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?

“We were told we’d miscarried and to try again.”

In April 2021 I excitedly told my husband I was pregnant. At six weeks I started bleeding, and two days later we were told we’d miscarried and to try again.

I was pregnant in September 2021 and thought everything was fine until I started spotting at 11 weeks. It was a Sunday, EPU was closed, and I couldn’t get through to anyone at the hospital. When the hospital got back to me later that day, they said it was probably nothing but booked me in for a scan that Thursday. Two days later we went for a private scan and were told that the baby was measuring six weeks and there was no heartbeat.

The hospital told us the same, but we had to wait two weeks to confirm if the pregnancy was ‘viable’. Those weeks were torture, but it was my husband’s birthday, so we went away – in the photos I looked happy, but I was heartbroken. At the next scan we were told we’d had a missed miscarriage. Due to Covid, I was told I needed medical management to end the pregnancy and that it would be like a heavy period. It wasn’t.

“My mum phoned to see how I was and immediately phoned my husband to say he needed to take me to hospital…”

I was having contractions, was in so much pain, and I’d never seen so much blood in my life. The pain subsided after 7 hours but I spent most of the next week in bed with what I thought was flu. My mum phoned to see how I was and immediately phoned my husband to say he needed to take me to hospital. An hour later three doctors were poking around to remove a blood clot that was stuck in the neck of my womb, and I was sent off with antibiotics. I had a huge bleed about a week later, the hospital scanned me and said to expect more bleeding, but it was nothing to worry about.

After two weeks, I was bleeding heavily again. I drove home for Christmas and soaked through my clothes later that night. The bleeding carried on for 7.5 weeks – I was completely broken by this point.

I went to my GP and asked for tests which she agreed to. Everything came back normal.
In May 2022, I was pregnant again. At six weeks, there was no heartbeat, and we were told two weeks later that we’d had another missed miscarriage. This time I refused medical management and was booked in for an MVA. I started to miscarry the day before and went to the hospital hoping I wouldn’t need the procedure – I did. I remember apologising to the nurse for leaking blood everywhere. After this I was referred to the recurrent miscarriage clinic.

I was pregnant in September 2022 but started bleeding from the moment I took the test. A scan at six weeks showed an empty pregnancy sack, with a missed miscarriage confirmed two weeks later. I had another MVA.
Private tests came back in January 2023 showing that everything was normal asides my AMH. That doctor said I needed IVF immediately, but I sought a second opinion, and we were told we didn’t need IVF. I spoke to my GP who referred me on the NHS anyway and she also agreed to give me a prescription for progesterone to take from the point of a positive pregnancy test instead of waiting until after our first scan.

“The first thing he said was “I don’t know why you’re here”. I wanted to cry.”

After 11 months, we finally got an appointment at the recurrent miscarriage clinic. The first thing he said was “I don’t know why you’re here”. I wanted to cry.

In June 2023 we saw a baby with a heartbeat – I had some hope. Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be. Baby likely died a day after that scan and had another MVA. That loss hit me particularly hard.

That Christmas, despite days of spotting, I did a pregnancy test and was shocked when it was positive. We saw a heartbeat at 7 weeks, but baby died later that day. I had another MVA.

I went to Coventry to have private tests with Tommy’s just prior to starting IVF. They came back as normal asides my natural killer cells. I was told to go onto high dose steroids from a positive pregnancy test. Unfortunately, after a brutal IVF round, we had nothing to transfer and as they were only able to get two eggs from me, we were ruled out of future rounds as I wasn’t seen as viable.

“I won’t believe it is real until baby is here, but we’re hoping we get to meet this little one.

We kept trying and in September 2024, I was pregnant for the seventh time. I started taking progesterone and steroids straight away. The hospital gave me bi-weekly scans up until 16 weeks, and all being well our miracle baby should be born in May 2025. I won’t believe it is real until baby is here, but we’re hoping we get to meet this little one.

“Six IUIs, three-and-a-half rounds of IVF, two miscarriages, over £55,000 spent, one frozen embryo and a frozen vial of sperm, and countless needles later, I’m still trying.”

Four years. That’s how long I’ve been on this journey. Four years of hoping, trying, grieving, and starting over. I’m on what the world has so naffly coined a solo-mother-by-choice path, though the “mother” part feels as elusive as it is certain in my head. It’s a journey riddled with sharp corners and pit stops. If only I could wear a badge, a bold round emblem of my stats, so the world could see how much I’ve tried. A badge that says, “Six IUIs, three-and-a-half rounds of IVF, two miscarriages, over £55,000 spent, one frozen embryo and a frozen vial of sperm, and countless needles later, I’m still trying.”
I wish I could nod at others wearing their own badges—acknowledging their triumphs, heartbreaks, and perseverance. Like bus drivers do.

