This is My Story - Jeannine

In this series of personal stories we hear from parents who have suffered pregnancy or baby loss. We hold space for loss and grief, and we remember our babies gone too soon.

In sharing their stories, these parents are beginning to exorcise the triple demons of stigma, silence and ignorance that afflict so many conversations in the perinatal bereavement space.

Parents share their journeys and the lessons they have learned about grief, parenthood, friendship and living after the death of their baby. They tell us how they have changed, who they have become, and what truly matters now.

Baby boy Luca with his mum

Some stories begin before we even realise they’ve started. Luca’s story began the moment I became pregnant with him — long before I ever held him in my arms.

From the beginning, there was a deep sense of connection, intuition, and love. I bonded with him in a way that felt ancient and familiar, as if my heart had known him long before my body ever did. Before we even knew he was a boy, he already had a name — Luca.

His oldest siblings named him without hesitation, as if they already knew him too. Only after he passed away, when we were calling him our brightest shining star, did we learn that his name meant “bringer of light.” And nothing could be more true. He has changed my life forever. I carry his love and light with me in everything I do.

My pregnancy was healthy and filled with joy and anticipation. I laboured at home, excited for the moment I would finally hold him after nine long months. When it was time, I made my way to the hospital, ready to bring him into the world.

But as my midwife began her checks, the room suddenly fell silent. I’ll never forget the look on her face, how tightly she held my hand, and then the words that shattered my world: “There’s no heartbeat.”

Just hours earlier he had been moving, strong and alive. In that instant, my entire world collapsed. I kept going, because I had no choice — I had to birth my baby knowing I would never hear him cry. Luca passed from a sudden and acute cord accident — unexpected, unpreventable, and devastating.

Giving birth to a baby you know won’t breathe breaks every rule of human nature — and yet, somehow, mothers do it. I did it for him, because he deserved to be born into love, not silence.

He was perfect and peaceful — a beautiful little boy who looked as though he were simply sleeping. Holding him was love and devastation in the same breath: the joy of finally meeting him, and the agony of saying goodbye to all the dreams we had for him. We had to learn to love him from above — and that has been the hardest thing to do.

There were symbols surrounding Luca long before we understood them. During pregnancy, I was inexplicably drawn to bears — to bear toys, bear prints, and the Riff Raff bear and blanket he was given. I didn’t know why at the time.

After his funeral, we discovered the Boötes constellation — “The Bear Watcher.” It connected everything: the bears, the stars we associated with him, and now a constellation watching over them both. It felt like the universe whispered, "He is not gone — he is watching."

We honoured him in the only physical way left to us. We hand-built and hand-painted his coffin ourselves, pouring every ounce of love and heartbreak into the only thing we were still able to do for him.

Luca’s impact stretched beyond our immediate loss. At the time he was born, my mother was living overseas, in remission from a rare cancer. After Luca passed, she moved home to be with us. Not long after that, she was diagnosed as being terminal.

Because she was in Australia, she became eligible for a clinical trial that has since shown extraordinary results — almost completely reversing her disease. We believe, wholeheartedly, that Luca brought our family back together, and in his own way, helped save my mum’s life.

Grief was not only emotional — it was physical. Shock, anxiety and heartbreak lived in every part of my body. Stillbirth doesn’t just take a baby; it changes your nervous system, your identity, your relationships, and the way you move through the world. I am not the same person I was before Luca, and I never will be.

And yet — even through the devastation, Luca guided me. His love has become my purpose. To speak openly about stillbirth, to honour the babies who cannot stay, and to support families walking through the darkest days of their lives: his life — though heartbreakingly short — continues to illuminate the world.

A miracle eventually found us — the birth of Ella, our rainbow baby. She does not replace Luca, and was never meant to. Instead, she is proof that hope and grief can coexist.

She carries her brother’s story with her, even though she never met him. In our family, love didn’t end with loss — it expanded.

The Possum Portrait means so much to me. It is not just artwork. It gives Luca a place in our home and in the world — somewhere others can see him, not just feel him through us.

It honours his place in our family and reflects the light he brought — and still brings — to our lives. It allows us to say: He was here. He is loved.

He will always be part of our family. This is Luca’s story — a story of love before birth, love after loss, and love that continues without end. He will always be our brightest shining star. Our bringer of light. Forever showing us the way.

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