How Should Writers Handle 'Still Born' (Pregnancy Loss) In Fiction?

My voice gets more direct when I think about how to put pregnancy loss into fiction. At twenty-four, with a bunch of grief novels and forums in my bookmarks, I look for realism and respect. Don’t use a stillbirth as a cheap twist or as a character-development shortcut. Instead, let it change the texture of the story: communication cracks, therapy scenes that feel awkward, rituals that differ depending on culture.

Practical tips: trigger warnings at the top of a chapter are a kindness. Write the body experience carefully — the hospital, the way people talk around the loss, how physical recovery and hormones can be brutal and confusing. Avoid clichés like the instantaneous “pull yourself together” recovery or a single grand speech that magically heals everyone. Also show how different people respond: numbness, anger, relief, profound sadness, or a combination. And when you can, include resources or an author’s note that points readers to support if that fits the publication. I often read memoirs and bereavement literature to ground my scenes; that gives me language that’s honest without being performative. It’s about honoring the people in the story and the readers who might be carrying similar wounds, and that approach makes the writing feel alive rather than exploitative.

That subject hits me hard and I think about it in quiet, complicated ways. In my mid-thirties and having walked alongside friends through loss, I try to treat 'still born' scenes with the same care I’d want if it were my own life on the page.

Start by asking what the scene is serving. If the point is to explore grief, relationship strain, or the long arc of healing, let the loss be a lived event, not just a pivot to shock readers or harden another character. Show small, human details: the awkwardness of visitors who don't know what to say, the way a partner might try to be strong and then break in the kitchen, the tangible silence in a room where plans once lived. Physical specifics matter — procedures at the hospital, the timing, the appearance of a funeral or memorial — but only include those details you can portray respectfully and accurately. If you can, consult medical sources and sensitivity readers so you don’t accidentally romanticize or misrepresent.

Pace the aftermath. Grief isn't a single chapter; it bleeds into later scenes as triggers, anniversaries, and memory sparks. Consider how characters memorialize: a discarded onesie on a shelf, a quiet ritual, a name whispered on certain nights. And be mindful of readers — include content warnings where the loss is depicted graphically. I prefer writing these moments with restraint: focus on emotional truth over melodrama, and give characters space to be messy and real. That’s how the scene stays honest rather than exploitative, and it stays with me long after I close the book.

Now in my late fifties, I’m drawn to the ethical side of writing about stillbirth. There’s a responsibility to depict loss without turning it into melodrama or a mere plot engine. Ethically, consent matters: if your characters are based on real experiences, change identifying details and seek permission when possible. If not, be mindful of stereotypes and the temptation to use loss purely to motivate revenge, villainy, or neat character growth.

From a structural angle, grief can be rendered non-linearly — small memories, sensory shards, and rituals can punctuate the main narrative long after the event. Consider cultural variations in mourning practices and how different families honor a lost pregnancy; these details lend authenticity and show respect. Avoid romanticizing the baby or using overly saccharine language that flattens the complexity of mourning. Let scenes breathe; sometimes an empty crib or a single line of dialogue conveys more than an excessive exposition. For me, the most honest portrayals balance factual care with emotional truth, and they linger as quiet echoes rather than tidy resolutions. That’s the kind of portrayal I appreciate and try to aim for.

Grief in fiction deserves patience, honesty, and a careful hand, and I try to treat it that way whenever I write or read a story that includes pregnancy loss. I won't pretend there's a one-size-fits-all approach — loss lands differently in every body and every relationship — but there are concrete choices writers can make to handle a stillborn sensitively and truthfully.

First, give the loss room. That means not using it as a tidy plot shortcut to motivate a character overnight. People don't process trauma on a schedule, and showing stages or a messy, non-linear grief arc often feels truer than a single cathartic scene. Let scenes breathe: show the hospital corridor, the small object the couple chooses to keep, the awkwardness of well-meaning friends who say the wrong thing. Sensory detail helps ground emotional truth — the smell of antiseptic, the sound of a phone buzzing with unread messages, the silence at a family dinner. Also be mindful of language: terms like 'stillbirth', 'stillborn', 'pregnancy loss' have specific meanings and legal/medical weight; using them accurately matters.

Second, diversify the reactions. One person might withdraw into quiet, another might throw themselves into work, a partner might freeze; extended family could attempt to minimize the loss or create rituals that help. If you show multiple perspectives, avoid stereotyping or turning grief into a character trait. Research is your friend: read first-person accounts, talk with doulas or bereavement counselors, and consult reliable resources so descriptions of medical settings, timing, and paperwork feel real. Cultural and religious factors will also shape rituals and language — a funeral, naming choices, or community expectations can all be powerful beats.

Finally, think about where you place the scene in your story. Sometimes an explicit on-screen depiction is necessary, sometimes implying it off-stage creates more space for the reader to feel. Consider content warnings at the start of a book or episode; it's a small courtesy that respects readers' experiences. Don’t weaponize grief to villainize a character or to fix a plot hole — grief should change characters, not just serve as a convenient emotional turn. In my own writing, the most honest moments often come from lingering on small domestic details afterward — the way a kitchen sink sits full of unwashed dishes, or how a character keeps reading the same message on their phone — and those quiet, imperfect moments stick with me longer than any dramatic outburst.

There are scenes where silence speaks louder than action, and handling a stillborn in fiction is one of those moments where subtlety and respect win out. When I write, I balance clarity with restraint: be clear enough that readers understand what happened, but resist turning the loss into a melodramatic plot device.

Practical tips I use: choose your point of view carefully — a close POV can show the intimate, physical realities of loss; an external POV can focus on consequences and community response. Avoid clichés and platitudes in dialogue (lines like 'at least you can try again' or 'it's all part of a plan' are hurtful and ring false). Offer realistic reactions from supporting characters: awkward silence, attempts at consolation that fail, logistical details like hospital forms or burial choices. Decide whether the event happens on-screen or is referred to off-screen; both are valid, but each shapes the emotional texture differently.

Finally, remember sensitivity: use correct terminology, consider adding a content warning, and, if possible, read first-person accounts to inform tone. For me, the most memorable scenes are the quiet ones — a shared look across a room, an unfinished lullaby — and I try to write those with the same care I would give a friend going through it.