I know my body now better than I ever wanted to. It’s mapped out in my mind like an Excel spreadsheet—every hormone level, follicle count, and procedural detail logged. And I love spreadsheets. But this isn’t a hobby. Somewhere in a freezer is my last embryo, a tiny cluster of cells that represents my deepest hopes. It feels both like a lifeline and a ticking clock. It’s accompanied by a lone round of sperm I’ve banked—insurance, though the policy feels less than promising. This is a story about trying, but also of time slipping away. I’m 41 now, and that knowledge—the sense of a rope unraveling—sits with me every day.
The highs and lows have been surreal. The first time I got pregnant coincided with the first time I tested positive for COVID—a bizarrely 2020 milestone. My clinic’s staff—my nurse and doctor, who know my name, quirks, and stats—were as thrilled as I was. That’s the thing: they’ve been there through it all, every heart-wrenching result and cautiously optimistic embryo transfer. I know they care more than they’re supposed to, and I’m grateful for their kindness in a system that can otherwise feel like a production line.

“I see their joy as a flag of hope, even when it catches in the short breath just before I start crying”

Not everyone understands this journey. People try, in their own way. Some are curious, some are proud of me, and some shrink back, unsure how to meet my grief head-on. And then there are my comrades—fellow travellers on this painful path—who, despite their own hard-won successes, hesitate to share their good news with me. They worry it will sting too much. But I see their joy as a flag of hope, even when it catches in the short breath just before I start crying—not in front of them, of course! They get it, the layers of pain and longing, and their concern touches me deeply. I’ve learned that I can cry and feel happy for them at the same time, but that wasn’t obvious when it first happened.

Some pockets of people, on the other hand, don’t get it at all. It’s hard to explain what it’s like to feel the idea of being a mother slip further and further out of reach. Or to navigate the quips—like the advice from my drunken cousin that I should just sack it all off and head to a pub for a one-night stand.

Then there’s the well-meaning flippancy that I’m sometimes guilty of. To a stranger, I can perform my story with humour and lightness, basking in the pride and relief of an audience that listens kindly. But the sadness always catches up with me, and I’ll wobble out of the conversation, overwhelmed by the reality I momentarily held somewhere else. That’s not on them, though. That’s me, juggling my pride and grief in the same breath.
Even between treatments, I’m still on this journey. I’m either saving up money, mourning a loss, or coaxing my body back to some semblance of normalcy after weeks of needles, hormones, and emotional whiplash. There’s no off switch, no pause button. And yet, it’s during these in-between times that people sometimes assume I’m “done.” As if the absence of immediate action means the end of the road. If only my badge could clear up that misunderstanding too.

Some of the hardest moments feel almost bureaucratic in their cruelty. Like when a nurse at the NHS EPU told me, after a miscarriage, that “for all she knew, I might not have even been pregnant.” My privately funded treatment, a prerequisite when you’re solo, meant my pregnancy wasn’t on their system.

I have also found myself laughing at the weirdest and darkest moments. Like the time I regaled my pregnant best friend, who had supported me through that day’s clinic visit, with a frivolous TikTok about how children shouldn’t outnumber parents if you want a quiet life—all while laughing on the tube after we’d just found out I’d miscarry twins.
And yet, through it all, I have people who hold me up. The family I live with and the family who’ve embraced how different this is to their friends’ grandchildren stories, and the best friends who are on the end of a phone or a train at a moment’s notice. They’ve stood by me every step of the way, their heartbreak for me visible even when they try to hide it. They remind me that I’m not alone, even when the journey feels isolating and the word “solo” sits so proudly at the start of the solo-mother-by-choice title.

I wish I could wear a badge—not unlike the “Baby on Board” badges I’ve longed to earn

For four years, I’ve been in a cycle of trying, grieving, healing, and trying again. My body has rarely had the chance to simply be. And through it all, I’ve held on to the belief that it’s worth it.

That belief is something I wish I could share more openly. I wish I could wear a badge—not unlike the “Baby on Board” badges I’ve longed to earn—that declares my stats and story. It’s not the story I expected to tell, but it’s mine. And if I ever do get to wear that “Baby on Board” badge, it will come with a proud understanding of what it took to get here. Until then, I’ll keep going. Because I know I want to be a mum.