"I'm so glad you're pregnant again… so now you can move on!"

Controversial idea: grief and trauma don't just disappear. We don't move on.

When Tommy was born, he looked just like his sister. A similar mop of dark hair. A cute button nose. Long fingers. Curly toes.

Sometimes, when I looked at her sleeping, I saw him in her. And it terrified me.

Tommy died in the night, and my anxiety found dark and sinister places to live. Nightmares were frequent, but I couldn't escape the terror even when I was awake. When I looked at my daughter's sleeping body, my mind would torment me.

Is she breathing?

Years later, we were fortunate to fall pregnant again. For those who have read our story, you'll know this was no simple feat.

Those who were brave enough to lean into our grief held our hands. They understood that every day felt risky, that every scan felt like tempting fate. There was no safe zone.

Others offered empty platitudes. Good things come to those who wait. Now we can move on. Surely, we must just be super excited!

Sure… mixed with debilitating terror.

Because we were excited. We were grateful. We had so much love for our growing baby. But none of that could undo what we had already lived through. We knew what could happen. We knew that pregnancy didn't guarantee bringing a baby home.

When we placed our newborn baby in his car seat to drive home, he looked uncannily like Tommy. He slept the whole way home.

It was the most frightening car ride of my life. I couldn't stop staring at his chest, watching for it to rise and fall.

Is he breathing?

Because grief and trauma don't disappear when we fall pregnant again. Or when we birth a living baby. We don't suddenly move on. Our grief and trauma grow with us.

Now that my son is older, his stillness doesn't trigger my anxiety in the same way. But his daring personality does.

I have held one of my babies after he died. That experience has changed me in ways my nervous system cannot forget.

I know I need to let my son explore the world, make mistakes and fall down. I want him to be adventurous, to take risks, to discover what he's capable of. But I still wince a little more. I still have to bite my tongue a little harder. I can't switch off the part of me that wants to protect my children at all costs.

My grief finds other corners to settle in.

What would Tommy have been like at this age? Would he have had the same rambunctious energy? What would his relationship with his sister have looked like? How would he have reached these milestones? What would our family feel like?

It is mind boggling to imagine a life in which I knew Tommy but never met our second-born son. To imagine the family we might have been.

And yet, this is the path life has carved for me. Not one I would have chosen, but one I am learning to embrace.

Becoming pregnant again doesn't erase the trauma, grief or pain of baby loss. Having a baby in our arms doesn't mean we have stopped missing the baby who isn't there. Parenting living children doesn't mean we stop parenting pur children who have died.

We don't move on from our babies.

As I walk this path of parenthood, I hold my toddler's hand, watch my daughter run ahead, and carry Tommy in my heart. Always.

Tommy's Mum x