When we started trying 5 years ago, after going back and forth over the decision for a number of years, we assumed it would be easy.

Nobody tells you when you’re younger how difficult having a family can be. You get filled with stories of women who weren’t careful and got caught, young girls who weren’t ready, and warnings about how easily you can fall pregnant if not paying attention to contraception.

So, when we started trying 5 years ago, after going back and forth over the decision for a number of years, we assumed it would be easy.

Over the last 5 years, I’ve lost 5 babies through 4 unsuccessful pregnancies. 2 early miscarriages, 1 missed miscarriage, 1 11-week twin loss, and then the heartbreaking decision to end my pregnancy with the 2nd twin due to medical issues at almost 20 weeks.
After 1 loss you hear ‘oh it’s so common’, ‘I know someone who’s had 1 and they’ve gone on to have other children’, and my personal favourite ‘at least you know you can get pregnant’. And to be fair I wasn’t too concerned, so when it happened a 2nd time it was a shock.

…as I was over 35, I couldn’t access fertility support…

Myself and my husband differed on opinions for whether tests should be an option, but after a lot of discussion we went ahead. I was able to access some tests through my GP but as I was over 35, I couldn’t access fertility support so money started beginning to be spent on private specialist tests for both me and him.

This highlighted a higher than ideal thyroid level for me, and queried PCOS which had always been questioned over the years but GPs always differed on giving a diagnosis. After beginning medications, which became another monthly expense, I fell pregnant with twins. By this time, I was under Tommy’s but as I’d since fallen pregnant, they just offered more scans. The 10-week scan was lovely, it was the furthest I’d ever gotten and I remember being so happy after. However, at the 12-week scan 1 twin no longer had a heartbeat. We were heartbroken, but there was part of me that thought ‘we still have one baby’. We couldn’t have the combined test due to the impact the lost twin might have had, but all measurements looked ok.

It’s hard to put into words how I felt, I’m still not sure I can describe it.

When I heard the heartbeat at 16 weeks I was amazed! However it was at this point the combined test was done, and the results came back high risk for Down’s syndrome. 2 weeks and further tests (that I had to pay for) later, I was having an amniocentesis. The consultant at the time discussed concerns over brain development, and 5 days later we were told the Down’s syndrome had led to the brain being not quite in the right place, and not developing. The following days were horrendous as we agonised over the decision before choosing to end the pregnancy based on the information we were given about the lack of quality of life our baby would have.
When our daughter was born asleep when I was 4 days away from being 20 weeks, it’s hard to put into words how I felt, I’m still not sure I can describe it.

It took 6 months to decide to try again, a decision my husband was not fully on board with, and another 12 before I fell pregnant for what we both knew would be the last time.
I’d had the PCOS diagnosis confirmed by then and a plethora of medications I was sure would help. But 2 weeks after the first positive test, I noticed the others (as I was doing a lot for reassurance) weren’t developing, and I miscarried at 6 weeks.

It’s hard to explain the mix of devastation but also relief that I think we both had. Knowing we would not get the family we wanted was hard to digest, but the relief of knowing we were off the rollercoaster was palpable.

there’s not 1 day that I don’t think either about the babies we’ve lost, or question if we are doing the right thing…

It’s been 6 months since we made that decision, and there’s not 1 day that I don’t think either about the babies we’ve lost, or question if we are doing the right thing. But ultimately, I know that I’d reached my capacity with it. My life had become about proving a point, that I could successfully carry and deliver a baby, and I’d lost sight of if it was something I really wanted.

What I try to focus on now is that my marriage came through it all stronger somehow. And having a source of support through TWGGE and knowing that I am not alone is making such a huge transition just that little bit easier.

We planned our lives as a four, talked about the future constantly, and couldn’t wait to meet our little addition to our family.

My first pregnancy went well; no major problems and I was happy and healthy. The thought of miscarriage didn’t even occur to us and we’d practically skipped into the scan room at 12 weeks and enjoyed every second of the scan. My healthy daughter arrived in September 2020 and, although we struggled at times through covid, we knew we wanted another to complete our family.

