Paapa Essiedu and the heavy reality of pregnancy loss in Babies

Paapa Essiedu is tired of the quiet. The actor, who many first noticed as the prickly, high-fashion-wearing Bernard in the Harry Potter prequel Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, is shifting from magical realism to a far more grounded, painful kind of reality. His latest TV drama, Babies, doesn't aim to entertain in the traditional sense. It aims to rip the tape off a subject that people still struggle to discuss without looking at their shoes: pregnancy loss.

For too long, television treated miscarriage and stillbirth as a "very special episode" trope. It was a plot point used to generate quick tears before the characters moved on to the next season’s arc. Babies refuses to play that game. Essiedu plays a father grappling with the fallout of a loss that society often tells men they shouldn’t feel as deeply as their partners. It’s raw. It’s uncomfortable. It’s exactly what needs to be on our screens right now.

Why we still can't talk about miscarriage

The numbers are staggering, yet the silence remains deafening. Roughly one in four pregnancies ends in loss. If you're in a room with four women, odds are one of them has lived through this. Yet, we treat it like a freak accident or a private shame. Essiedu has been vocal about how the script for Babies stopped him in his tracks because it forced him to confront his own lack of vocabulary around the topic.

Most people don't know what to say. We mumble "I'm sorry" or, worse, offer platitudes like "everything happens for a reason." Babies shows the wreckage those words leave behind. The show tracks the minute-by-minute disintegration of a couple’s sense of safety. It isn't just about the medical event; it’s about the nursery that stays locked and the way friends stop calling because they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing.

The forgotten grief of the partner

One of the most striking elements of Essiedu’s performance is how it centers the partner’s experience. There’s a persistent, toxic narrative that the non-birthing parent is just the "support system." They’re expected to be the rock, the one who handles the funeral arrangements and the hospital bills while keeping their own emotions in a neat little box.

Essiedu’s character blows that box apart. He’s not just a bystander. He’s a grieving father. By showing a man—specifically a Black man—navigating this level of vulnerability, the show breaks two taboos at once. It challenges the "strong silent type" archetype that has stifled men's mental health for generations. Grief doesn't have a gendered hierarchy. When a pregnancy ends, both parents lose a future. Essiedu portrays this with a haunting stillness that says more than a ten-minute monologue ever could.

Realism over melodrama

Television usually loves a hospital scene with beeping monitors and dramatic lighting. Babies takes a different route. It focuses on the bureaucracy of loss. The coldness of the forms you have to fill out. The way the world keeps spinning while yours has hit a brick wall. This isn't "misery porn." It’s an honest accounting of a common human experience.

The production worked closely with bereavement charities to ensure the medical and emotional beats felt authentic. They didn't want to gloss over the physical reality of what happens to a body after a loss. When you see Essiedu’s character holding a tiny, weighted memory box, it’s not a prop. It’s a representation of the thousands of families who leave hospitals with a box instead of a car seat.

Breaking the cycle of shame

Shame is a parasitic emotion. It grows in the dark. By bringing these stories into the living rooms of millions, Essiedu and the creators of Babies are shining a massive spotlight on that darkness. The goal isn't just to make people sad. It’s to give people permission to speak.

If you've gone through this, seeing a star of Essiedu’s caliber inhabit that pain can be incredibly validating. It says, "I see you. This matters." For those who haven't experienced it, the show acts as a crash course in empathy. It teaches us how to show up for the people in our lives without the awkwardness that usually defines these interactions.

The cultural impact of Paapa Essiedu

Essiedu has a knack for picking roles that get under the skin of the zeitgeist. From his breakout in I May Destroy You to his turn in The Lazarus Project, he’s always gravitated toward characters who are forced to reckon with the unthinkable. Babies feels like the natural evolution of his career. He’s using his platform to bridge the gap between "celebrity" and "humanity."

He’s been open in interviews about the weight of this role. He didn't just show up, say the lines, and go home. He spent time with grieving parents, listening to the stories that don't make it into the brochures. That research shows in every frame. There’s a specific look in his eyes—a mix of confusion and profound exhaustion—that anyone who has sat in a waiting room for bad news will recognize instantly.

Moving toward a more honest conversation

The ripple effect of a show like Babies can't be understated. We've seen it before with shows that tackle mental health or addiction; when the media starts talking, the public follows. But pregnancy loss is different. It feels more intimate, more "biological," and therefore more "gross" to some people.

We need to get over that.

The medical community has made strides, but the social community is lagging behind. We still have "rules" about waiting twelve weeks to announce a pregnancy—a rule that basically exists so you don't have to "embarrass" people by telling them you had a miscarriage. Babies argues that we should share our pregnancies early so that if something goes wrong, we don't have to suffer in total isolation.

How to actually support someone

Watching the show is a start, but the real work happens when the TV is off. If someone in your life is going through what Essiedu’s character is facing, don't ask "how can I help?" They don't have the brainpower to give you a grocery list. Just show up. Drop off a meal. Text them a heart emoji without expecting a reply. Acknowledge the baby by name if they had one.

Stop treating pregnancy loss like a secret to be kept. It’s a life event to be honored. Essiedu’s performance is a call to action for all of us to be braver in our conversations. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to not have the answers. It’s not okay to stay silent.

If you’re struggling with loss, reach out to organizations like Sands or the Miscarriage Association. They offer the kind of specialized support that friends and family sometimes can't. Don't carry the weight alone. Check your local listings for when Babies airs in your region, but prepare yourself. It’s a tough watch, but it’s an essential one. Clear your schedule for an hour after it ends. You’ll need the time to sit with it. Better yet, use that time to call someone you’ve been meaning to check in on.