Two Years Without Otis: Finding Our Way Through Grief

Two years ago, our lives changed forever.

On 22 September 2024, at 36 weeks pregnant, I noticed that our baby boy, Otis, was moving differently. Something didn't feel right, so we went straight to the hospital, hoping and praying that everything would be okay.

But then we heard the words that no parent should ever have to hear:

“There is no heartbeat.”

There are moments in life that divide everything into before and after.

That was ours.

I can still remember the feeling of that moment: the disbelief, the confusion, the wailing and the overwhelming feeling that I was somehow watching it happen from outside of my own body. How could this possibly be happening?

We had been so excited to meet our baby. I was 36 weeks pregnant and we had spent months imagining bringing him home, watching him grow, getting to know his little personality and building our life around him. Suddenly, everything we had imagined for our future had changed.

Instead, we were faced with decisions we had never imagined having to make. There were blood tests, questions and choices about what would happen next, all while we were trying to process the fact that our baby had died. I remember feeling completely numb as we tried to navigate a world we didn't even know existed.

Our bereavement midwife

And then there was Emily.

Our bereavement midwife became our lifeline.

She sat with us, guided us and gently helped us through each decision, giving us enough information to face the next hurdle without overwhelming us with everything that was still to come.

When you are living through the worst moment of your life, it can feel impossible to think beyond the next few minutes. Having someone beside you who understands that, and who can gently guide you through what happens next, is something I will always be grateful for.

Emily also helped us create precious memories of Otis, memories that have become incredibly important to us over the past two years.

I wish every bereaved family could have an Emily.

Learning how to live with grief

The weeks and months that followed were incredibly difficult. There isn't a handbook for losing your baby, and suddenly you have to learn how to exist in a world where the person you were preparing your entire life for isn't coming home.

Grief was everywhere. It was there when I woke up each morning and remembered all over again, in the evenings when the light started to disappear and the nights felt longer, and in the silence of a house that should have been filled with the sounds of our baby.

There were panic attacks, intrusive thoughts and an overwhelming fear of what nighttime would bring. Even something as simple as the evenings drawing in could become a source of anxiety.

We also had grief counselling through Petals, and having somewhere to put all of those thoughts and feelings was incredibly important to me. It gave me a safe space to talk openly about the things I was struggling with without worrying about making anyone else uncomfortable.

We could talk about the panic attacks, the intrusive and negative thoughts, the fear, the anger and the sadness. We could talk about the things that were difficult to say out loud.

Having someone who understood grief and could help us work through what we were experiencing was amazing. It didn't take my grief away, because nothing could, but it gave me somewhere to put it.

And sometimes, when you're grieving, that can make all the difference.

We needed something practical to focus on

One of the things that surprised me most about grief was how much I needed to do something.

There was such an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. We couldn't change what had happened to Otis, we couldn't bring him home and we couldn't make things different. But we could do something practical. We could try to help someone else.

After Otis died, we struggled to find a simple, beautiful resting place for his ashes. We didn't want something that felt clinical or impersonal; we wanted something that felt worthy of our little boy. The day we picked up the only urn that was available to us, I cried the whole way home as it wasn't right for him.

That experience stayed with us, and eventually it became the beginning of Pure Keepsakes.

Creating personalised baby urns wasn't something we ever imagined we would be doing, but through our grief, we needed something that gave us purpose. We needed something to focus on, something that gave us a reason to get up and do something, and something that allowed us to turn some of our pain into something that could potentially help another family.

Every order is bittersweet because we know that behind every urn is a baby who should be here and a family who should be bringing their baby home. A name that should be written in a baby book is instead being engraved onto an urn.

But we also know how much it can mean to have something beautiful and personal for your baby's ashes.

Being able to provide that for other families has given us a sense of purpose during some of the darkest moments of our own grief. It doesn't mean we're "moving on", and it certainly doesn't mean we're over it. It simply means we've found a way to carry Otis with us while doing something that we hope makes another family's journey just a tiny bit easier.

Two years without Otis

Two years later, I still think about that day and the little boy we were so excited to meet. I think about the baby I loved growing inside me, his kicks, the anticipation and all the dreams we had for our future together.

I think about everything that should have happened: the first cuddles, the first smile, the sleepless nights, his milestones, and all of the ordinary moments that we never got to experience.

It is strange how two years can feel like such a long time and no time at all.

I've learned that grief doesn't move in a straight line. You don't simply leave it behind; you learn to carry it, and some days the weight is lighter than others. 

It's more like a pendulum.

You can swing between sadness, anger, guilt, disbelief, longing and acceptance. Sometimes you stay in one place for a while. Sometimes you move through it quickly.

And, slowly, you may find yourself spending a little more time in acceptance.

But that doesn't mean you've reached the end.

A memory, an anniversary, a pregnancy announcement, or simply a difficult day can send you swinging back into another stage.

And that's okay.

Going backwards doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're grieving.

There is no straight line through grief.

Still his mum

Two years without Otis.

But not two years without being his mum.

Because becoming Otis' mum didn't end when he died.

I am still his mum.

He is still our son.

He is still loved.

He is still remembered.

And he always will be.

We talk about him, we say his name and we remember the little details that made him him. Through Pure Keepsakes, his little life has also become part of something that helps other families remember their babies, and that is something I never could have imagined when we first heard those devastating words.

I wish I could say that two years has made losing him easier, but I don't think grief works like that. Instead, we've learned how to live alongside it. We've learned that it's okay to have good days, to laugh and to feel happy, just as it's okay to have days when getting through the next hour feels like enough.

Our babies remain part of us, no matter how much time passes.

So today, two years after we heard the words that changed our lives forever, we remember our beautiful boy.

Our beautiful Otis Josiah.

Forever our baby boy.

And forever our son.