In December 2021, we found out that I was pregnant again. We were absolutely thrilled and naturally expected a similar pregnancy to last time, as we had no experience of anything else. We planned our lives as a four, talked about the future constantly, and couldn’t wait to meet our little addition to our family. In February 2022, at 11 weeks, I noticed a tiny bit of spotting. I wasn’t concerned as I still had morning sickness and a small bump and felt very pregnant. However, I rang the midwife and asked if I could pull my scan forward by a few days just to ease my mind. Plus, I couldn’t wait to see our baby for the first time! My husband had a meeting in Scotland on the day of the scan and I assured him that he didn’t need to cancel it as all would be fine. I genuinely believed that it would be; after all, why would it not?!

I went into the scan room and got ready and stared at the screen in front of me, excited to see the tiny life form that we had created. After a few moments, the midwife calmly told me that sadly the baby had died at 6 weeks. She explained that my body had continued believing it was pregnant and not miscarried the foetus or sac. I can pinpoint the exact moment that my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. I screamed and collapsed off the bed into the sonographer’s arms.

How could this have happened?

What even was a missed miscarriage?

How could my body not have known and let me down so badly?

How could I have been so naive? The moments after were a blur; I collapsed again in the corridor, had a panic attack, eventually finding the courage to call my husband and parents to tell them that the baby did not survive.

That moment changed my entire mindset of the fragility of life and death. After conversations with the consultant that became one big blur, I found myself on a bed being induced. I was advised of what was to come. I eventually left the ward to finish the ordeal in the comforts of my own home. 6 weeks later, after bleeding for several weeks, and becoming anaemic, I went back in to the hospital to have another scan as the consultant was concerned. To my horror, a miscarriage hadn’t taken place and the induction drugs had not worked. I was now facing surgery. I’ll never forget the fear in the lift on the way to surgery, the face of the anaesthetist, his idle chit chat and the theatre ring light shining brightly above me as I drifted off to sleep.

…you are never ready to go again after losing a baby, but we were brave enough to give it another go.

Fast forward a few months and we decided that we were ready to try again. I say ‘ready’- you are never ready to go again after losing a baby, but we were brave enough to give it another go. In July 2022, I found out that I was pregnant once again. We were absolutely thrilled and kept telling each other that everything WOULD be okay this time and it wouldn’t happen to us again; the chances are too slim.

We had a scan at 7 weeks and it revealed a tiny little life form with a strong beating heart. We were overjoyed and were so positive about the future of this little one. At 9 weeks and 4 days, we had another scan and once again, there they were; wriggling with a strong heartbeat. This is it we thought, all will be well and we can put our loss behind us. At 11 weeks and 5 days, I noticed a spot of blood and I knew. I knew it in my heart that it had happened again but I still hoped. All I had was hope.

We arranged a scan for the next day. Lying on the bed, gripping my husband’s hand, I stared at the sonographer’s face and waited in silence for what seemed like a lifetime. After the longest 30 seconds of my life, I heard the words “I’m so sorry, there’s no heartbeat” and my world collapsed around me once again. I screamed and screamed and sobbed uncontrollably into my husband’s chest. How could this have happened again? WHY us?

The next few hours were a catalogue of consultants and nurses moving us to different rooms and talking to us about what would come next. I just felt numb. The pain, heartbreak and loneliness I felt was indescribable and I wondered if I’d ever feel well again. I begged the consultant for surgery instead of induction and he eventually saw my anxiety and agreed. The last thing I remember was the theatre ring light shining above me once more.

I was so grateful to be pregnant again and to be given another chance, yet so terrified of what was to come; 8 months of waiting, hoping and never-ending anxiety.

\In June 2023, I found myself pregnant again. I remember sitting on our bed holding the positive test in my hand and sobbing. I was so grateful to be pregnant again and to be given another chance, yet so terrified of what was to come; 8 months of waiting, hoping and never-ending anxiety. We were booked in for an early scan at 7 weeks because of our history, and our bereavement midwife was to meet us there. I silently cried in the waiting room out of pure fear, as I sat with, what seemed like, a collection of peacefully naive pregnant women. Eventually I was taken to the rainbow suite while I waited for my scan. As I lay on the bed in the scan room, I watched the sonographer’s face and I knew in that moment that it had happened again.

The words hit me like a sledgehammer; “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat” and I screamed and sobbed into my husband’s arms once more. This time my overwhelming feeling was anger. How could this be happening to us again? What have we done to deserve this?! I went to the bathroom and I punched a wall. I’ve never hated my body as much as I did in that moment. I made my way back to the scan room, where they had to take measurements of my deceased foetus and I just lay there, in silence, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but rage.

