Walkers' Angels

Our Story

Iśabella Jordan and Samantha Gabrielle serve as reminders of hope, love, and resilience.

When Matt and I decided to start a family, we had no idea the pain and trauma we would endure. Like most young couples, we imagined pregnancy as something certain—something beautiful and uncomplicated. I pictured myself in that familiar image: sitting in a rocking chair, holding my quiet, sweet newborn, without a care in the world.

That was not our story.

Our first daughter, Isabella, was born in 2002. We named her after me because, at birth, we thought she looked just like me. Matt, the poetic one, ended up naming all of our children. Through our tears and heartbreak, he said, “She is an Isabella.”

At 16 weeks pregnant, I felt something wasn’t right. I called Matt, and he reassured me the way so many do: “Everything will be fine—just put your feet up and call the doctor.” But everything was not fine. My water broke, and everything began to unravel.

Isabella held on for as long as she could. We hoped that if I rested, the fluid would rebuild and she would survive. Nearly a week passed before we saw a specialist. After a long day of waiting, I was rushed to the hospital to deliver her.

It was a stillbirth—but it was still a birth.

That’s when we met Della, a nurse who became our strength when we had none. Matt and I were stunned—angry, confused, devastated—as the image of rocking our baby faded away.

Della helped us find a place called “Baby Land” at Forest Hills Cemetery in Waxhaw. I will never forget how quickly we had to make decisions no parent should have to make. When asked whether we wanted cremation or burial, we gathered what little strength we had and chose a place under a large oak tree.

That is where Isabella rests.

Not long after, we became pregnant again—but lost that pregnancy at six weeks, on the anniversary of 9/11. I had to undergo surgery, adding another layer to our grief.

A year later, we conceived again.

Samantha Gabrielle was born in 2003. She was named after Matt’s birth name, Samuel, because she looked just like him. But once again, she was born too soon.

At 20 weeks, I felt that same “weird” feeling. Again, I was told everything was fine. I was at work about to end for the day and they said go home and put your feet up and come in tomorrow. This time, I was rushed to the emergency room where doctors attempted to save her with a cervical cerclage. I remained in the Trendelenburg position for hours, waiting for surgery. I thought to myself I can do this for my child; tears rolling.

When I woke up, I received the news—my water had broken again.

We waited for my body to go into labor.

The outcome was the same; our nurse Della resurfaced again. Not ironically I am most certain and now that she is retired. We continue to stay in contact as she is the only one outside of Matt who met our girls.

This time, we knew what to do. We asked for Samantha to be buried beside Isabella, under that same beautiful oak tree in Baby Land.

After that, I was done. I could not imagine trying again. I wanted nothing to do with pregnancy—or doctors.

But I also knew I needed help.

I was angry, numb, and completely broken when I found my way to Kindermourn. We didn’t have money for therapy and had no idea how we would afford support. But they welcomed us anyway and connected us to a group called Empty Arms with a simple message: “Pay what you can.”

That changed everything.

Matt wasn’t drawn to therapy, but he came because he knew I needed it. I still remember the room, the colors, the couches. That space held our grief. It gave us language for our pain. It gave us hope.

And slowly, we began to heal.

A year later, I became pregnant again—unexpectedly. This time, I advocated fiercely for my care. I found an OB-GYN experienced with cases like mine and a specialist. At 13 weeks, I had a planned cervical cerclage.

I spent six months on bed rest—rotating appointments, attending therapy, and leaning on family and friends while Matt carried so much on his shoulders.

In 2004, we welcomed our first living child, Fabian Matías.

Finally, I had the moment I had always imagined.

A year and a half later, in 2006, we welcomed Matildé Eveyanna -after another six months of bed rest.

There were many heartaches along the way—too many to name—but there was also joy. Deep, meaningful joy.

Today, our story has come full circle with adult children with the understanding that not all stories have a “”happy ending”.

I now give back through Kindermourn by helping lead support groups for other families walking this painful path of grief. For years, we wanted to participate more—like the Duck Race—but life with young children kept us busy.

Now, as a family, we’ve made a decision.

We are committed to supporting Kindermourn in any way we can.

Because the truth is simple:

Kindermourn helped save us.

And now, we want to help bring that same hope to others.