Stillborn, Still Loved: Hailey Ricks

By Hailey Ricks

On January 20th, 2012, my life split into two versions: the one before my daughter was born, and the one after.

My daughter, Laurelai Antoinette, was born still.

There are moments in life that feel impossible to put into words—moments where time stands still, yet somehow keeps moving forward without you. Losing Laurelai was that moment for me. It was the kind of grief that reshapes everything. Not just your days, but your identity, your sense of safety, your understanding of the world.

I didn’t just lose my daughter.

I lost who I was.

Grief like this is not something you “get over.” It is something you learn to carry. And in those early days, I didn’t know how to carry it at all.

The silence was deafening. The world around me continued as if nothing had happened, while inside, everything had shattered. There was no roadmap for this kind of loss. No clear guidance on how to exist after losing a child you never got to bring home.

And then, as if one loss wasn’t enough, my journey continued with eight miscarriages.

Each one its own heartbreak.
Each one its own layer of grief.
Each one reinforcing the reality that motherhood, for me, would never look the way I had dreamed.

For a long time, I felt lost in it.

But somewhere in the middle of that pain, something began to shift.

Not all at once. Not in a big, dramatic moment. But slowly, gently—like light breaking through the smallest crack—I started to realize something:

My grief was not something to hide.

It was something to honor.

And more than that, it was something that could help others feel less alone.

I began sharing my story.

At first, it was just small pieces. Words that felt fragile as I let them out into the world. But something powerful happened in that sharing—people responded. Other parents, other mothers, other families navigating loss found their way to my story and said, “Me too.”

In those two simple words, something began to grow.

Connection.

Purpose.

A reason to keep going.

That was the beginning of what would become the Stillborn Still Loved Society.

What started as a deeply personal need—to ensure that my daughter was seen, remembered, and honored—grew into a mission to do that for other families, too. Because every baby deserves to be acknowledged. Every life, no matter how brief, deserves to be remembered.

Through Stillborn Still Loved Society, we began doing what I wish had been available to me in my own grief:

We created grief boxes for bereaved families—carefully curated with items that offer comfort in the most unimaginable moments.

We worked to implement bereavement suites in hospitals, creating spaces where families could have privacy, dignity, and time with their babies.

We donated cuddle cots, allowing parents more time to hold, love, and say goodbye.

We created remembrance items—tangible pieces that say, your baby matters.

Because they do.

Every single one.

As this work grew, so did my understanding of grief—not just my own, but the collective experience of loss parents everywhere. I began to see the gaps. The lack of specialized, trauma-informed support. The way so many families were left to navigate this alone after leaving the hospital.

I knew there had to be more.

So I wrote.

Stillborn Still Loved.
My Baby Has a Name.

These books became another way to reach grieving parents—to put words to feelings that often feel impossible to explain. To validate the depth of their grief. To remind them that their baby’s life mattered, and always will.

But even that didn’t feel like enough.

Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t fit neatly into a few pages or a single conversation. It’s ongoing. Evolving. Complex.

That realization led me to create something I had never seen before:

Still Loved Coaching.

Not just a program—but a complete, trauma-informed support system for loss parents.

A space where grief is understood at a deeper level. Where parents are supported not just in surviving their loss, but in learning how to live alongside it.

From that, the Still Loved Method was born—a framework rooted in real experience, nervous system awareness, and compassionate care.

And then, something even bigger:

The first-ever specialized grief coaching certification focused specifically on pregnancy and infant loss.

Because this kind of grief is different.

It deserves specialized support.

It deserves people who truly understand it.

What started as my own pain became a path—one that now allows others to step into this work and support families in ways that are deeply needed.

Looking back, I can see that I didn’t “move on” from my grief.

I moved with it.

I rebuilt a version of myself—but not the same version that existed before Laurelai.

A new version.

One shaped by love.
By loss.
By purpose.

Laurelai is still at the center of everything I do.

She is the reason this work exists.

She is my guiding light.

There is a narrative in our world that grief is something to overcome, something to fix, something to eventually leave behind. But my journey has shown me something different:

Grief, when honored, can become something meaningful.

Not in a way that erases the pain—but in a way that gives it somewhere to go.

Every grief box we send.
Every family we support.
Every student we train.
Every life we touch through this work—

It all traces back to a little girl who changed everything.

Stillborn.

Still loved.

Always remembered.

And through her, a legacy that continues to grow—one family, one story, one act of love at a time.

For more information about Hailey, you can check out her website.