Later, as we sat with the consultant, I heard the words “we can’t get you in for surgery today; you’ll have to ring every day first thing to see if we can fit you in”. I went absolutely ballistic. How could they make this torture continue by sending me home carrying a dead baby? The consultant was heartless and cold and I’ll never forget her.

…immediate escape from the hell that we were living through, and it briefly felt good.

As we got in the car, the sun was shining and I suddenly felt the urge to feel life. To experience something. To feel alive. We stopped at the river bridge, and jumped in the river fully clothed! I know this sounds like madness amongst all the grief and heartache, but we just wanted some immediate escape from the hell that we were living through, and it briefly felt good. The following days were spent going backwards and forwards into the hospital for blood tests, awaiting surgery. I think the stress was just all too much and I sadly lost this baby in the natural way, with no drugs and at home, 4 days after the scan.

Fast forward to June 2024 and, even though we’re still coming to terms with the losses of our precious babies, in many ways, we’re in a much better place. My husband has dealt with his grief in his own way, and I have focussed on my fitness and mental health, while fighting with severe anxiety and post-traumatic stress. We are happy to settle for our family of 3, and we have moved on from the horror of the last few years. Our daughter is an amazing distraction, and a miracle considering the statistics of miscarriage. We realise how lucky we are now and how naive we were when I carried her – blissfully unaware of the precarious nature of pregnancy and protected from the pain of miscarriage.

I truly believe that we CAN be happy again.

Miscarriage is lonely. Isolating. Devastating. There are so many emotions that come with it, that it’s near impossible to describe. I never realised how powerful hope is and sometimes it is all that we have in situations that we can’t control. I have realised that I am not alone, though. As I talk about my miscarriages to people, it suddenly becomes apparent how many women have suffered with baby loss and how important it is that we seek the support that we need.

Although most women who have experienced baby loss feel that we’ll never be the same person again, I truly believe that we CAN be happy again. And that we will learn to carry the grief of our precious losses in our hearts and build our future around them, whatever that future may be.

In a year marred by never-ending tears, I lost my lust for life, my confidence and my sense of self-worth.

On New Year’s Day 2024, my partner and I hiked up an icy Munro in the Scottish Highlands with some friends. With one miscarriage in the not-too-distant past, I was determined to feel optimistic about what lay ahead. I captioned a rare Instagram post from the top of the mountain with ‘Here’s to 2024!’ and I really felt, in my heart of hearts, that this would be our year. The year that the rest of our lives would start.

But it wasn’t. Instead, it was the worst year of our lives by a long mile. The year that we lost two more babies, and I lost hold of the tiny specks of faith and hope for our imagined future that my fingers had been clinging on to. It was the year that I stopped trusting the NHS to care for me in the way that it always had, and realised that this is an institution, so constrained by funding cuts and regressive policies, that it is devoid of the innovation and compassion so badly needed to treat women’s health issues in the 21st century. And it was the year that I became a defeated and desolate shadow of my former self. In a year marred by never-ending tears, I lost my lust for life, my confidence and my sense of self-worth.
I have written in the past about the experience of miscarriage in the purest and most honest words I could find. I have explained what it feels like to begin to grow a baby inside you, to see its tiny heart beating, and to have that baby die inside you, and to leave you, before you ever had the chance to say hello, let alone goodbye. What it feels like to have all your hopes and dreams crushed in an instant, by the look on a sonographer’s face. I have spoken of trying to deal with this experience in a world which continues to view miscarriage as ‘one of those things’ and refuses to engage in meaningful conversation about its earth-shattering repercussions. There are stories I have told to close friends and family about the physicality of this experience, of the surgery and procedures and the pain, which in my view the world is still not ready to hear. Instead let me simply say this. When I lie in bed at night, the thoughts rolling round and round in my head, clutching to my chest the pendants which I hang around my neck in memory of my babies, it is those images which come back to me, and which I will never forget.

Everyone around me is living out my trauma, but for them it is wrapped up in pink and blue ribbon. It is placed in a basket attached to a shiny balloon with the words “HELLO WORLD!” stamped across the front. 

