
Alex and his wife lost their daughter Isabela to stillbirth at 28 weeks on May 24, 2025. In the months that followed, he did what problem solvers do. He tried to fix it.
He read every book he could find about grief. He joined bereaved parents' groups. He sought spiritual guidance from multiple faith leaders. He went to grief counselling. He treated every one of these things like a box to tick, according to him. If he did all the right things, he thought, he would be cured.
None of it made him feel like a dad again in the way he needed. The people around him were kind. His family kept telling him, "You are a dad, you are always a dad." But inside, the doubt was louder than anything anyone said.
"Sometimes you do not really believe that you are a parent," he said.
A friend finally called out what was happening. Alex was intellectualizing his grief, trying to think his way through somethingthat required him to feel it.

Alex joined the Sad Dads Club and took part in the StillDad Letter Writing Journey, the container built exactly for this, led by a dad who had lived through the same loss. Six ninety minute sessions with a small group of grieving fathers, over forty five days. He came in with an open mind, but with some skepticism. He expected to walk out unchanged.
The first thing that shifted was the writing itself. Just putting words on a page.
"When I joined the letter writing, it was okay, now I am sitting with it. Meditating with it. Praying with it. Really just feeling it. There is one thing to talk to someone, a therapist, family members, even your spouse. But it is another thing to put it down on paper. Physically writing it down. Which is huge."
Alex cried while writing. He said he had not cried in months. It was not until he sat down and put pen to paper.
The second thing that shifted was the room, where the fathers, each grieving a different loss, showed up week after week. Watching another dad be honest gave Alex permission to be honest too.
"I was sharing things with these guys that I had not shared even with my wife. Had not shared with anyone."
The thing the activity gave Alex, more than anything, was permission. It let him feel moments of joy without guilt, and be honest with his wife about what he had been carrying alone.
Alex was already in therapy. He is not describing writing as a replacement for it.
"Grief wasn't very quiet. It was a lot of noise going on up there... saying it out loud or saying it to a therapist is just a lot different than actually writing it down... I'm a lot more brutally honest when I'm writing things down, even than in any other form of traditional therapy or group therapy... because the journaling is for me. It's for me and for Isa."
The session about relationships brought up things Alex had been holding onto silently for months. He knew what he needed to tell Isa. He was not sure what he needed to tell his wife. The framework did not give him answers. It gave him a place to name what he had been afraid to say out loud. Then he took those same words to the person who needed to hear them.
"Once you take that step and write it down... you confront those feelings with your spouse... the reaction was great."
Alex does not feel healed. But he feels like a dad again.
He claims Isabela openly now and introduces himself as Isa's dad. He runs what he calls Isa projects. He does local charity work and volunteers at bereavement events. He has become one of the dads other dads walk up to and say, "You are saying the things I have been thinking but could not say."
He no longer carries the doubt he named at the start. "The freedom and the permission to still call myself a dad, and to live like one, is huge."

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