Three years ago, my life changed forever when my beautiful daughter, Lois, died.

People often say that time heals, but as a bereaved parent I have learnt that grief is not something you leave behind. Instead, you learn to carry it. The pain softens around the edges, but the love remains as strong as ever. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of Lois, miss her, or wonder what she would be doing now. She will always be my daughter, and I will always be her mum.

When I think about this year’s National Bereaved Parents Day theme, “This Is My Place,” I realise that my place is not defined by my loss, but by the love that surrounds me and carries me forward.

My place is with my husband, Dave. Together, we have faced the unimaginable. There have been days when words weren’t enough, when all we could do was hold each other’s hand and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Through every tear, every memory, and every difficult anniversary, we have found strength in one another.

My place is with my daughter, Beth, and my son-in-law, Mitchell, whose love and support mean more than I could ever put into words. They remind me that even after heartbreak, family continues to grow and flourish.

My place is with my precious granddaughter, Elsie. She is a constant reminder that life continues to bring moments of wonder, laughter and hope. Seeing the world through her eyes helps me find light on the darkest days. Her smile doesn’t take away the grief, but it helps me remember that joy and sorrow can exist side by side.

My place is also with my wider family and wonderful friends. Their kindness, understanding and unwavering support have helped me through some of life’s hardest moments. They have listened when I needed to talk about Lois, spoken her name when others were afraid to, and reminded me that I do not have to walk this journey alone.

But most of all, my place is with love.

Lois is still part of my place. She is in every memory, every photograph, every conversation and every milestone. She is present in the stories we share and in the love that continues to bind our family together. Although she is no longer physically with us, she remains woven into the fabric of our lives.

Being a bereaved parent means living with an empty space that can never be filled. Yet alongside that sadness, there is gratitude, for the years we had, for the memories we made, and for the people who continue to stand beside us.

My place is not where grief has ended. My place is where love has endured.

It is with Dave, Beth, Mitchell and Elsie. It is with my wider family and treasured friends. It is in the memories of Lois, held safely in my heart. It is in the hope that love is stronger than loss, and that those we carry in our hearts are never truly far away.

This is my place. A place of love, remembrance, family, friendship and hope.

A place where Lois will always belong.

10 years since you went away…the truth you left behind

There is not a day that goes by that you are not present in my life and thoughts. I carry on and adjust life but there was a part of my heart that went with you. Years have gone by but it’s as if time stood still and it was yesterday you went away. There are moments we remember a song,your favourite food or a place that brings you back to the time you were here. It has been 10 years since you went away. The memories still etched in my memory. The way you used to look at me in a room full of people and the way your face lit up. I love you with all my heart and you will forever stay in my life. Thank you for making life long imprint in my heart and soul. I will see you soon my boy. Mummy’s little boy we love you and miss you each and every moment

It’s not easy; some days are good some days are bad. You pick yourself up and carry on. My love for my humanitarian work helped me to keep your memory alive and always help others in need. It has given me purpose of life knowing I am doing something I love the most in memory of you my love.

Love for your child is the purest ,most unconditional love you can ever give. Even when life pulls you apart the love stays quietly inside you. You keep loving them in silence carrying a soft hope that one day you will be reunited .It hurts deeply but it is the most beautiful feeling in the world. The kind that fills your eyes with tears, yet you will never change a thing. He came as an angel in my life and filled it with so much joy.

You didn’t just leave , something of me went with you…Now I carry everything alone with the good memories that warm my heart and the pain that never really learned how to leave. I will always keep your memory alive and you are always in my heart my boy my Aayan my gift from God

Love forever your mummy

My babies’ names are Butterfly and Jesse.

Both were very much wanted and very much loved.

I lost Butterfly early on in a missed miscarriage, and then I lost Jesse the following year. Jesse was diagnosed with Edwards syndrome (Trisomy 18), a rare and severe genetic condition caused by an extra copy of chromosome 18.

Unfortunately, Jesse didn’t make it past 15 weeks, and hearing those words again — “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat” — was the day my world changed forever.

A week later, I delivered Jesse. It was the worst time of my life. We got to spend 24 precious hours with our tiny baby, who fit into the palm of my hand. They were so small, yet carried the abnormalities that meant they would never have been able to survive outside the womb.

The midwives were incredible and cared for all of us with such kindness and compassion.

