
I have so many moments of kindness to be grateful for, we are truly blessed with a strong support system. My mom flew all the way from Mexico to be with us for James’s delivery. Our family surrounded us with love in practical ways: they brought food for days, cleaned our house, cared for our dog, filled our home with flowers, and prayed for us when we couldn’t find the words ourselves. But the most meaningful thing will always be when people say his name: our sweet James Emmanuel. He existed. He is ours. He is here and there and everywhere. And every time someone speaks his name, it makes me feel like a mother.. not a silent mother, but a real mother.
“Please know you are not alone. Grief takes many shapes, but your love for your baby is proof that you are, and will always be, their parent.”
Karla had a Peer Companion in the hospital following her loss and now attends our monthly Stillbirth and Neonatal Loss Support Group .
Karla lives in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts