Filling Empty Arms: A weighted tool to help cope with grief

October 2026

By Jessica Benjamin

In light of Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month, I would like to share a piece of my story, and an unexpected tool that helped me cope.  

Matthew’s life here was a gift: bittersweet and precious, yet hard. A weighted stuffed animal helped anchor me after his passing, so I could carry a little peace in my arms. 

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His life here was far too short. A shooting star in our lives. Special, beautiful, and profound.

When pregnant, we discovered he was facing a breadth of complex health challenges. They were uncertain of what to label it at the time, but were fairly certain it would be difficult. We prayed for a miracle. While the healing never came, grace certainly did. Amidst the fear and the grief, there was so much support. And most of all, there was so, so much love.

We left the NICU with a terminal diagnosis and palliative care provisions. We didn’t know if we would have days or weeks together, but we wanted to be together at home with his older brother and family and friends around us. We got to hold Matthew close for 15 months. Hard. Beautiful. Painful. Transformative. And then it was goodbye. But the love, the love remains.

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My arms, so used to his weight, were now empty. I felt like a shell of myself. I had been Matthew’s primary caretaker. I was so used to holding him or having him close by—an extension of me.  

I imagine many who have faced grief may relate: his absence was a tangible presence.

I was restless in his vacuum, unbalanced, feeling like I had a “phantom limb” where he should be in my arms. His weight wasn’t there to anchor me, and I felt adrift in my grief.

One afternoon in the weeks following his passing, I was mindlessly scrolling on my phone, numbly craving distraction and peace. I saw a post featuring a grandmother preparing for her grandchild to be born, excitedly rocking a heavy bag of rice to practice holding a baby. It revealed to me a major point of my struggle. The weight.

His physical weight was something I deeply craved. Just as I gave Matthew so much comfort in holding him throughout good days and hard days, I also experienced comfort through that weight—his bodily presence—and now it was gone. Photos, clothing, and other objects couldn’t bring it back. The energetic hugs and snuggles of his bigger, older brother were wonderfully sweet and special and lovely, but also different. I wondered if I could make a sensory replication of feeling Matthew’s weight. Something that might satisfy that physical absence that I felt so keenly.

While I was considering filling an old stuffed animal with rice, like the grandmother’s rice bag, I discovered that weighted stuffed animals already existed on the market, like weighted blankets. They were promoted for providing calming, sensory pressure and comfort, aiding relaxation and easing anxiety. While the options I found were not marketed for grief, I felt that one of these stuffed animals might still be helpful for me. So I found one available at a nearby children’s store—a 4.5 lb. sloth-shaped “Hugimal.” Upon purchase, the shop associates kindly assured me this stuffed sloth would make a wonderful gift for a lucky child. I didn’t dare mention it was for ME, to try to replace the feeling of my baby who had passed away.

(This was one of many “landmine moments.” Like the common question of “How many kids do you have?” These well-meaning, lighthearted conversation pieces can feel so difficult to navigate following the death of your child. Either you are evasive, don’t answer fully, or if you share the truth, you have to be prepared to explain and comfort those asking. It’s another exhausting facet of loss.)

After my purchase, I sat in the passenger seat of the car and pulled the sloth into my lap. It immediately felt good to have it rest against me. It has weighted arms that can drape around my shoulders and feel like a cuddle or hug. It’s only 4.5 lbs, closer to Matty’s weight at birth rather than at his passing, yet it feels substantial, familiar, and comforting.    

It does not look like a baby, and I am immensely glad it doesn’t. My mind and heart know this sloth is very much distinct and never a replacement for my son, but my body feels peace, more grounded by its weight. Feeling like I’m a child again, it comes to bed with me, it helps me wind down as I read before dozing off, and my sleep quality improves with it in my arms. On harder days, the sloth spends time with me on the living room couch as well. The painful sharpness of Matthew’s absence can now be felt alongside this comforting “reminder” of soft weight in my arms.

It has been two years since Matthew has gone to be with the Lord. I still keep the sloth in my room, and sometimes in my bed. Although it’s no longer necessary for me to sleep well anymore, I still enjoy the comfort of the weight in the crook of my arm or over my chest. And when the tears come, its physicality can help comfort and anchor me in the waves of loss.

Benefits of Weighted Stuffed Animals and Blankets

It is suggested that weighted blankets and stuffed animals can reduce anxiety and stress and promote relaxation. They can provide enhanced sleep, comfort, and focus.¹ There are many products on the market today. For example, blankets and stuffed animals come in different weights, and some can also be warmed, cooled, or even scented.

I don’t know your story, whether you are looking for something to support yourself or perhaps a loved one. Whether you are facing the loss of a baby or struggling with other hardships. Whether a weighted stuffed animal or blanket could be a good gift, a helpful addition to a self-care routine, or even something that makes a counselling space more comfortable. It may be worth considering.

As trivial as a stuffed animal may seem, especially following the loss of a child, it was one of the things that unexpectedly helped me cope with grief, especially in the first year following Matthew’s death. So I share this personal experience in case it helps you or a loved one.

Loss, Life, and Heavenly Hope

I think of Matthew many times every single day. He remains deeply part of my life and part of my heart. His time here was far too short, yet his impact continues to ripple out before me.   

Learning to live with his loss is part of my journey, and this journey has been aided by a weighted tool as I continue to navigate grief.

One day, in heaven, I will embrace and hold my son again. I cannot fully express how much I look forward to that time—how much more I now anticipate the joys of heaven. Right now, I have other loved ones here to share hugs and life with, and sometimes, I still cling to a small stuffed sloth, as my body and heart remember the all-too-short season of holding my sweet Matty in my arms.

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If you are looking for support while navigating a pregnancy-related loss, a great step is to get connected with a pregnancy care centre near you or connect online for compassionate and confidential support.

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