But the emotional effects of this ordeal can and must be spoken about. Last year, through TWGGE, I had the truest pleasure of meeting and listening to the stories of some of the most remarkable women I will ever know, each of them having walked this path and shown the world how strong, resilient and powerful the female body, mind and spirit can be. It is only through the countless conversations I have now had with them and others, each of them having recounted the same thoughts, the same feelings and the same reactions to this experience, that I feel able to share this story. I had felt so alone for so long, but now I know that I am not. I know I am not deranged; I am not hysterical or overreacting or irrational. I am just a woman coping as best I can with my grief, as the fear and uncertainty of my future stretches out in front of me.

Without exaggeration, I estimate that 75% of the women of child-bearing age in my life have fallen pregnant or had a baby since my first miscarriage. Even acknowledging that we are of the approximate age at which this happens, that is a lot of babies in a short time. I have been trying to think of another situation where you might be confronted with a past trauma as forcefully and repetitively in your day-to-day life as this.
Imagine, perhaps, that I am a soldier returned from war. I keep having flashbacks of the battlefield. I become convinced that tragedy awaits me and my family on every corner. I wake at night in cold sweats, breathless, reliving what I have seen and what I have done. I have nightmares in which those experiences are distorted, even more monstrous than I remember. My friends and family were not there with me, but they have made films, productions, plays about this war. They keep asking me out or calling me up to tell me, to invite me to the premiere. I go along and I sit in the front row, and my greatest fears, the horrors from my recent past are played out before me, on repeat. As the credits roll and the curtain falls, the audience rises in rapturous applause.

Everyone around me is living out my trauma, but for them it is wrapped up in pink and blue ribbon. It is placed in a basket attached to a shiny balloon with the words “HELLO WORLD!” stamped across the front.

I rejected a world and a life that I had once found fun and vibrant and stimulating, which now seemed hostile and uncaring.

The topic of this conversation is uncomfortable. It is awkward. It is averting your gaze and shuffling your feet, it is looking away and texting ‘Congratulations!!’ as your eyes well with tears. Because we are not bad people, and admitting this particular type of sadness, whether out loud or in our own heads, makes us feel like we are. We want nothing but happiness for the people in our lives who we love, and, regardless of our own fate, in time we will love their children just as much as we love their mums and dads. But the here and now is really fucking hard; I have been robbed of the joy of pregnancy and childbirth.I will never see a baby bump that does not remind me of my own babies that I lost. I see posts and photos of newborns and I wonder ‘what is wrong with me’ and ‘why did your own body fail?’ Logic and reason and, indeed, the truth, will remind me that it was nothing that I did, that there is no fault or guilt or blame, but it festers. It festers and it grows.

In 2024 I lost myself. I ignored phone calls, I stopped replying to texts. I cancelled plans and rejected invitations. I stepped down from work projects and responsibilities. I missed birthdays and hen parties and family occasions. I rejected a world and a life that I had once found fun and vibrant and stimulating, which now seemed hostile and uncaring. It was, and sometimes it still is, easier to be alone.

…he has been my rock and continues to remind me that no matter what is coming next or what our future looks like, we will be together and we will, one day, be happy again.

Pregnancy loss stole who I was, but it has also stolen who I might have been. There is a version of me out there, in a parallel universe, who might have been blessed with an uncomplicated pregnancy. But that woman might also have taken for granted the phenomenon of childbirth, without an understanding of the million and one things that must be behaving and coinciding so perfectly in the male and female body to grow a healthy baby from sperm and egg. That version of me might have struggled through the tough early years of motherhood with little appreciation of how hard it can be to get there, without coming to the unshakeable and unyielding realisation that this is what she wants for her life, in the most painful way. And she might have looked at the man she is going to marry as simply the man she had fallen in love with. Instead, he became the man who picked her up from the shower floor where she lay crying beneath the flowing water, the man who held her close and stroked her hair through the sleepless and breathless nights, who, three times, sat in the adjoining chair as they blinked through the darkness at a motionless black and white screen and still drove them both safely home through the streaming tears. He is the man who squeezed her hand so tightly through the doctors’ appointments and the blood tests and who encouraged her, little by little, to face the world again. In such hard times and despite the challenges we have faced, he has been my rock and continues to remind me that no matter what is coming next or what our future looks like, we will be together and we will, one day, be happy again.

2025 does not start with the strained optimism of 2024. It is hard to see anything as I look into the future, neither joy nor pain, only the void of the great unknown. But I do know that I enter the year as a changed woman, certainly not glad of having lived these experiences, but more rounded and more whole because of them. As Britney would put it, stronger than yesterday.

