Late one night, I rushed to the hospital with a sinking feeling something was wrong. My son Owen, once a strong kicker, suddenly felt limp. I didn’t think he was in danger but couldn’t sleep without knowing. I drove myself, sure I was just being cautious and would soon be home with my husband and our toddler.

I expected reassurance. Instead, an hour after an emergency C-section, I woke to the unthinkable: Our son didn’t survive. The doctor placed my beautiful baby in my arms as I cried in anguish and newborn cries came from the next room. Owen was gone, and so was a piece of us.

There are no words for the agony of learning the baby you’ve carried nearly to term was born without breath. Like too many others, we were blindsided, told our pregnancy was “textbook” and perfect all along.

Because I was labeled “low risk,” Owen’s umbilical cord was never checked. For five years we had no answers until Dr. Kliman, a placenta pathologist, reviewed his case and found cord compressions. Owen’s cord was half the normal length, hyper-coiled, and compressed in the final week, cutting off oxygen and nutrients. His placenta was oversized, another warning sign that could have been caught if placentas were measured. A high-risk specialist would have seen these issues. Owen’s death was preventable.

Stillbirth, the death of a baby in utero after 20 weeks, is not rare. In North Carolina, 708 babies are stillborn each year — more than two a day and above the national average. Nationwide, about 20,000 babies are lost, affecting one in 170 pregnancies. Stillbirth is more common than other complications that receive far more attention and resources. This is not bad luck but a systemic failure.

We know better prenatal care can save lives, especially when it includes placental and cord monitoring and education about fetal movement. Research shows that at least 25% of stillbirths are preventable with fetal movement education and timely intervention. In North Carolina, that could mean more than 170 babies saved every year.

Here’s what I wish I had known then — and want every parent to know now: “Unexplained stillbirth” often masks a preventable tragedy. I didn’t know that vague questions like, “Is baby moving?” fall short — that providers should be asking about patterns and strength of movement, and taking urgent action if anything changes. Stillbirth can strike any family, even those labeled low risk. Every pregnancy deserves the best care modern science can provide, so no baby’s distress is missed.

Since losing Owen, I’ve turned my pain into prevention. I am a proud Latina maternal and infant health advocate and a stay-at-home mom of three, including Owen, who should be turning 10 this October. I only get to parent him by building a legacy of change instead of raising him with his siblings. For the past decade, I’ve fought as if my child’s life depended on it, to spare other families this grief.

As co-founder of PUSH for Empowered Pregnancy, I work alongside other bereaved parents to push for policy change, support research to update clinical standards, and educate both parents and providers with evidence-based tools for a safe arrival. In partnership with Kobase, we created a short film, PUSH, highlighting the urgency of fetal movement education and timely intervention. We also helped launch the first US Rainbow Clinic (and trained thousands of providers across the country), which provides trauma-informed care for pregnancies after loss. But no parent should have to endure a loss to receive the personalized care that every baby and family deserves.

Stillbirth is not just something that happens. We urge scientists, health care systems, and policymakers in North Carolina and across the country to strengthen screening for cord abnormalities, placental problems, and growth restriction.

The United States spends more on maternal health than any other nation yet has some of the worst outcomes. Stillbirth remains a neglected public health crisis, hitting minority and rural communities hardest. In North Carolina, over 17% of mothers receive inadequate prenatal care, often because they live in maternity care deserts or must travel far to see a provider.

Grieving parents should not have to sound the alarm, but we do, because we have held our lifeless babies. Silence around stillbirth costs tens of thousands of lives each year, including our beloved children’s. Asking better questions, listening more closely, and monitoring more carefully can mean the difference between life and death.

This is not partisan. All babies are at risk. Parents, providers, and policymakers must demand better care. Every baby born still #StillCounts and, like my son Owen, they should be here.

As we grieve our son Owen’s milestone 10th birthday, we’re left to wonder how he would look, sound, and be today. He is missed every day by his parents, siblings, family, and friends. Owen is not a statistic — he is a loved and deeply missed little boy. When you hear that 1 in 170 babies are stillborn in this country, think of my son, Owen Nathaniel. He was that one.