The path that led me here

Tommy would have been four years old now. I still imagine what life would have been like if he had lived.

Would he have played with his big sister? Maybe. Would my marriage hold the same points of tension? I don't know. Would my parenting be the same? Probably not. Would I have been grateful? Not nearly enough.

Many years ago, I was chatting with a friend. She mentioned that one of our old mutual colleagues was going on parental leave.

"Again? So soon?" I asked naïvely.

"Her last baby was stillborn," my friend replied.

I was shocked. Surely stillbirth was something that belonged in the Middle Ages. I was so disturbed by the idea of a baby dying that I pushed the reality from my mind. It must be rare. There must have been a clear reason. That would never happen to me.

And yet it did.

The reality of stillbirth crashed into my life like a bulldozer. My life's trajectory was suddenly uprooted. My assumed future was no longer a possibility. My family would remain forever fractured, with our baby never having the chance to come home.

Tommy's death was the earth-shattering crack that split my life in half, but it was only the beginning of my journey with loss.

My desire to be pregnant again became an obsession. Each passing month felt like I'd slipped another rung further away from the life I was supposed to be living. I knew I could never replace Tommy, and I never wanted to. But a deep, primal urge longed for a baby I could hold and a sibling to bring home for my daughter.

But my body was as broken as my heart. Suddenly, we faced a diagnosis of secondary infertility and began ovulation induction treatment. After a few rounds, I was ecstatic to receive a positive pregnancy test. But no sooner had I allowed myself to imagine our future than it was ripped away once again. Our little bean died in a miscarriage. May would have turned three this year.

Next stop: IVF.

Our first round was a disaster, with no viable embryos at all. All those tiny lives were lost before I could offer them the chance of life.

We transferred our only low-grade embryo after our second round, with tears of hopelessness streaming down my face. But a late positive pregnancy test sent our lives into a spin of emergency ultrasounds and blood tests. By the time they found our baby in my fallopian tube, she had a strong heartbeat. Our fourth baby died from an ectopic pregnancy. It was a literal kick in the guts; I would have done anything to let my baby keep growing if I could. Dora would have been two years old now.

By our third round of IVF, I was ready to quit. Hope had evaporated. Our first transfer didn't take, and while I grieved the loss of that tiny life, I wasn't surprised. I had come to expect the worst.

But our story did go on to welcome new life. It is not lost on me how fortunate we are — and how unfortunate we have been.

Tommy's death was the catalyst for unfathomable loss and love. His legacy lives on through the ways we continue to gently hold him in our hearts. I imagine him embracing May, Dora, and his smallest siblings, who live with him among the stars.

It is my hope that this space is found by those who need it. Even if your experience of loss is very different from mine, I hope you feel seen, heard, and held here. I hope you feel less alone.

I'm so sorry you are here, and I'm glad you found me.

Tommy's Mum x