Derrek Anderson Jr., affectionately known as DJ, was set to be our first child after three wonderful years of marriage. My husband, Derrek, and I had spent four long years in a long-distance relationship, living in completely different states, before finally walking down the aisle and exchanging our heartfelt “I Dos.” We weren’t in a rush to start a family—we wanted to enjoy each other’s company after years apart, savoring the moments of married life in the same home. Once we felt settled and fully connected as a couple, we turned our hearts toward parenthood. To our amazement, we discovered I was pregnant just one month after we began trying. That moment marked the beginning of our incredible journey toward becoming parents.
For seven months, my pregnancy felt nothing short of magical. I experienced no morning sickness, no unusual cravings, and everything from my glowing skin to my growing hair seemed to celebrate the new life inside me. While this was the eighth grandchild for my parents, it would be the first for Derrek’s family, and the excitement in both families was palpable. Everyone was eagerly awaiting the arrival of our little miracle.
But the blissful days came to a shocking halt on Friday, January 15, 2016—a day etched into my memory forever. I went for a routine 28-week ultrasound and gestational diabetes test, accompanied, as always, by my devoted husband. After drinking the sugary glucose solution, I was called back for the ultrasound. I hadn’t seen DJ in eight weeks, and I was bursting with excitement to watch him move on the screen. But the moment the sonographer applied the cold gel to my belly and began the scan, I sensed something was off. She quickly located DJ but immediately remarked, “Hmm, there isn’t a lot of fluid around the baby.”
As first-time parents, we didn’t fully grasp the implications at first. But when she repeated her concern and simply added, “Not good,” my intuition screamed that something was wrong. Moments later, we were asked to follow her across the hall to meet with the doctor. The sight of two doctors in an office, one holding a box of tissues, confirmed my deepest fears. Then came the words that would shatter my world: “We could no longer detect a heartbeat.” My heart dropped, my mind went blank, and the tears came uncontrollably. In an instant, I went from an expectant mother eagerly awaiting her son to a grieving mother who had just lost him.
The doctors explained that not only had DJ passed, but I would now need to deliver his lifeless body. They gave us the choice of being admitted immediately, later that weekend, or waiting for my body to go into labor naturally, though this was not recommended. My husband and I chose to go home, process the news, and schedule a hospital admission. Driving home in a haze, we were tasked with calling our parents—a painful act of sharing devastating news that felt like detonating a bomb with each call.
Once home, we sat in silence, eating without really tasting, until I suggested we pray. Standing in our living room, hand in hand, we poured our hearts out. My husband’s voice cracked with emotion, and tears streamed down both our faces as we embraced, finding a small measure of comfort in our shared grief. Later, I retreated to our bedroom, showered, and opened my journal. I wrote down every raw, gut-wrenching emotion, ending with a quiet prayer: “Please grant me peace,” knowing that I would need it for the labor that awaited me the following day.
The next morning, still numb but determined, we drove to the hospital. Gospel music filled the car as we silently cried, bracing ourselves for what was to come. Once admitted, a kind nurse, perhaps my mother’s age, embraced me and offered words of comfort that somehow brought a profound sense of peace. That peace carried me through three grueling days of labor. On Monday, January 18, 2016, at 6:48 a.m., DJ was born. Though he didn’t breathe, cry, or move, he radiated a profound, angelic presence. Holding him felt like sitting at the feet of an angel—his tiny 1 lb 5 oz frame already leaving a lifelong imprint on our hearts. We took family photos, held him, kissed him, and finally prayed over him, dedicating his precious body back to God before he was gently taken from us. Saying goodbye on the same day we welcomed him was unimaginably painful—the most difficult moment of my life.
We consented to an autopsy to seek answers and chose cremation so DJ could be with us wherever life took us. His loss reshaped my life and set me on a path of discovery. After months of overwhelming grief, I sought professional counseling during my final semester at Kennesaw University, where I was completing my second bachelor’s degree in Apparel Textile Technology. Through therapy, I voiced my pain, processed the loss, and began to pivot from grief toward purpose.
Over time, I realized that our story—and DJ’s brief, shining presence—had a greater impact than I could have imagined. Sharing my unfiltered truth about our loss allowed me to help countless others silently enduring baby or child loss. Though I would trade everything to have DJ alive, I choose to live with intention, carrying the memories and quiet moments we shared as a family. His life and legacy continue through our story. And if there’s one lesson I hope you take from our journey, it’s this: share your story. Whether it’s pain, triumph, love, or loss, your honesty can guide, comfort, and inspire someone else. Your story might become their survival guide, just as DJ’s life became a beacon of hope for others navigating their own heartache.
