In 2025, I was an artist happily pregnant, waiting to cuddle my little baby boy. But life unexpectedly changed its course.
Almost at the end of pregnancy, I lost my son before I could hold him. The pregnancy that should have brought life and made us become four instead brought a silence so heavy it pressed on every moment. I felt alive, as my body was still functioning, yet dead; an emptiness that no one seemed to know how to face. In the months after the loss, those around me didn’t know what to say. My close family were my anchor, even when I didn’t want to share, I knew they were there if I needed them. Their presence was quiet but deeply felt. Friends reached out at first, sending messages of sympathy or telling me they were thinking of me. But soon, many disappeared, unsure how to continue offering comfort or what was appropriate to say. And I couldn’t bring myself to listen to advice meant to make me feel better.
There was an isolation that no one could have planned, a quiet space that belonged only to grief. I realized that when I was finally ready to share my feelings, there was no one prepared to open the door and listen to the story of my son. The experience of stillbirth is often invisible. Society expects parents to grieve quietly, to recover for the comfort of others. Yet grief cannot be confined to silence. It inhabits your body, your thoughts, your breath. Every reminder of life moving forward without your child, a pregnant woman on the street, a baby crying, parents proudly holding their babies, a friend’s delivery or pregnancy announcement, felt like a subtle accusation or reminder that my loss was private, unspoken, and somehow improper.
The Need to Create
Months after the loss, I began to sense a drawing forming in my mind. It was not a plan, not even an idea, it was a need, a pull from deep inside, demanding to be expressed. I knew what I wanted to show: the unbearable weight of grief, the physical and emotional collapse, the silent endurance of parents who have lost a child.
When I finally felt ready, creating this work became a form of art therapy after loss, a way to transform invisible pain into something tangible. I needed the world to see the posture of grief: the body folded in on itself, a hand clutching the stomach, the face hidden as if tortured physically, with no strength left to rise. Each line and shadow carried both sorrow and love, a testament to the child I could not hold and the grief I could not speak aloud.
Pouring Love Into Lines
I didn’t rush. I took my time, 45 hours of drawing spread over 3 weeks. The process was long, delicate, and profoundly emotional. Some days, I drew through tears, allowing my sorrow to guide the pencil, the charcoal, the graphite. Other days, I thought only of how much love I had for this baby I held for just 2 hours in my arms.
There were moments when the act of drawing itself became a ritual of mourning, a rhythm of love and remembrance. The drawing demanded honesty. I had to expose myself, emotionally naked, to capture the weight and fragility of grief. Each shadow was a sigh, each stroke a heartbeat that no longer existed. As I worked, I poured all the love I would never be able to give my son into the lines, letting the pencil carry a presence that was absent in life but could exist on paper.
Rassegnazione al dolore
Only after the drawing was complete did I start thinking of the title. While creating, I had a few ideas in mind, but nothing felt good enough, nothing was worthy of my son. Rassegnazione al dolore (“Resignation to Pain”) felt fitting, capturing both the physical posture of the figure and the emotional reality it carries. Created in graphite on paper (56 × 76 cm), the drawing depicts a woman on her knees, folded in on herself. One hand clutches her stomach while the other covers her face. Her long hair falls forward, obscuring her features, and the nightdress wraps around her, tracing the posture that grief has imposed upon her. The posture is central. It speaks of collapse, of carrying unbearable weight, of the convergence of physical and emotional pain. By covering her face, the figure refuses the viewer’s eyes, evoking the silence and stigma that often surround grief. Through hyper-realistic charcoal and graphite drawings, I transformed personal loss into a collective experience, offering a mirror for all who have grieved silently. It speaks of fragility, the quiet endurance of parents interrupted in their expectation of life, and the universality of grief that society often fails to acknowledge.
Sharing the Unseen
I submitted 'Rassegnazione al dolore' to the Luxembourg Art Prize 2025, hoping it could give voice to my son and bring visibility to the stillbirth experience. This act of sharing is not just about recognition, it is about creating a space where people who have lost a child feel seen, heard, and validated.
We often ask about the role of the artist in modern society. For me, it is to communicate, to open conversations. That is why my art becomes a vessel for what cannot be spoken. Through this drawing, I aim to confront the invisible, to make grief tangible, and to remind the world that even in silence, love and mourning endure.
A Letter to Those Who Understand
To parents who have experienced stillbirth or infant loss, I see you. Your grief is real. It is not something to be hidden, and it is not something to be rushed or silenced. If my work offers even a small refuge, a recognition that you are not alone, then it has fulfilled its purpose.
If you feel unseen, I hope you can find comfort in sharing your story, in remembering, in creating, or in simply acknowledging your own heartache. Cherish your children as they have lived with you, feel free to feel as a real mother or father even though you have no right to hold their hands but only to bring flowers to a grave. Grief does not have to be solitary, it can be shared, honored, and transformed into connection, even through the fragile medium of a pencil and paper.
For my loved Andrea Riccardo. For your children. For you all. For us.
