Landon Paul

January 28, 2026 is a day that divided my life into a before and an after. I was 21 years old, and I had no idea that my life was about to change forever.

My pregnancy had been cryptic. I hadn’t spent months preparing a nursery, watching my stomach grow while counting down the weeks, or getting the kind of pregnancy experience people normally imagine. I didn’t know that I was about seven months pregnant until everything suddenly became very real.

In the early hours of January 28, I went into premature labor. Everything happened so quickly. There wasn’t time for me to slowly process the fact that I was pregnant before I was suddenly facing the reality that I was about to give birth. I was trying to understand what was happening to my own body while also realizing that there was a baby—my baby—at the center of all of it.

At 4:00 in the morning, I gave birth to my son. His name is Landon. But instead of January 28 becoming the day I got to begin my life with my baby, it became the day I had to say goodbye to him.

Landon was stillborn. There aren’t really words for what it feels like to become a mother and experience that kind of loss at the same time. In a matter of hours, I went from not fully knowing I was pregnant to knowing that I had a son, loving him, and grieving a future with him that I would never get to experience.

I didn’t get the years with Landon that I should have had. I won’t get to watch him take his first steps or hear his first words. I won’t get to see what his personality would have been like, what he would have loved, what would have made him laugh, or who he would have grown up to become. And that is one of the hardest parts of losing a baby. You aren’t only grieving the person you lost. You’re grieving an entire lifetime of moments that were supposed to happen.

January 28 was heartbreaking, confusing, overwhelming, and life-changing. But even though Landon’s life was far too short, becoming his mom changed me permanently. Since that day, I’ve learned that grief doesn’t follow a schedule. Some days I can talk about Landon and smile because I am proud to be his mom. Other days, something small can remind me of everything I lost. There are moments when I wonder what life would look like if January 28 had ended differently.

But through all of it, one thing has never changed: He existed. He mattered. And he is my son. I carry Landon with me in ways people may not always be able to see. I carry him in the things I do in his memory, in the ways I choose to honor him, and in the person I have become because of him. January 28, 2026 will always be one of the hardest days of my life. But it is also Landon’s day. It is the day I met my son. It is the day I became his mom. And no matter how much time passes, nothing will ever take that away from me. Landon will always be a part of my story. And I will always be his mom.