09/09/2026
THE PART OF MY LIFE THAT CHANGED ME FOREVER 💙💛🕊️
There are moments in life that change you.
And then there are moments that split your life into two — the person you were before, and the person you became afterwards.
Losing two of my children will forever be the hardest part of my life.
Cruze and Pandora.
Two names.
Two beautiful little lives.
Two pieces of me that I will carry until the day I die.
Before loss, I knew bad things happened. I knew babies died. I knew families experienced tragedies that changed their lives forever.
But I never knew what it actually meant to be that mam.
I never knew what it felt like to walk into a hospital pregnant and eventually leave without the baby you were supposed to bring home.
I never knew silence could make a noise.
But it can.
There is a particular kind of silence after you’re told your baby’s heart has stopped.
A silence so loud that years later your mind can take you straight back there.
Hospital corridors.
Machines.
Doors opening and closing.
Certain smells.
Certain words.
Sometimes absolutely nothing at all.
And suddenly I’m back there.
My body might be standing safely at home, but my mind hasn’t got the message.
That’s one of the things losing my children has done to me.
It changed the way my brain works.
I can be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.
I can be laughing one minute and fighting tears the next.
I can have a whole day planned and then wake up unable to face any of it.
I can be absolutely exhausted, desperate for sleep, and still lie awake because the moment everything becomes quiet, my mind becomes unbearably loud.
And sometimes I think about the strangest things.
I think about the tiredness I should have.
I should have been awake because one of my babies needed feeding.
I should have been stumbling around half asleep making bottles.
I should have been changing nappies at ridiculous hours.
I should have been whispering, “Mammy’s here.”
Instead, there have been nights when grief and memories are what keep me awake.
Because although my babies died, the mam in me didn’t die with them.
That instinct didn’t disappear.
The love didn’t disappear.
My arms didn’t suddenly stop wanting them.
And that’s something I don’t think you can truly explain unless you’ve lived it.
Even seeing babies can be hard now.
Not because I’m not happy for other people.
I am.
I’d never wish this life on another parent.
But sometimes I see a pram and my heart sinks.
I hear a newborn cry and something inside me aches.
I see somebody doing completely ordinary mam things and think:
That should have been me too.
Grief has made ordinary things extraordinary.
A birthday.
A due date.
A hospital appointment.
A photograph.
A song.
A tiny outfit.
Even somebody innocently asking how many children you have can suddenly become a question with an incredibly complicated answer.
And perhaps one of the hardest things is watching the rest of the world continue.
Because the world doesn’t stop when your child dies.
People still go shopping.
Cars still drive past.
People complain about silly things.
The sun comes up the next morning.
And you’re standing there thinking:
How can everything still be happening when my entire world has just changed?
I’ve changed too.
There are parts of the old me I miss desperately.
I’m more frightened now.
More aware that everything you love can change in a moment.
There are places I struggle to go.
Things that trigger memories.
Days when my PTSD seems to take over before I’ve even realised what’s happening.
And grief has changed relationships too.
Loss shows you people.
Some people disappear because they don’t know what to say.
Some stop mentioning your children because they’re frightened they’ll remind you.
But what they don’t understand is:
You cannot remind me that my children died.
I already know.
I wake up knowing.
I go to sleep knowing.
What hurts far more is feeling as though the world might forget they ever lived.
That’s why hearing their names means everything.
Cruze.
Pandora.
Say them.
Please.
Ask me about them.
Remember their birthdays.
Talk about them.
Because they aren’t a sad subject I need protecting from.
They’re my children.
And somehow, amongst all this pain, losing them has also given me a determination I never knew existed.
That’s why I keep doing what I’m doing.
The charity work.
The fundraising.
The campaigning.
Trying to help other bereaved families.
Trying to make people listen.
Trying to create something meaningful from something that should never have happened.
Some days I throw everything into it.
I organise.
I plan.
I message people.
I raise money.
I speak out.
And then sometimes, like recently, I hit a wall.
My body says enough.
And suddenly all the emotions I’ve been outrunning catch up with me.
That’s when I have to remember that being strong doesn’t mean never falling apart.
I can fight for change and still cry.
I can raise money in my children’s names and still have days when I don’t want to leave my bed.
I can smile and still have PTSD.
I can be grateful for the people around me and still feel desperately lonely.
I can carry on living while still wishing with every part of me that Cruze and Pandora were living too.
Both things can be true.
I don’t know exactly who I will be years from now.
I don’t think grief ever gives you the old version of yourself back.
You learn to live around the hole it leaves.
You learn which days you can carry it and which days it carries you.
But one thing I know with absolute certainty:
The death of my two children will forever be the hardest thing I have ever lived through.
Nothing will erase what happened.
Nothing will make me stop wondering who they would have become.
Nothing will stop me loving them.
But I refuse to allow the world to forget them.
They may not have had the lifetime I dreamed of for them, but they had lives.
They existed.
They were wanted.
They were loved beyond words.
And they changed their mam forever.
So I’ll keep saying their names.
I’ll keep telling their story.
I’ll keep trying to make a difference.
And on the days when I can’t fight, I’ll simply love them.
Because underneath the campaigning, the fundraising, the grief, the PTSD and everything else…
I’m just a mam who desperately misses her children.
Cruze & Pandora. 💙💛🕊️
You changed me forever.
You broke my heart in ways I didn’t know a heart could break.
But you also left me with a love that death itself could not take away.
And for as long as I’m here, a part of both of you will be here too.
Always my babies.
Always part of our family.
Always spoken about.
Always loved.
Never, ever forgotten. 💙💛🕊️
