This is My Story - Julie

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 Jaxon with his teddy and his mummy

I was in total shock when I found out I was pregnant with baby number two. It wasn't something we had expected so soon - though we had always envisioned having two children.

Standing there with a positive test in my hand, my mouth went wide open. I immediately told my partner, and we both shared a mix of surprise, excitement and fear.

As the days passed, I began to adjust to the idea of having two under two. At first, I was filled with fear, but as time went on, that fear turned into excitement and joy.

Just a week later however I experienced heavy bleeding and found myself at the hospital. They couldn't tell me for sure if my pregnancy was viable, as it was still so early. I was sent home with uncertainty hanging over me and had to wait two long weeks for a repeat scan.

The wait was excruciating. I lived in a constant state of limbo, unsure of what would happen next. Finally, the day came for the scan. I remember holding my breath as the technician examined my baby. Our baby was healthy and alive. I cried happy tears and felt such a deep sense of relief.

Our 12-week scan, just days before Christmas, gave us another chance to see our little one - a little boy. The sonographer took extra time to check his heart, and when I asked if everything was okay, she reassured me that it was.

On Christmas Day, we shared the joyful news with our family, and life continued with the normal ups and downs of being a pregnant mum.

But everything changed on February 12, 2025. I went in for my 20-week anatomy scan, fully expecting everything to go smoothly. My nausea had passed, and I was starting to enjoy this stage of pregnancy. Little did I know that this scan would change my entire world.

The sonographer began by telling me all the things I wanted to hear. Everything seemed perfect, until he reached my baby's heart.

His tone shifted, and I will never forget the words that followed: “I'm sorry, but your baby has a major heart defect.”

I felt like the ground had disappeared beneath me. Shock, fear, and heartbreak hit me all at once. I couldn't breathe. My world was crashing down, and I could barely process what was happening.

I started asking a million questions, but he couldn't answer any of them. He told us to go to the hospital immediately.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. I was in a state of panic, and when I arrived, I was told that our baby had Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome (HLHS), a rare and severe congenital heart defect. I knew immediately that this was not good news.

The rarest things can happen, but you never think they will happen to you.

In the days that followed, I found myself drowning in a sea of questions. “Why is this happening to us?” “What did we do wrong?” The uncertainty was maddening. I researched HLHS, joined support groups, listened to stories of survivors, and spent endless hours discussing our options. How was I supposed to make such an impossible decision? It felt so unfair.

When we met with the fetal cardiologist, the situation became even more real. The heart, as she showed us, was severely underdeveloped.

She laid out our options — options no parent should ever have to consider. We could continue the pregnancy, and after birth, our baby could undergo three open-heart surgeries before the age of four.

But there was no certainty that he would survive, and the potential for lifelong complications was high. We could also consider palliative care or termination.

I never imagined that termination would even be on the table. How could I choose that for my baby? He could have a chance at life. But I thought about the life I wanted for him - the life he deserved. A fulfilling, healthy and happy life, where he wouldn't have to suffer.

My heart ached as I felt the kicks in my belly, knowing that with every passing day, the decision would get harder. 

One evening, as I watched my son and partner laughing and playing in the backyard, I thought about the future we wanted for our children. I wanted that carefree, joyful childhood for all my kids. Deep down I knew what I had to do. I had to make this decision for my baby.

I held my belly and cried so hard, telling him how sorry I was. I decided to endure the pain for him, so he didn't have to suffer. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, but I made it out of love for my son and my family. 

On February 24, 2025, I returned to the hospital to give birth. The fear I felt was overwhelming.

Not just because I was about to lose my son, but also because of the traumatic experience I'd had with my first birth. The doctors had concerns for me, and I was terrified that something might happen to me, too.

The birthing suite was set up with soft fairy lights, candles, children's books and a bassinet with the tiniest baby clothes I've ever seen. The induction began, and my family came to see me. It was comforting to see my toddler, as his innocent presence was a nice distraction.

When the time came, I gave birth to Jaxon at 11:15pm, 22 weeks and one day into the pregnancy. Jaxon's heart was still beating.

I remember looking at him. Small, fragile, yet perfect in every way. My motherly instincts kicked in as I cradled him. I was also in disbelief - holding my son who was barely alive.

My partner and I cried together, holding him as time seemed to stand still. His heart eventually stopped, and with it, my world shattered. I'm forever grateful I got to hold and meet him. Something I had thought I might not feel courageous enough to do. 

