Our Story
Marcieliz Sunshine was born prematurely at 24 weeks due to a placenta abruption. She graced this world for 42 hours before she left. In those hours she was held, she was named, and she was deeply, completely loved.
Her mom and dad built this Foundation and its journal from that loss. They are both founders. That matters, because it means this place includes fathers by design, not as an afterthought.
A note from Marcieliz's Mom
We built this because we looked for it and it didn't exist.
We built this because we looked for it and it didn't exist.
Most grief circles for child loss are built around the mother, and we understand why. But fathers grieve too. Deeply. Quietly. Often alone. And there is almost nowhere designed to hold both parents at once, not separately, but together, as a unit, as the two people who created and lost the same child.
Grief is messy. Grief is personal. We know that. But we also know that some parents don't need to be separated into different rooms to heal, they need a space that says: you can do this together. That your grief as a couple is valid. That there is no comparison between what she feels and what he feels, because loss doesn't rank itself.
We just wanted a safe place for parents to grieve their child, together, and as individuals within that togetherness. This Foundation, this journal, everything we're building here, it comes from that want.
From our loss. From our love. From Marcieliz Sunshine.
This Space Was Built for You Too, Dad.
To every father reading this. I know you want to be her rock right now. I know staying strong feels like the most important thing you can do. But I want to tell you something nobody tells grieving fathers.
There is more strength in vulnerability than in silence.
It takes courage to show yourself. To share what you're actually feeling instead of carrying it alone behind a face that says you're fine. That kind of strength, the kind that opens up instead of shuts down, is harder than anything. And it is more powerful than any wall you could build.
Who would ever fault a man for being vulnerable at the death of his child? No one. So let this be the moment. Not just with her, but with your friends, your brothers, the men in your life you never thought you'd go to with something like this. You might be surprised what opens up when you do.
Grief creates doors that were never there before. New conversations. New depth. New ways of being known by the people you love. A man who can say I am hurting is not weak. He is brave. He is present. He is exactly what his family needs.
Don't mistake silence for strength. The most powerful thing you can do right now is feel this, out loud, together, without shame.
— Marcieliz's Dad
The story below is shared in full, in her mother's own words. It includes details of pregnancy loss and medical trauma.
Marcieliz's Story
In Her Mother's Words
We found out we were pregnant on August 15th, 2024. It had taken time to get there — years of an irregular body, a PCOS diagnosis in 2023, and a lot of hope. When it finally happened, it felt like everything had been leading to her.
I switched to a doctor I trusted, one who didn't treat every part of pregnancy like it needed a pill or a procedure. I wanted a home birth. I was looking for a midwife and a doula before I even knew I was pregnant. Everything, at first, pointed to a normal, low-risk pregnancy.
Then, on November 18th, at what was supposed to be a routine 19-week anatomy scan, we learned I was already 2 centimeters dilated. The doctor didn't want me to leave right away. They gave us three choices: end the pregnancy, go home and hope, or an emergency cerclage that might give her a 50/50 chance. We asked to go home and sleep on it — we didn't want to make a decision like that on a whim. That night, we decided to move forward with the cerclage, the next day it was placed. For a while, it seemed to be working. We went from low-risk to high-risk in a single appointment, and stayed there.
Early December, a routine scan showed I might be dilating again. I was hospitalized for a week to be monitored. I didn't feel anything unusual. I was eventually sent home.
On December 21st, at 24 weeks, I woke up around 4am bleeding. I didn't feel anything — I think my body protected me by pulling me somewhere far away from what was happening. My husband called the ambulance. We live two blocks from the hospital, and somehow it still felt like it took forever. When we arrived, there was no one there to meet us. It was the week of Christmas.
The local hospital wasn't equipped for the kind of NICU care she'd need, and there were no beds anywhere closer that could take both of us. The doctors didn't think I'd survive the trip to Boston. So we waited — for a portable NICU unit from Boston Children's Hospital to reach us, for someone to tell us what came next. My husband held my hand through every second of it, and through the emergency c-section that followed. I never once felt alone, because he never let me.
Marcieliz was born at 6:30am on December 21st — 1lb 5oz, 12 inches long, hairy, and looking just like her daddy. Beautiful, small, and mighty. Tufts was the only hospital at the time with a bed for both her and me, so she was transferred there using the portable NICU unit. Around 11:15am, I got to see her for the first time. I had to stay behind for a required recovery period before I could follow her myself.
Once I arrived at Tufts I was able to visit her, then the third worst day of my life happened the next day on December 22nd, around 7pm. She had her first seizure. We hadn't been told anything was wrong until that moment.
The doctors asked us if we wanted to keep fighting for her. We said yes. They stabilized her, and for the first time, they opened her NICU enclosure and let us touch her. We have photos of her hand wrapped around my finger. I don't know if it was reflex or if she was really reaching for us, but it felt like she was.
Less than thirty minutes later, she was seizing again. They asked us the question a second time. This time, my husband made the choice I couldn't make. I will carry, for the rest of my life, the fact that I wasn't standing beside her in her final moments — that I was too afraid to move from that chair. We held her after. Just not during. If I could go back, I would never have left her side.
Marcieliz passed away the night of December 22nd, 2024 just before midnight. She lived just under 42 hours. Perfect, and loved, every single one of them.
This Foundation and everything in it — the journal, the resources, the community we're building — exists because of her. Because two days was enough to change everything, and because no parent should have to carry what we carried without somewhere to put it down.
Why we made it this way
The three things we insisted on.
Fathers belong here
A father co-founded this Foundation. Grief doesn't skip dads, and neither do we. There is no hierarchy here between what she feels and what he feels.
The journal exists because nothing held us both
We searched for something made for a couple, something that could sit between two people and let them grieve the same child together. We couldn't find it, so we wrote it.
Any age, any circumstance
Newborn, infant, child, teenager, adult child. Grief is grief. If you lost your child, this was made for you.
A Private Membership Association
What that means, plainly.
We are community-funded and community-governed. No government grants. No outside control. Just people who believe in healing.