What Nobody Tells Fathers About Stillbirth
- Matthew Wright
- 2 days ago
- 7 min read
The silence, the strength and the things I had to learn the hard way.
Nobody tells you that one phone call can change your whole life, before you even begin to understand what's happening.
One minute you're getting ready to head out with mates to watch the footy. The next, your phone rings, it’s your wife, when you hear her voice, she is calm on the surface, terrified underneath and the world you know stops existing in that very moment.
That was February 13th, 2023 for me. Jordan was 18 weeks and 1 day pregnant with our daughter, our first child, after years of fertility struggles, a miscarriage along the way and a journey that had already challenged us in ways we never saw coming. And now she was in Brisbane, 900 kilometres away, telling me her waters had broken.
What I didn't know then, was that within 24 hours, I would be holding my daughter, Mia Grace Wright in my arms for the first and last time.
What followed is something I'm still learning to carry and if you're reading this as a father who has walked a similar path, or is walking it right now, I want to share the things I wish someone had told me on day one. The things that nobody tells you.
Your grief is real, even if the world doesn't see it Nobody told me that because Mia was born at 18 weeks and 2 days, the government wouldn't officially recognise her birth. She wasn't counted as being born or even stillborn. She was classified on paper, as a miscarriage. We were entitled to two days of compassionate leave. Two days. For holding your daughter. For kissing her goodbye. For watching your wife, the person you love more than anything in the world, endure something so horrific, something no one should ever have to endure. I was outraged. And then, slowly, I had to make peace with it, because the line has to be drawn somewhere and unfortunately, we fell on the wrong side of it. But here's what I want every father reading this to know: the law not recognising your baby does not mean your baby didn't exist. Mia Grace existed. She has a birthday. She has a time of birth. We have photos. We have her ashes. We have her little footprint, so impossibly small it breaks your heart just to look at it.
Your grief is real. Don't let anyone, or any system, or any well-meaning person who says the wrong thing, make you feel otherwise.
You will be the one holding everyone else together and that will cost you In those first hours, while Jordan was still in Brisbane, while I was frantically searching for flights, while I was making phone calls and managing logistics and holding my voice steady on FaceTime, I didn't once think about how I was feeling. I just operated. That's what we do as fathers, as men, as husbands. We go into fix-it mode. We protect. We manage. We hold ourselves steady and stay calm so our partners don't feel alone. And it's necessary. In those moments, it's exactly what's needed. But here's the thing nobody tells you: the time will come when your strength runs out. I parked my own grief for weeks. I kept going, kept supporting Jordan, kept showing up and somewhere underneath all of that, the weight was accumulating. When it finally started coming out, it didn't come out cleanly. It came out as anger, irritability, a shorter fuse, even defensiveness. I'd snap before I'd even registered what had happened.
You cannot pour from an empty cup. And you cannot forget about yourself. You need to take time to grieve your own loss. Your pain matters just as much. Take the time, even private moments in the shower, the drive to work, whatever that is for you, you need to take the time to actually feel it.
People will say the wrong things. Some will say nothing at all. One of the most heartbreaking moments of cruelty we experienced came from someone who, after hearing Jordan pour her heart out about Mia, responded with: "Oh is that it? Maybe it was a blessing. Maybe the universe is telling you that you're not meant to be parents." I had no words. I still don't. And then there were the people who said nothing, who stayed away because they didn't want to upset us further, who acted as if it hadn't happened, who thought silence was kindness. I can assure you it wasn't. The silence was deafening. Here's what I know now: if someone you love has lost a baby, you won't make it worse by reaching out. You won't add to their pain by saying their baby's name. You will however make them feel like their child mattered. A simple text saying "I can only imagine how you're feeling, I'm here and I send my love" is enough. And to the fathers on the receiving end: let it go where you can. People don't know what to say because there are no right words. Give grace where you can and save your energy for the people who show up.