The pain of knowing I had just birthed my baby boy but couldn't keep him was unbearable. I just wanted to have the life I had imagined with him. But instead, I watched Jaxon get wheeled away in his angel box and I left the hospital with only a memory box — photos, handprints, and the tiny clothes he wore.

Losing a baby is an experience I never imagined could happen to me. It has changed me in ways I'm still trying to process. The pain is unexpected, devastating, and world-altering. 

I've discovered the incredible strength of my family. In this difficult time, my support system has been nothing short of amazing. They've held me up when I didn't think I could stand, and their love has helped me take each day step by step. 

I've also learned a new layer of strength in the relationship with my partner. Going through something so painful together has brought us closer together - but it's also presented its own set of challenges.

Navigating grief alongside someone you love tests your bond, but it also deepens it in unexpected ways. It's a delicate balance of supporting one another while also understanding that our individual grief is different.

This experience has also made me re-evaluate my friendships. Loss is a reminder that we're all only given so much time, and the relationships that truly nurture us are the ones we need to hold close.

The love for my toddler has only grown deeper. I've always loved him, but now, I hold him just a little bit tighter. The little moments with him feel so precious, and I find myself cherishing them more than ever. 

Though the pain of loss will never fully fade, it has taught me to appreciate what I have even more.

I'm learning, slowly but surely, that strength can emerge from the most difficult of places. Love - whether from family, a partner, or a child - can be the foundation that carries us through. 

Nothing could have truly prepared me for the tragic events that unfolded. I convinced myself that everything would be okay, especially after hitting that 12-week mark: that were past the danger zone. But loss can happen. And it did.

The pain of loss is something only those who have experienced it can truly understand. One of the hardest parts is realising that not everyone knows how to support someone grieving. Well-meaning words can often feel wrong or even make the pain worse.

Grief is isolating, and while you want to be understood, it's hard for others to truly walk through this sorrow with you. I quickly realised that no one can save me from this experience. I would have to fight my own battle every day. 

There are these torturous thoughts in your mind that tell you, over and over, that you should have done something differently. That you could have prevented it. That somehow, you are to blame. It's an agonising spiral which only deepens the hurt, and it's hard to escape these thoughts.

To anyone experiencing baby loss, I am so deeply sorry. You didn't deserve this.

I'm newly bereaved myself, and I've found sharing my story to be incredibly cathartic. It's my way of honouring Jaxon, who means everything to me. Each time I speak his name, it brings me a little closer to holding on to the love we shared.

A month into my grief, I've come to understand that it will become integrated into my life as time goes on. Grief doesn't go away. It just becomes a part of who you are.

Grief is unique for everyone. Some need others to lean on, while others prefer to be alone. It's so hard, so frightening, and every day feels so different. Some days the pain feels unbearable, and other days you might find a small moment of peace.

The saying that grief is like the waves in the ocean really resonates with me. Some days the waves crash hard and fast, while others feel more like gentle ripples. But each wave is a reminder of how deeply we loved, and how that love is woven into grief.

I'm incredibly grateful to have known about Possum Portraits, an organisation so generous in creating something so sentimental to honour my baby.

Our Possum Portrait is a way for me to ensure that Jaxon is remembered and cherished. A way to show the world just how special he is, no matter how brief his time with us was.

Since the loss of my baby, I care about the small things a lot less. Nothing in this world feels as devastating and hard as losing my child.

I've removed myself from the constant flood of pregnancy and birth content on social media because it's too much to bear. I've become more private, protecting what's left of my heart.

I've experienced many bittersweet moments, feeling both joy and heartache as I learn of pregnancies in those close to me.

It's painful to navigate life, expected to carry on as if nothing has changed, when everything has.

I'm scared of what the future holds. The thought of navigating pregnancy again absolutely terrifies me. It's hard to even imagine going through that experience, knowing how fragile it can all be.

I've lost hope and faith. Right now, I'm struggling to find peace with those feelings, but I hope that one day, I can start to re-kindle a positive association with both. I'm planning to start sessions with a psychologist soon, to hopefully begin healing in ways I can't yet understand.

I am not the same person I once was. Grief changes you, and it's something I carry with me every day.

To my sweet Jaxon, Mummy loves and misses you. Your older brother still gives you kisses – just not on mums belly anymore. He kisses your picture. I will carry you in my heart forever.

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