Why, God? How religion has negatively impacted my grief.

Image from Bodhi's memorial

My relationship with God has been a struggle my entire life. It began with religious trauma—the church protecting people who should have been held accountable, not hidden. Then it shifted into my “wannabe emo teen” phase, dabbling in tarot cards and the idea of multiple gods. By the time I was 22 and pregnant with my son, I didn’t have much of an opinion at all. I was just exhausted by Christians constantly pushing their beliefs onto me.

At 12 weeks pregnant, we had our first scare. Brady had to work that Saturday, and him getting ready woke me up. He kissed me and walked out of the bedroom. I got up and went to the bathroom. Everything seemed normal—until I wiped. The toilet paper was covered in blood. The shock and fear were unforgettable. I just kept repeating, no, no, no, no, no, over and over as I finished and put on a pad.

Thankfully, Brady had stopped in the kitchen to grab a drink and take out the trash, so I was able to stop him and tell him what happened. Like most people in that situation, we drove way too fast to the hospital. While we sat in the room waiting to be seen, I told God that if He saved my baby, I would make sure my child knew Him. It was the first time I had spoken to God in years.

Everything ended up being okay. They called it a “threatened miscarriage.”

Fast forward to 20 weeks pregnant. We now knew he was the most perfect little boy. Every test came back perfect. Everything was smooth. By that point, I had almost forgotten about my promise—only thinking about it in passing, telling myself there was still time, that it would be years before he would understand anything anyway.

Then, at 21 weeks and 5 days, Bodhi was born.

The story of his time on earth can be found on my website. He was perfect—everything we could have wished for—just for far too short a time.

In the days, weeks, and months that followed, “religious people” said things to us that were more damaging to our grief than helpful. Things like:

• Everything happens for a reason.

• It’s all part of God’s plan / God has a plan for everything.

• Heaven needed another angel / God needed him more.

• He’s in a better place now.

• God wouldn’t give you more than you can handle.

• God gives His strongest warriors the hardest battles.

I could break all of this down, but it really boils down to one thing: I want my baby.

I don’t care about a better place. I don’t care about becoming stronger. I don’t care about some grand plan I can’t understand. My son is not here with me, like he should be. God Himself could stay before me and tell me the reason for his death. Even then, I would still not understand why it had to be Bodhi.

“Everything happens for a reason / It’s all part of God’s plan.”

Why it hurts: This implies that God intentionally caused a tragedy. It can create anger toward God and make the griever feel as though their pain was necessary or justified. It dismisses the senselessness of loss.

“Heaven needed another angel / God needed him more.”

Why it hurts: This makes God seem selfish—taking a baby for a “heavenly garden” at the expense of a parent left completely shattered.

“He’s in a better place now.”

Why it hurts: While often meant to comfort, it minimizes the raw, physical pain of separation. It ignores the fact that this baby was wanted here, not somewhere else.

“God wouldn’t give you more than you can handle / God gives His strongest warriors the hardest battles.”

Why it hurts: This is often simply untrue. Many parents feel completely crushed and unable to handle their grief. It can make them feel like failures for struggling, or that their faith is weak because they aren’t “handling it well.”

Most of the time, people say these things because they don’t know what else to say. Silence feels uncomfortable, so they repeat phrases they’ve heard before. Please hear this from a grieving mom: listening is enough.

If you don’t know what to say, say that. Say, “I am so sorry. I don’t have words that will make this better, but I love you. I love [baby’s name]. I am here for you. I am a safe place.”

That is what families need. We need people who are willing to sit with us. To listen. To remind us that our baby is loved and missed by more than just us. To let us talk about our child—because yes, we can talk about them.

Since losing Bodhi, I have formed a relationship with God. We found a church we love, filled with truly incredible people. I find peace knowing that someday I will see him again—but I would never push that belief onto another loss parent.

After losing a child, there are so many emotions—especially anger and confusion toward God. We can’t understand why it had to be our baby. Hearing the phrases above often makes that anger and confusion so much worse.

When in doubt, remain silent. Ask if they want to talk about their baby.

We always want to talk about our babies. We are always thinking about them. Always.