The days, weeks, and months that followed were a blur of pain, sadness, and anger. At the same time, I was trying to support an energetic six-year-old who was navigating her own grief, alongside a partner who struggled to acknowledge that he had lost a child because the loss had happened so early.

I eventually found counselling, which helped me carry the weight of my grief. The weight is still there, but it no longer feels quite so impossible to bear.

My place right now is in the quiet moments. The moments when the world keeps moving, but my thoughts drift back to my babies and what could have been.

It is a place that can feel lonely and hard at times. But I also see hope there. I know that although there will always be moments of sadness, there can be happiness too.

I will always carry the grief of losing Butterfly and Jesse, and they will forever be a part of our family.

I share this for my family, and for all those carrying so much love that has nowhere visible to go.

This Is My Place

My place is not one single location anymore, it shifts, It changes with the day, the memory, and the season I find myself in.

There are moments when my place feels like stillness where I am simply surviving the weight of what it means to love and lose my son, Jack. In those moments, I often find myself returning to who he was in the simplest, most everyday ways.

Jack was the little boy who said hello to everyone. It didn’t matter where we were he noticed people, he connected, he had this natural way of making the world feel a little less distant, that part of him never leaves me.

Now, even in grief, I still find myself noticing people the way he did, almost as if he taught me how to see the world differently.

Jack is not something I “had.” He is someone I continue to carry, that love did not end, it changed shape.

There are days I still speak to him quietly in my mind, especially in moments he would have found funny or frustrating. Sometimes it’s in the middle of something ordinary making tea, walking through a busy street, or sitting in silence and he is there in the instinct of missing him, as real as breath.

There are other times when my place is in movement speaking, writing, supporting other families who have just entered this world they never wanted to be part of. In those spaces, I am both mother and witness, I carry my own loss, but I also carry theirs.

I know what it is to have life split into a “before” and “after.” To understand that grief is not something you move through and leave behind, but something you learn to live alongside, it reshapes everything, your identity, your relationships, and even the way you move through the world.

There is also a private place that few people see. The place where Jack still exists in the fullest sense of him. Not as a memory that fades, but as a presence woven into everything I am. Love like that does not end, it continues, quietly and constantly, even when everything else changes shape around it.

What I have learned is that grief can feel incredibly isolating, but it does not have to be solitary. There is a quiet, unspoken community of parents, grandparents, siblings, and families who understand without explanation. When we find each other, even briefly, it can soften the edges of loneliness.

“This Is My Place” means accepting where I am right now without judgment. It is not about fixing grief or moving on from it, It is about acknowledging that I am still here, still loving Jack, still carrying him, still living even on the days when it feels impossible and it is also about connection, about knowing that somewhere out there, someone else is sitting in their own version of this place too, and we are not as alone as grief makes us feel.

Lucy Herd

As I write this it’s been 7 long weeks since we lost our boy, Theo. It was unexpected, sudden and still unexplained. He went to bed and didn’t wake. It has shattered our world. My once happy family is now unrecognisable.

I was a mum of three, now of two, and a foster carer of two (currently). I get up for the other children, I go through the motions of the day for them. But inside I hurt so badly, my heart feels like it’s being pulled apart, it physically hurtsI can’t breathe, I can’t eat, I can’t swallow, I can’t look forward.

I miss my boy so much it’s unbearable, suffocating. The only respite I get is when I manage sleep, but when I don’t, the nights are tough to get through. The silence and darkness brings questions of why us? It brings visions of my poor boy, still, cold and purple, it brings thoughts that relive that awful police call at our house to break the news.

I don’t recognise myself anymore, the tears constantly pour and I have no ounce of positivity left. Being a mum was everything, and now I feel I haven’t the capacity to do it well, seeing to the children’s basic needs takes all my strength. My fun, laughter and up and go went with Theo. I’m no longer me.

I’m not finding anything comforting, the advice from others feels unusuable. ‘ hold on to his memories’ ‘live for him’ ‘stay strong’ ‘book something to look forward to’ and ‘I know how you feel’ from people who have lost an elderly parent makes me want to scream.

The future feels impossible to look into. As advised, I’m taking every day as it comes, but even then, most days feels too hard. I simply want him back.

I was born and bred in Stoke.  I had a lovely childhood with loving parents.  I was always spoiled on my Birthdays and Christmas.  Often being given the Argos catalogue or Kays catalogue and asked to highlight everything I would like. The response from my parents was always “we will surprise you with two or three toys that I had  highlighted.

