These dads lost everything, and then they found each other

The worst day of Brad Bailey’s life was March 5, 2020: the day his son, Rhoan, was stillborn at 39 weeks old. His wife, Erica Bailey, had experienced a routine pregnancy until that day. No issues, no extra monitoring necessary. That morning, however, something was awry. The baby had stopped moving, and she went straight to the hospital. An ultrasound confirmed the couple’s worst fear: The baby didn’t have a heartbeat. Rhoan was declared dead before the Baileys ever got a chance to meet him. In the days and weeks that followed, the couple did the best they could to honor their son. They had a funeral near their home in Kansas City, Missouri. They took time off from work. Erica Bailey began to find comfort and purpose in volunteering for a nonprofit that advocates for stillbirth prevention, but Brad, 38, was still stupefied by sadness. “Burying your child is something that only those who have been around it or experienced it can understand,” he said. “I felt like I had nobody to talk to and no way out.” Eventually, upon a recommendation from his wife, Bailey connected with an online organization called the Sad Dads Club, a nonprofit that provides peer-to-peer community and support for bereaved fathers. The club supports dads who have endured any type of perinatal loss – that is, death of a baby during pregnancy, labor or within the first few weeks after birth. The group also welcomes fathers who have lost children to sudden infant death syndrome and those who have lost older and even adult children. It helps dads by providing a safe space for them to grieve, said Rob Reider, a club cofounder and executive director. The men share heartache, fear, anger, confusion, joy and any other emotion they experience on their journey. They also trade insights, knowledge and advice. Most of the group’s meetups are virtual: either via weekly video calls or messaging on the SDC Discord channel. Twice annually, the organization hosts an in-person retreat by a pond in Maine. The Sad Dads Club supports members in other ways, too. Through donations and grants, the organization has been able to help unlock access to professional mental health services. The group currently covers six online therapy sessions at no cost for up to 20 dads each year. This kind of counseling and camaraderie after the loss of a child can be invaluable, Reider said. “Living with the loss of a child is a never-ending journey,” he said. “Finding help shouldn’t be a burden, too.” Born out of necessity There certainly are lots of fathers grappling with the grief of stillbirth. One out of every 175 pregnancies in the United States ends in stillbirth, according to the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. This means about 21,000 babies are stillborn annually. While there are mental health programs to help parents manage this heartbreak, most of them are for mothers, said Michelle Goldwin Kaufman, a psychologist in Memphis, Tennessee. Kaufman noted this means dads are left to manage heartache on their own. It’s yet another challenge, considering that traditional masculinity norms reject vulnerability and that men’s mental health has been in crisis. “One of the stereotypes is that men want to fix things, but stillbirth is not a problem anyone can fix,” said Kaufman, who is also an adjunct professor of psychology at the University of Memphis. “The reality is that dads in these scenarios often get forgotten, and it’s important to create an environment where they can give their grief space.” Born out of ‘beers and tears’ This need for connection is precisely what led 40-year-old Reider to team up with friends Jay Tansey and Chris Piasecki and start the Sad Dads Club. All three men live in or near Portland, Maine, and all three lost children to stillbirth during an 18-month period. Reider and Tansey, best friends from college, each experienced this trauma in 2017. Piasecki, the husband of a college classmate, had a child die a year later. Following these tragedies, the men struggled with feelings of isolation, guilt and sadness, but they found comfort in spending time together. These early meetups among dads were informal gatherings, filled with emotion, extended, uncomfortable silences and lots of beer. “Basically, we were three grown men sitting there over beers, bawling our eyes out, talking about our daughters, and learning how to piece life together as best we could,” Tansey, 40, said. Piasecki, 38, called it “beers and tears.” One of the reasons he found the get-togethers so helpful is because each dad knew he didn’t have to explain what he was feeling because his friends felt it, too. “I remember thinking, ‘This is the first conversation I’ve ever had with other guys where I don’t have to give the entire backstory of why I feel like crap,’” Piasecki said. “I could live in the moment and talk about how I was feeling at that time, and they’d just understand. That was incredibly powerful. We became each other’s lifeline.” Cultivating a dad community online Gradually the trio met other local men who had also lost babies to stillbirth, and they invited the newcomers to join. Then, one cold and rainy night in 2022, Reider was leaving the house to meet the group at a bar in Portland, Maine, when his wife Tehilah remarked that he was heading to a meeting of the “Sad Dads Club.” The name stuck. Reider, Tansey and Piasecki formally founded the nonprofit later that year. They started