There was no real consideration that after 41 years I did indeed know my body and when something was going very wrong.

The night I got engaged was the night I started to miscarry. I was 41 and 8 weeks pregnant with our first baby.

There are many things I’ve still got to process from the experience but one that still really stands out is the “one size fits all” guidance that health professionals seem to follow when dealing with loss in the first trimester.

While everyone I met or spoke to during my experience were compassionate and kind to both me and my partner, the initial advice I sought (i.e., what did I do? should I go to A&E?) was very much led by a specific criteria that required me to have bled a certain amount or feel a particular pain. There was no real consideration that after 41 years I did indeed know my body and when something was going very wrong. Instead I felt like my women’s intuition was translated into medical hysteria.

Although I told the 111 operator I knew I was having a miscarriage, because I could not categorically say I had “flooded a pad” or had passed “a mug full of material” (partly because I’d watched it go down the toilet and who’s really measuring that sh*t when your world is falling apart?) I was told to wait; to not panic and that a clinician would call me back.
We waited 3 hours to be told to go to A&E, which we were already doing as by that time the pain had gotten unbearable and the bleeding had not stopped.

At hospital the criteria questions started again, this time by reference to egg cups. Of course, I had no idea. By then I’d been bleeding heavily for 4 hours. I was too scared to look in the loo. I just wanted someone to listen to me, and trust me and my gut when I said I was miscarrying.

…is it naive to assume they would have access to scanning equipment on A&E given half the population can get pregnant?

Thankfully the nurse understood I was broken by what was happening and needed answers. I’ll always appreciate that he put us in a treatment room rather than back in the main waiting room to give us some privacy while waiting for a scan that never came. (Be honest, is it naive or just arrogant to assume they would have access to scanning equipment on A&E given half the population can get pregnant?)

Instead, and despite being told eventually what I knew, I was asked to return to the EPU the next day for a scan (the same day I should have had my first 8 week appointment with the midwife). That experience didn’t just rub salt in the wound, it fully unpicked it. I remember being mortified that I had to go to the same building where I would have had my 12 week scan and eventually given birth to my baby. Consequently, when we finally got to the door of the unit I could not go in. Where was the back door or side entrance? Or where were the clinic hours designated specially for women in my position?

There were pregnant women everywhere and I didn’t (couldn’t) share their happiness or bear to see a future I wouldn’t now get to live out; certainly not the day after I’d watched one I thought I’d nurtured and had loved disappear down the loo.

I also did not want to be the depressing reminder for those women that things could go wrong, the “poor woman” who tainted their otherwise happy experience by not being able to keep her hormone addled body in check for 2 minutes in order to stop crying.

As it turns out I didn’t stop crying. Not through the ultrasound, internal scan, blood tests. Not when the lovely sonographer sought to reassure me that 1 in 4 women experience a miscarriage.

Quite frankly, society needs to get over its issues with vaginas.

I got very little reassurance from that statistic at the time (and even now if I’m honest). Firstly, all my brain kept focusing on was my failure to make the successful “75% team” and my apparent arrogance that I would have been able to have a healthy baby at 41. Secondly, I quickly found out that despite its prevalence there was a shocking lack of conversation surrounding miscarriage that left me feeling isolated but also trapped. As though someone had locked me in a house and switched off all the lights. I ended up feeling completely stranded at a time when we thought we had a clear route forwards for the future.

I blame that initial isolation mainly on the undercurrent of secrecy and stigma surrounding women’s reproductive health. Quite frankly, society needs to get over its issues with vaginas.

For that, I will forever be grateful to TWGGE and its community for helping me realise I was not alone.

I was lucky, I had the personal support and frame of mind to reach out to others, ask the awkward questions and answer my own. It wasn’t easy but it helped me realise I wasn’t alone in this process. I could begin to navigate a way out. For that, I will forever be grateful to TWGGE and its community for helping me realise I was not alone and that I could (actually, was entitled) to talk about my experience.

Miscarriage is an event that affects a huge number of people. Therefore, it deserves a consistent dialogue to help others receive the support and reassurance they need at this time.

Ollie is involved in every aspect of my life, he’s my child that I still carry with me, always in my heart.

