Tell your story — it might become a page in someone else’s survival guide.
On 26 February 2026, my son JJ was born sleeping. There is no sentence that can
properly prepare you for having to say those words.
JJ was my sixth pregnancy. He was wanted, loved and already completely part of our
family. I had spent 38 weeks and 6 days carrying him, imagining who he would become, wondering what his little face would look like, and preparing for the chaos of becoming a family of four.
I already had a little girl at home. She was three years old. She knew she was going to be a big sister. She was excited about her baby brother.
She would have been the best big sister. Instead, she is the best big sister to the stars. And I don’t think there is a sentence that can adequately describe the heartbreak of watching your living child become a big sister without ever getting to bring her baby brother home.
JJ was born at 05:16am. He weighed 6lb 14oz. He was beautiful. But I didn’t get the
ending I had spent nine months preparing for.
I got photographs, footprints, handprints and memories instead of the newborn days I had imagined. I got to hold my son, but I had to say goodbye to him at the same time.
And then the world carried on.
That has been one of the hardest parts of baby loss for me. Your entire world stops, while everything outside your front door continues moving. People go to work. Children go to school. Babies are born. Shops open. Birth announcements appear on your phone.
And you’re left trying to work out how you’re supposed to exist in a world where your baby doesn’t.
But alongside the grief came questions.
Questions about what happened.
Questions about whether anything could have been different.
Questions about the care I received throughout my pregnancy and in the hours before JJ died.
My pregnancy wasn’t straightforward.
I experienced severe nausea and vomiting throughout my pregnancy. I became
dehydrated repeatedly and attended A&E three times because of it. At its worst, I was
vomiting more than 50 times a day, struggling to function and largely bed-bound.
I eventually received treatment and was referred to a hyper-emesis clinic, but looking back at my care, there were things that I believe should have been recognised and managed
differently.
There were also concerns about my risk assessment, reduced fetal movements and how my concerns were responded to.
And then there was the day JJ died.
I had felt him move. I had heard his heartbeat at home. His heart rate was 156 beats per minute. Then something changed.
I went into maternity triage because I was worried about my baby’s movements.
Over the following period, there were multiple recorded contacts and assessments.
13:58.
14:29.
14:41.
15:04.
15:10.
At 15:10, we were told that JJ had died.
In just over an hour, I went from believing my baby was alive to being told that I would
never hear his heartbeat again.
That is something I will carry for the rest of my life.
Since JJ died, his care has been reviewed. The Perinatal Mortality Review Team identified areas where his care may have made a difference, including concerns around continuity and consultant involvement, reduced fetal movements and the time taken to obtain a heartbeat.
Those words have stayed with me.
May have made a difference.
Because when you’re a mother who has just lost her baby, you can’t help but ask:
• What if?
• What if someone had listened differently?
• What if someone had escalated sooner?
• What if my concerns had been taken more seriously?
• What if different decisions had been made?
• Would JJ still be here?
I don’t have the answer.
And that uncertainty is incredibly difficult to live with.
But the questions didn’t stop when JJ died.
I wasn’t offered a post-mortem.
I wasn’t offered infection screening.
I wasn’t offered genetic testing.
There were investigations that might have provided further information about why my son died, and I wasn’t given those opportunities.
His placenta was examined and there were findings including focal delayed villous
maturation, an unusual fetal-to-placental ratio, a marginal/eccentric cord insertion and a loose true knot in his umbilical cord.
But ultimately, there was no definitive explanation for why my full-term baby died.
So I am left with an unexplained death, unanswered questions and a son I desperately wish I could bring home.
And then there was the goodbye.
I was told that leaving my baby would be the last time I would get to spend with him. I
shouldn’t have had to make that choice. No mother should have to feel that the time she
has left with her dead baby is running out.
JJ was my son.
He wasn’t something I needed to hurry to leave behind.
I wanted more time.
I wanted to hold him longer.
I wanted to memorise him.
I wanted to be his mum for as long as I possibly could.
Instead, I had to say goodbye knowing I would never get another chance.
Since then, I’ve had to make complaints, request records, attend meetings, read reports and repeatedly revisit some of the most painful moments of my life.
The original complaint was made on 30 March 2026.
Months later, I am still trying to understand what happened to my son.
Sometimes grief is simply missing your baby. Sometimes grief is anger. Sometimes it is guilt.
Sometimes it is wondering whether you should have shouted louder, asked more
questions or somehow known what was coming.
And sometimes grief is having to fight to make sure your baby’s story is heard.
But somewhere amongst all of that, I realised I needed to give my grief somewhere to go.
I started a small project in JJ’s memory, putting books into maternity and bereavement spaces for families who might find themselves sitting in those rooms where I once sat.
It doesn’t fix anything.
Nothing can.
But it gives me something positive to do with the love I still have for my son.
Because I still have so much love for him.
I still have terrible days.
I still miss him every single day.
I don’t think grief gets smaller because you stop loving your baby. You simply learn how to carry an enormous love for someone who isn’t physically here.
JJ should be here.
He should be growing up alongside his sister.
She should be teaching him things, annoying him, protecting him, arguing with him and loving him in that completely chaotic way siblings do. Instead, she is the best big sister to the stars.
And I am left wondering who they would have become together.
We should be taking photographs.
Celebrating birthdays.
Watching them grow.
Listening to them laugh.
Being a family of four.
Instead, I am learning how to be a mother to a baby I cannot watch grow.
I am learning that surviving doesn’t mean moving on.
It doesn’t mean forgetting.
It doesn’t mean accepting that JJ is gone and leaving him behind.
It means carrying him.
Carrying his name.
Carrying his memory.
Carrying the love I have for him into every day that comes after him.
I often think about the words:
“Tell your story — it might become a page in someone else’s survival guide.”
So this is mine.
This is JJ’s story.
And if you’re reading this because you’ve lost your baby too, I want you to know something that I needed to hear myself:
You don’t have to know how you’re going to survive this.
You don’t have to have the answers.
You don’t have to be okay.
You only have to get through today.
And tomorrow, we’ll do it again.
Because our babies mattered.
They still matter.
And we are still their mums.
Tia 🤍
Below you can find the links to Tia's JJs Libary which you can support her incredible mission.
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