You guest it, I had everything that was highlighted. You couldn’t see the settee or chairs for the bags of toys and goodies.  Mum would often say “I bet you are pleased you have no brothers or sisters”.  Meaning there would be less for me.  My answer was always yes.

Winde forward many years, in fact to a point when I had been married for a number of years.  It was during a conversation with my wife, Lynn that she told me something that was difficult to comprehend.  I was in fact one of nine children, but the only one to survive.  My parents had lost 8 children.  I think most were miscarriages.  I do know that when I was ten, I heard a baby crying when I was in bed.  When I mentioned this to my parents the next day, they said I must have been dreaming.  In fact, mum gave birth to a baby brother.  He was taken to hospital and passed away.

All this was hidden from me and my parents’ neighbours.

Ever since knowing this, I lived hoping mum would confide in me.  That we could sit and talk, that mum could perhaps find a bit of closure.  This never happened, even when mum lived with us for the last five years of her life.  I found it extremely difficult to bring the subject up.

We never did have that conversation.  Mum passed away in 2022 aged 89.  It’s something that I deeply regret, it  often pops into my mind.  We must not underestimate the importance of talking and listening.  This is something I will have to live with, it’s a sadness that raises its head now and again.

There is one good thing. I am so grateful that when questioned about having siblings at Christmas,  I always said I am pleased there are no brothers or sisters.  I couldn’t bear to think how it would have affected my parents if I said I would like a brother or sister.  I must have been a greedy child.

Grief Through A Father’s Eyes written by Phil Mullock.

Men’s approach to grief differs tremendously from their female wife or partner. Both share an immense emotional sadness to the loss of a child or any loved one, however the male relationship with grief is a complex range of feelings and denial of griefs natural process. From personal experience I found it to be the darkest time of my life. After losing our daughter, Amy many years ago, I found myself in what I remember as a waking nightmare. I could not believe that what should have been one of the happiest times in my life had turned into something unimaginable.

Grief is a journey and a natural process that has no time limit. It can also be an anaesthetic, as some can feel numb. It is also a channel for emotional sadness, most people don’t know this, and it only becomes clear after loss or by advice. A Man’s approach to this process can be one of denial, by running away, hiding and ignoring the process, or by more extreme measures such as anger, to hold down the grief and sadness, or combining any of these tactics together which in itself is a coping mechanism. But sadly, it denies opening to emotions and letting the natural process of grief take its course, or some may say healing.

For many years, anger was my coping mechanism, holding it down out of the way. If I did let it in, the emotional pain was so great it felt as if a little piece of me was dying. I couldn’t let that happen as I had two other children. So, I went into full ‘male mode’ to provide, protect and raise my family by not talking about our loss to my wife, family and friends.

The truth is I had no one to talk to. For a time, it worked. Until one day it pushed back up and the backlash of emotions hit me full on. It took all weekend to tell my wife what was happening. She was scared and frustrated with me. After that we talked and I began to face my feelings and let the grief process start. In the following months we joined a support group and met and talked with others who had also gone through the experience of loss. It helped greatly. In the years since, my wife and I became volunteers at A child of mine (ACOM) to help others with their loss, and we now have many friends there. For me, I focussed on the male aspect and since then we have opened a Men’s Group to supplement the main support for couples. We are planning on having regular quarterly meetings in a different setting for Dads, Grandparents, Uncles and any other male of a family that has experienced the loss of a child, from miscarriage through to adult children.

Simply, talking and support is the best and most effective way to enable the grief process to start. I was the example of what not to do and it’s shown me that men’s mental health depends on getting guys to talk in the first instance and to open up. It is difficult for us, as men, we are expected to be a rock and provider, and we too see ourselves as that. We can’t be seen as weak and emotional, yet men are human beings and must be reminded of that. Once a person opens up, ultimately that is their strength and hopefully the start of the grief and healing process.

A Child of Mine – Support for the Whole Family.

A Child of Mine recognises that grief impacts the entire family and provides free, vital bereavement support. We provide a safe space, where no one must be ‘strong’, to share and process their emotions without fear of judgement. For more information about the charity’s services and support for bereaved men after the loss of a child please contact us on: 01785 785819 or email: hello@achildofmine.org.uk