slowly: first an Instagram account, then a website. The site launched with three “birth stories,” in which the founders shared heart-wrenching details of their losses. These narratives made it clear from the beginning: SDC was a place where men could be vulnerable and let it all out. Soon after launching the website, the group started monthly video call meetings. The dads added an online channel to chat in 2023 – it started small and now includes subgroups for topics such as returning to work, celebrating the birthdays of the kids they have lost, sex after loss and even lighter fare such as fantasy football. These days, the club meets every Thursday night. Dads log on from all over the world – including Maine, California, England and Australia. Sessions alternate between “My Child, My Story,” during which one member gets the floor and shares stories, photos and other mementos; and “Open Hour,” which is more of a moderated peer-to-peer support group focusing on topics such as relationships and pregnancy after loss. A session earlier this year dealt with the complicated subject of returning to work after losing a child. Reider opened the session by saying, “We hate why we’re all here but we’re glad that we found one another.” Later, he asked participants to introduce themselves by their first name and the name of the child they lost. Reider isn’t just Rob; he is Rob, Lila’s dad. Tansey is Jay, Bella’s Dad. Piasecki is Chris, Isabelle’s dad. Supporting dads in real life A few months after Sad Dads got going, Reider and his friends had an idea: Why not have a meetup in real life? The trio got to work on finding a house large enough for about two dozen men and secluded enough for participants to feel like they were really stepping out of their everyday lives and into a new space for healing. Reider’s wife eventually found the perfect spot in Raymond, Maine, about 30 minutes outside of Portland. The first retreat was in October 2023; since then, there have been three others for a total of four. Each retreat includes 25 men. Over the course of two and a half days, the men cook food together, play Wiffle ball, go for hikes and unwind from their daily lives. As the men relax, they begin to open up. Reider recalled a moment during the first retreat when he walked by a group of men who had never met in real life, talking like old friends about their “Rainbow” kids – the kids they have had since they lost a child to stillbirth. During a subsequent retreat, one participant who had struggled for a while told the group that he thought the retreat healed the past four years of his life. Matt Bakalar, an SDC member from Somerville, Massachusetts, has attended two retreats so far, and said he is consistently amazed by how close the men get in such a short time. “These are guys I’ve been through everything with; we have this horrible bond that, in a way, keeps us going,” Bakalar, 37, said. “I’m used to seeing the guys on (video calls). To go to the retreat and see them and hug them and cry with them in person is an amazing experience.” So far, retreats have had very little structure outside of mealtimes. This is by design. The founders say that without an agenda, participants are free to take the retreat wherever they want to go —– even if that means one group of dads wants to take a hike and another group of dads wants to drink beer and talk. They often do both. The objective for the retreats is to make sure no dad feels alone. “When dads come to the retreat hurting, we jump right into that pain pit with them,” Reider said. “We won’t wince, and we’ll be right there with them with our arms around them in that pit of pain, so they don’t feel alone. That’s what Sad Dads Club is all about.” What’s next for the Sad Dads None of the founders knows exactly how many men the group has helped over the years — between the number of dads who participate in formal events and those who interact with the group through Instagram, they estimate it’s in the thousands, if not tens of thousands. Looking forward, two of the organization’s goals are to expand this reach, offer more mental health support and establish active in-real-life meetups around the country. Reider said he’d like to offer more free therapy sessions to a larger pool of men. “In a dream world they could offer every one of their dads unlimited therapy or coaching services without a time stamp,” said Karina Chandler, a therapist in Portland, Maine, who has offered “grief coaching” services to SDC members. No one ‘gets over’ this loss While most of the dads learn positive coping skills to use when tackling their pain head-on, club members support without judgment those who can’t or aren’t ready yet, encouraging grace. Reider noted that nobody ever “gets over” the loss of a loved one. “It’s not moving on, it’s moving through,” he said. Just ask Brad Bailey. He barely spoke at his first SDC meeting, but now he’s a regular contributor. Bailey also has found his voice in the world. The once quiet and private person openly celebrates his son Rhoan, putting the boy’s name on a flag that also reads, “Make him proud.” The flag hangs in Bailey’s home gym, a reminder that Rhoan is always with him. “Even though he’s not here, we will never let him be forgotten,” Bailey said. “I’m not sure I could have reached the place I’m in today without the help of these men.” Matt Villano is a writer and editor based in Healdsburg, California. To learn more about him, visit whalehead.com.