I have told this story many times, but somehow, I never get tired of telling it. Because as a bereaved parent, these stories are sometimes all we have to tell. We don’t have accounts of birthday parties, of first steps of first smiles of feeding. We don’t have tales of first days at school or days out at the park. Our stories are different, and there is so much more to Ollie’s story than how he died. But I also want to talk about life as a bereaved parent, because Ollie is involved in every aspect of my life, he’s my child that I still carry with me, always in my heart. His story did not end that day, it just began.

Ollie was my first baby, a much planned for, loved and wanted baby. My pregnancy was low risk and I had minimal complications throughout the 9 months we spent together. However, towards the end of my pregnancy, I had a number of episodes of reduced movement. We always attended maternity assessment where Ollie met criteria every time and we were discharged. A scan was requested at 39 weeks due to yet another period of reduced movement, but the scan showed no issues or concerns.

But checks always came back clear, his CTG’s were always normal and there was no clinical rationale to induce, except my gut instinct.

This should have triggered an Obstetric review and regular CTG monitoring, but sadly it didn’t. Throughout my pregnancy with him, Ollie always seemed sluggish, like he could never really be bothered to get moving and kicking – looking back at this, this was Ollie conserving his energy and trying to communicate to me that something was wrong. I voiced my concerns numerous times to Midwives and my friends and family; I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. But checks always came back clear, his CTG’s were always normal and there was no clinical rationale to induce, except my gut instinct. Which should have been listened to, as mothers we should always be listened to and trusted when we say something is wrong.

My son Ollie James Watson died on the 15th October 2021 at approximately 1pm in the afternoon, I was 40 weeks and 4 days pregnant.

He was born sleeping at 06.42am on the 16th October 2021.

I had a 16-hour labour which ended in a post-partum haemorrhage. Luckily this was managed well and I lived. Ollie’s cause of death was a spontaneous placenta abruption and haemorrhage. Ollie would have survived if he had been delivered earlier.

I want to tell you more about the impact that my sons death has had on our lives.

what Ollie has achieved because of his brief existence is nothing short of remarkable.

I don’t want my son to be associated with disadvantage, pity or negativity. His legacy should be remembered with love, empathy and wonder; because what Ollie has achieved because of his brief existence is nothing short of remarkable.

I don’t believe that my son ever truly left. His cells live on inside of me forever, I believe that it is just his body that has left this earth and that his soul stayed. I feel Ollie’s presence so strongly that I simply cannot believe that this is the end of his story, he’s in the next room waiting for me. And in the meantime, he shows his presence in little ways that only a bereaved parent could even begin to feel or understand.

I was lucky to spend those 9 months with him, how lucky we were to get to know him even though our time was cut short. I know everything about him. I know he enjoyed music, I know that he enjoyed pineapple juice and strawberries, I know that he didn’t like people poking my tummy or his head. I know he was a night owl and spent most of the evenings rolling around, I know that his hair was the exact same colour as his Dad’s, I know his feet were abnormally large for a baby and where the creases are in his hands. What I don’t know is the colour of his eyes, what his favourite chocolate bar would have been, whether he would have enjoyed his milk. I can only imagine that…

I almost lost my life along with him, and for a long time afterwards I wished I had. I simply couldn’t comprehend why I was spared, and he wasn’t, it doesn’t fit with the natural order of life. Parents should not outlive their children. But then one day, when I saw a beautiful sunset and that little white feather trickled down from the sky, I was glad I stayed. I remain so grateful that I have been given the opportunity to live, and I don’t want to waste it.

The psychological impact that Ollie’s death has had on me is complex and given the word limit, I don’t have time to explain it. But what I will say is that my brain after Ollie died terrified me. It scared the life out of me, the power of thoughts and intrusion that trauma has on you. Every bereaved parent that I have ever spoken to following the death of their child has suffered or continue to suffer from some form of mental health issue.

I want you to know that purpose can still be found after stillbirth and life can still be meaningful and happy. Eventually.

The loss of a child is a lifelong sentence. There is never any ‘at least’; this is a lifelong journey that none of us asked for. The fact that society expect us to move on so quickly after such a profound loss is something that I will never understand.

Lastly, what I want you to know is that Ollie’s death doesn’t define me, I want you to know that purpose can still be found after stillbirth and life can still be meaningful and happy. Eventually. There was nothing positive about his death, I will never find a single element of positivity about our experience or what happened to him. But what is in my power is my ability to drive change as I move forward with Ollie alongside me, that is what I can control. That is my primary focus in his memory, that he did not die in vain. He died with purpose. Because what else do we have left to give him?