My story is one of absolute heartache, where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong, from conception, to pregnancy, childbirth and dealing with the traumatic aftermath. However, it is also about hope, love, strength, resilience and miracles.

It started when I was pregnant with my first child in 2004. I was newly married, in love, had a successful career and about to have my first baby. Little did I know the horrific journey that lay ahead.

The pregnancy appeared to be textbook perfect. Then at 22 weeks, I had a sudden bleed. I was rushed to hospital and what unfolded in the next 24 hours, was one of the biggest traumas I’ve endured. My waters broke the morning after my bleed, and there was no chance of my baby surviving without amniotic fluid. My doctor delivered the news that I would be giving birth to a stillborn baby.

All I remember was the haze that clouded over me, and then the denial and shock hit. Panic set in knowing I had to give birth to a baby that wouldn’t be breathing. It was cruel and inconceivable. The tears flowed; pain, anger, confusion and fear flashed crazily in my head. 

The next 24 hours were a nightmare that still haunt me. I was induced and inevitably I started having contractions. I knew this was it! I would lose my baby, and I would never get to take her home.

I felt alone and frightened. Before I had time to comprehend what was going on, my baby girl Angelika was born, her fate brutally predetermined. From that moment, my world stopped with a jolt and was marred forever. It is one of the emotions that when I recall, is still quite untouchable. The pain was in my eyes, in my lips as I cried out for her, in my arms as I held them up in despair and in my heart which was breaking. It was agony from the depths of my heart and soul; I was inconsolable, completely and utterly distraught. I honestly wished I had taken my last breath with Angelika.

I looked at my baby and she was developed but just small; she was so beautiful. Her fingers and her toes were so little. She looked tranquil and serene, like she had already found her peace, while I grappled with mine. Her eyes were shut, and I longed for them to open and look at me; to hear that newborn cry, and to have her wrap her fingers around mine. I longed for everything I should have had.

The next day we went to see Angelika. She was bundled up in a pink blanket. My love for her was intense, yet I was tormented, knowing she wouldn’t respond to my touch and my voice. I only had this short time with her, when it should’ve been a lifetime. I held her in my arms, and I cried for what I didn’t have, and for what I had in that moment.

Everything had changed and I didn’t belong in my world anymore. I wasn’t the same person… nothing would ever be the same. What scared me was the unknown and how I’d restore my broken heart.

They discovered that I have an incompetent cervix, which would affect my subsequent pregnancies. I suffered two miscarriages and then went on to have two boys, Timothy and George, with a multitude of serious issues. I had my cervix stitched at 12 weeks and I spent 8 months in hospital between the two pregnancies. I’ve had 38 surgeries, spent 3 years on IVF, with 12 failed cycles. I had preeclampsia, gestational diabetes, ultrasounds every 10 days during the pregnancies, and that’s just the physical ramifications. I endured two complicated births, with life-threatening complications, and George in ICU, where he nearly died. 

The events pre, during and post pregnancies took a toll on my mental health; I suffered post-traumatic stress, depression and anxiety. However, the life lessons I learnt along the way, embracing the traumas and the victories, have ensured I have powerful messages to share.

I learnt coping mechanisms to survive! I accepted that grief is a lifelong journey, and it is never linear or completely over. ‘Dealing with’ my emotions didn’t mean the pain of my loss had ended. I surrendered to the reality that the hurt is eternal.

I surrounded myself with the people who love me and let me react, with no judgement or pressure. Some days I wanted to talk, cry, vent and scream. Other days I didn’t want to talk at all, I just wanted to hide behind a facade.

The depression was debilitating. My sadness frustrated me; the more I tried to fight and deny my emotions, the worse it was. It took me longer to recover from this than if I had accepted my feelings. I used journaling as a tool to process what I felt, which was so cathartic.

Counselling with my psychologist was invaluable; it was a safe space for me to voice my innermost thoughts without judgement or shame. He did not have all the answers or a magic wand; however, he provided solace and strategies. Venting to an outsider was beneficial; it eliminated the guilt I felt burdening loved ones.

There were no miraculous remedies, so I tried to navigate the dark days. The stigma of conversations about stillbirths was detrimental and destructive to my mental health and caused long-term psychological scars. Sharing my story and ridding myself of the shame associated with grief and child loss, was liberating.

The concept that ‘time heals’ is a paradox. I have learnt to recognise my triggers and descent into despair. I try to avoid these scenarios and block negative thoughts. The triggers will always arise; I don’t know when, where, how or why. But I must manage them for self-preservation.

My then husband and I were very dependent on each other for survival, at that time. We were desperate for comfort and understanding, as we legitimately felt one another’s pain, and this created a strong bond. Learning to communicate our emotions with each other through counselling was beneficial.

I am extremely fortunate to have had so much love and support. I realised to a greater degree how essential family and good friends are. Love and having your ‘village’ to help raise your children and get through life, is invaluable.

It was a slow process, but I persevered and believed in the possibility of finding happiness again.

I have evolved because of my experiences, and learnt about life, people, what’s important; what love and loss is and how it changes you. I have learnt the hard way that the bad days are bad, so I make the good ones good. You are never prepared for what might be thrown your way, even when you think you are.

My children are precious, and I appreciate them more, for what I have been through.

Asking for help wasn’t easy whilst hurting and feeling lost, but it’s vital. Starting the conversation was difficult, but it was the only way to begin the road to recovery and healing.