I found out I was pregnant in December 2016, and I was over the moon. I couldn’t believe it! We hadn’t been trying for long—maybe just two months—when I did a test, and BANG! There it was: a big, bright positive. This was my first pregnancy, my first time being a mum, and I was beyond excited. Having lost my mum at the age of 10, I had always dreamed of becoming a mother myself. My partner already had children from previous relationships, but when we got together, we talked about building a family of our own—and now, here I was… pregnant!
We only told a few close family members around my birthday, just before Christmas. No big announcements yet. I called the GP surgery as soon as they opened, and soon we were seeing the midwife, starting all the initial paperwork, and booking our first scan for February 16, 2017. I was counting down the days—I could hardly contain my excitement!
Finally, February 16th arrived. The sun was shining as we walked into our local hospital, eager to see our baby on the screen. At maternity, we checked in and were called through for our scan. Cold jelly was applied to my belly, and there they were—our baby! Squirming, wriggling, full of life. The sonographer commented on how active our little one was, even suggesting we take a walk to see if we could settle them. I joked to my partner that our baby was just like him: super active!
When we returned to the scan room, the sonographer began to examine things more closely. She excused herself to speak with the doctor and asked us to wait in the main waiting area. Shortly after, we were called into fetal medicine and shown into another waiting room. A kind midwife sat us in a relative’s room—a detail that, in our experience working for the NHS, never boded well. She gently explained that our baby had an abnormal measurement at the back of the neck. The nuchal translucency (NT) measurement was higher than normal.
I was stunned, completely bewildered. She explained it was a “flag” that needed further investigation. It might mean something serious, or it might not. We were scheduled to see a consultant in a few days for further testing.
My partner and I were devastated. Our world seemed to collapse in that moment. I remember barely walking home, leaning on him for support as tears streamed down my face. I called my family, sobbing, desperate to understand what was happening. Would our baby be okay? What would the future hold? Everything blurred. I contacted work and went off sick, leaning on my GP for guidance, though dates and details became a fog in my mind.
Over the following weeks, we saw the consultant a few times. I underwent part of the placenta being removed for DNA testing, trying to understand what was happening with our baby. I remember praying harder than I ever had, asking for strength, courage, and hope. I remember each scan, each visit, each anxious moment as we awaited news.
Finally, we received the DNA results—they were all negative, which was good news. But at the next scan, there was silence. The consultant exchanged a brief comment with the midwife, then led us into the relative’s room again. My heart raced. The consultant and midwife sat us down and gently explained: our baby boy had a 90% chance of being born with severe abnormalities. His cerebellum was not developing; he was severely deformed. Survival to term was highly unlikely.
I was overcome with grief and disbelief, screaming in despair. The midwife comforted me as we made the unimaginable decision to end the pregnancy. It was our choice, and no one else could judge it—but the heartbreak was profound.
On March 18, 2017, I was induced at our local hospital. Labor was agonizing—ten hours of pain and grief. At 6:56 p.m., we met our son, Charlie, a tiny baby born at 18 weeks. We held him, mourned him, and arranged for his ashes to rest in my mum’s grave, so she could watch over him forever.
The months that followed were some of the hardest of our lives. I couldn’t get out of bed, eat, drink, or face the world. Grief consumed me. Yet, deep down, my yearning to be a mother never died. I had lost Charlie, but I was still a momma. I longed to hold a baby in my arms on Earth.
Returning to work, I began the cycle of trying to conceive again: testing ovulation, hoping, waiting, then heartbreak when my period arrived. Support was scarce, so I and a few friends created a Facebook group—Trying to Conceive After Loss and Pregnancy Support UK. Today, it has over 500 members, and supporting others became a lifeline for me as much as receiving support.
Life continued with ups and downs. By Christmas 2017, I was struggling emotionally and professionally. After speaking with my GP, we decided to pursue fertility treatment, but first, we wanted to enjoy life—holiday, house, self-care. Reflexology, gym, and relaxation became part of my journey, though I feared I might never conceive again.
Then, in August 2018, everything changed. Feeling unwell at work, I ran a bath and decided, almost on a whim, to take a pregnancy test. A second line appeared. POSITIVE! I leaped from the bath, rushed to the shop, bought more tests—and each one confirmed it. I was pregnant again.
Joy and fear collided. What if history repeated itself? The pregnancy was closely monitored with frequent scans at fetal medicine. Bleeding and anxiety followed, but slowly, hope grew.
Eight months later, on April 24, 2019, we welcomed our healthy baby boy via planned C-section—our rainbow baby, the miracle after loss. He was breech but perfect, and he has just celebrated his second birthday!
Our journey to motherhood was anything but easy, but it was worth every tear, every anxious scan, every moment of despair. I continue supporting women through the Facebook group and the UK charity SANDS, offering comfort and understanding to those navigating loss and conception.
Today, I am truly blessed with a happy, thriving two-year-old, and when he is old enough, he will learn about his brother Charlie. My journey to becoming a mom was filled with heartbreak, hope, and miracles—but ultimately, it brought me the greatest joy imaginable.
