Ancestral Grief, Ancestral Love: How We Carry Our Babies and Our Lineage

Some of us are grieving more than a baby.

We’re grieving the stories we were never told.

The losses buried in silence.

The ache passed down from generations who survived—but were never allowed to mourn.

When a baby dies—whether through miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss—we are cracked open.

But for BIPOC parents, that opening often reveals more than personal grief.

It reveals the long thread of ancestral pain we’ve been asked to carry.

And yet—woven into that same thread—is ancestral love.

Resilient. Radiant. Real.

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The Grief That Came Before Us

Maybe your grandmother lost a child and never said a word.

Maybe your great-aunt lit candles in secret.

Maybe there are names missing from the family tree,

and you feel their absence in your bones.

You are not imagining this.

Our communities have been taught to survive first, grieve later—if at all.

We’ve been expected to be strong, grateful, faithful, quiet.

But grief doesn’t disappear just because it goes unnamed.

It waits. It settles into our bodies. It echoes forward.

And when we lose our own babies,

that echo rises.

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Grieving as a Bridge

When you cry for your baby,

you may also be crying for theirs.

For the babies lost in slavery, colonization, migration, war.

For the mothers who had to keep moving.

For the ones who were told to pray it away, bury it deep, or “try again.”

But your grief is not weakness.

Your grief is ancestral work.

You are grieving for those who couldn’t.

You are naming what was never spoken.

You are healing backwards and forwards at the same time.

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The Love That Lives Through You

We also come from ancestors who loved fiercely.

Who sang songs over cradles,

who planted seeds with their babies’ names in their hearts,

who made altars out of nothing but earth and breath and memory.

That love lives in you now.

That love saw your baby.

Even if no one else did.

You made space for a soul.

And that soul is part of your lineage now.

You didn’t fail them.

You gave them love—and that is eternal.

You are a parent.

You are the child of warriors, midwives, and healers.

You are not grieving alone.

You are being held by the ones who came before you—and the one you lost.

Let your grief be a prayer.

Let your love be an offering.

Let your lineage know: you are the one who remembered.

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Closing Ritual: A Light for the Lineage

You may wish to do this ritual with a candle, a photo, or simply your breath.

Find a quiet space. Place one hand on your heart and the other on your womb or belly (no matter your gender or how your baby came to you—this is a gesture of connection).

Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the weight of your love.

When you are ready, speak (aloud or silently):

To the baby I lost, and the babies my ancestors lost—I see you. I carry you. I honor you.

Light a candle, real or imagined.

May this flame be a bridge. Between me and the child I love. Between me and the ones who came before. May I grieve with courage. May I remember with tenderness. May I be the one who breaks the silence—and keeps the love alive.

Breathe deeply three times. Let your hands rest in your lap.

Know that the light still burns.