My daughter was stillborn, and my employer denied me paid leave to recover. Now I work to help others going through the same.

• Liz O'Donnell is a 32-year-old who experienced the stillbirth of her daughter, Aaliyah, in 2020.
• Her employer denied her paid leave for her recovery.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Liz O'Donnell. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I hadn't expected to get pregnant, but in June 2020, my partner and I found out I was expecting. Even though I felt surprised and scared, I was ready.

As a new-mother-to-be, I immediately started planning and preparing for the baby growing inside me. Even months away from the due date, I had a worker come in to deep-clean the house.

In November 2020, my friends and family gathered outside at a beautiful winery to celebrate the upcoming birth. For the baby shower, we pulled out all the stops to make it incredible.

Looking back, I'm so glad we made it an event to remember because it was the only party my little girl would ever have. It was the best day of my life and, frankly, probably the last best day of my life.

She died in my womb

Just a few weeks later, around Thanksgiving, I felt erratic movements in my belly, but it wasn't until a few days later that I texted my doula. I told her I hadn't felt the baby move all day, and she encouraged me to go to a hospital to get it checked out.

When I did, the midwives told me my little girl had no heartbeat. I sat there in shock. My Aaliyah was dead.

I told myself I just had to get through this. I had to hold my emotions in for now.

Not thinking the appointment would require my partner to be present, I went alone. I called him to tell him what had happened, and he came to the hospital.

We were taken to a room in the labor and delivery ward. The midwives tried to get me to use a wheelchair, but I refused, insisting I could walk.

I mainly held it together during the four days we were in the hospital — apart from a few moments when I burst into tears and felt I was hanging on by a thread.

On December 1, the labor wasn't progressing — it was like my body was frozen. I elected to have antianxiety medication and an epidural. Soon after, I gave birth to Aaliyah. I took a photo with her to remember the day she was born.

After surgery to remove the placenta, I was adamant I wanted to go home. Aaliyah's dad helped me walk around the hospital to get my legs back up and running after the epidural, and then we were out of there.

Leaving the hospital without a baby was hard

Walking out of the hospital was incredibly hard. I felt like everyone was staring at me and knew what I had just gone through.

We stayed at a hotel with my mom that night. I had a glass of wine and fell asleep right away. It was just a release of everything I had been through those past few days.

In the weeks after the birth, I got in touch with my employer to discuss what had happened. I was a teacher in Washington, DC. I worried about telling them my baby had died and saying I would need a few weeks off to heal my body. I was told that my family leave would be revoked because I couldn't get a birth certificate — that I needed to return to work.

I posted the photo on Instagram of me holding Aaliyah at the start of January, explaining how my family leave had been revoked. It went viral. At least 2,000 people contacted me, saying their situations were similar to mine.

I left teaching to help bereaved families

There was this spark, this passion burning inside me to show the world that I had birthed my daughter. I have a picture of me holding her. I have hand and footprints. I have her hair.

In May 2021, I decided to leave the classroom, which led to another form of grief.

I was determined to start something to let other bereaved families know they weren't alone. And that's how Aaliyah in Action was born. With donations, we create tangible bereavement-support packs for families dealing with a miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. The packs have been sent to 40 states and over 30 hospitals.

Some days, I don't leave my couch for 48 hours, crying and ordering takeout. Then there are days I manage to work, exercise, cook dinner, and do laundry. I'm learning that's grief.