Sometimes the hardest battle we have to fight during this time is accepting that some people you always thought would be there won’t be, but the beauty in that is that there will be some shining lights that enter your world, who hold out a hand and who lift you up when you need it most. That’s where your strength lies, not in the anger and frustration at those who let you down.
The six-week mark is a gut punch We were warned about this. Our counsellor, told us. And yet, we still weren't fully prepared for it. At the six-week mark, the world moves on. People who were texting every day suddenly go quiet. The flowers stop coming. Friends start talking about normal things again, holidays, footy, the weekend, plans for the future. And yet, you're still standing in the rubble of your life wondering how everyone else is just moving on while you’re stuck in this nightmare that you can’t wake up from. It's not that they don't care or they think you’re “over it”. It's that life keeps moving whether you're ready for it or not. The world is gentle with you for six weeks and then it forgets to be.
If you're in that six-week window right now, or approaching it: hold on. It’ll be hard. Just when you feel like you’re starting to get a handle on things, it’ll feel like someone has pulled the rug out from underneath you. Remember this, the world moving on around you is not a measure of how much your baby mattered. It’s a reflection of your strength. The fact that others think you’re ready to walk on your own again. Seek out the people who do keep showing up. They're the ones who matter.
You are allowed to talk about your baby. We never got to bring Mia home. We never got to introduce her to our family and friends the way every parent imagines. So talking about her became the only way we could share her with the world. Using her name became the way we kept her real. Mia Grace Wright. Born 7:43am on the 14th of February, 2023. Our first daughter. Our first born baby. I am a father. I say that without hesitation, without asterisks. I held my daughter in my arms. I nursed her for three days. Nothing and nobody can take that from me.
If you're a father who has lost a baby, say their name. Talk about them. Don't let the discomfort of others take the space your child deserves to have in this world. They existed. They are loved. And they matter.
Get support. It's not weakness, it's a sign of your strength to recognise what you need. In the weeks after Mia was born, I searched desperately for stories from fathers who had been through this. I found stories from mothers, brave, honest, beautiful, vulnerable stories, but almost nothing from dads. That silence is one of the biggest reasons why I'm writing now. The natural instinct of a man is to not reach out for help. To handle it on their own. To be strong, stoic, brave. But grief doesn't care about your instincts. And trying to hold it all together without tending to what's underneath just makes it crack in bigger, harder, lonelier ways. We found a bereavement counsellor, who became one of the most important people in our lives. We attended a bereavement support group at the Royal Hospital for Women. We talked. We cried. We did the hard, uncomfortable work of actually grieving instead of suppressing what we knew we needed most.
Getting support is not giving up. It's the most courageous thing you can do for yourself, for your partner and for your baby's memory. To say I’m not okay, I’m struggling and in order to be the best husband and father that I can be I need to seek help is a true sign of strength and what it takes to be a father.
You are not alone.
The thing I needed someone to tell me in those first few days and weeks was that I’m not alone in this. That others have walked this path before and they shared the same feelings, emotions and thoughts as I do right now. I searched for it in books, in podcasts, in late-night internet searches. I needed to know that another father had walked this road before and survived it.
So if you are in the thick of it right now, if you just got the news, if you're at the six-week mark, if you're a year in and still not sure how to carry it, I want you to know:
You are not alone. No matter how hard life may seem right now, you will find purpose again. Life will go on and you will find happiness and love.
I know because I'm living it. We have a rainbow daughter, Willow, who lights up every room she walks into. We carry Mia with us every single day, in our hearts, in our minds, in the conversations we have, in the way we love each other a little more fiercely because we know what loss costs.
Mia changed us.
She made us more.
And she will never be forgotten.
Matthew Wright is a Firefighter, bereaved father, mental health advocate, speaker and author of the upcoming memoir ‘A Father's Love’. He shares his story to ensure no father navigating loss and grief has to do so in silence. Follow along at @_afatherslove on Instagram.
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