One week of walking, 19 years of missing them

One Week of Walking. 19 Years of Missing Them.

Tomorrow will be one week since I started walking 3 kilometres a day for Red Nose Day.

I thought I was doing this to raise awareness and money. To help other families. To do something positive in memory of my babies.

But this week has made me think about them more than I expected.

And sometimes, those thoughts hurt like hell.

I find myself wondering what my children would be doing today.

How tall would they be?

What colour would their eyes be?

What would their voices sound like?

Would they have my laugh?

Would they be loud and cheeky? Quiet and gentle?

What would they be interested in?

Who would they be?

I will never know.

And that is one of the cruelest parts of losing a child.

You don’t just lose the baby you held in your arms.

You lose every version of them that they were supposed to become.

You lose the toddler.

The school kid.

The teenager.

The young adult.

The person they would have grown into.

You lose birthdays you never get to celebrate. Christmas mornings you never get to see. School photos that will never be taken. First days of school. Graduations. Weddings. Maybe grandchildren.

You lose a lifetime of moments that should have been yours.

And people don’t always understand that.

They see the years that have passed and think you should be okay.

But grief doesn’t have an expiry date.

It doesn’t matter that it has been 19 years.

I am still their mum.

And I still wonder about them.

There are days when I can talk about them without crying. There are days when I can laugh and remember them.

And then there are days when the reality of what I lost hits me all over again.

I came home without my babies.

There is something about those words that still breaks my heart.

A mother is supposed to leave hospital with her baby.

I left with empty arms.

And somehow, I had to learn how to go home and keep living.

I had to wake up the next morning.

And the next.

And the next.

I had to learn how to live in a world where my children weren’t physically in it.

I won’t pretend I did that easily.

I didn’t.

There were moments when the grief was unbearable.

But somewhere along the way, I learnt to put one foot in front of the other.

Maybe that’s why this walk feels so important to me.

Because grief is a lot like walking.

Some days you feel like you can keep going.

Some days every step hurts.

But you keep moving.

One step.

Then another.

And another.

Because what else do you do?

I hold onto the belief that this isn’t the end of my story with them.

I believe that one day I will see my babies again.

And until that day comes, I will say their names.

Jack.

Zac.

Emily.

I will remember them.

I will talk about them.

I will love them.

Because they existed.

They were real.

They were my babies.

And they deserve to be remembered.

If you know someone who has lost a baby or child, please don’t be afraid of their grief.

Don’t change the subject because you don’t know what to say.

Don’t tell them to be grateful for the children they have.

Don’t tell them they can have another baby.

Don’t tell them it happened for a reason.

You don’t need to fix their pain.

You can’t.

Just sit beside them.

Let them cry.

Let them talk.

Let them say their baby’s name.

Listen.

Really listen.

And when there are no words left, hold them.

Give them a hug.

Sometimes the greatest gift you can give a grieving parent is simply letting them know they don’t have to carry it alone.

Because we never stop being parents just because our child died.

We just become parents who have to love someone we can’t hold.

And that is a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

So tomorrow, I will put my shoes on again.

I will walk my 3 kilometres.

And with every step, I will think of the three little lives that changed mine forever.

I don’t know how tall they would be.

I don’t know what their eyes would look like.

I don’t know what their voices would sound like.

But I know exactly how much I love them.

And I always will.

19 years later.

Three babies.

One mother.

A lifetime of love.

For Jack, Zac and Emily.

Until I see you again. ❤️

Reflection

19 years have passed since I lost my beautiful babies, yet there are days when it feels like yesterday.

People often say that time heals, but I’ve learned that time doesn’t erase grief. It simply teaches you how to carry it. The love never fades, and neither do the memories.

Giving birth should be one of life’s happiest moments. For me, it became one of the most heartbreaking. I had to leave the hospital with empty arms, not once, but twice. There are no words that truly describe that kind of pain. It’s a silence that follows you home, a sadness that settles into every part of your life, and a journey that changes you forever.

Over the years, I’ve realised that grief also changes the way you see the world. You stop taking the little things for granted. A sunrise, a hug, a phone call from someone you love, laughter around the dinner table, these moments become priceless because you know just how quickly life can change.

Life is incredibly precious. We spend so much of it rushing from one thing to the next, worrying about things that won’t matter in a year’s time, forgetting to pause and truly appreciate the people around us. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring.

If my babies have taught me anything, it’s to love deeply, forgive often, and never leave kind words unsaid. Hold your family close. Tell people you love them. Put your phone down once in a while and take in the beauty around you. The moments we often overlook are the ones that become our most treasured memories.

Nineteen years later, Jack, Zac and Emily are still part of every day. They are loved, remembered, and missed beyond words. They may not have stayed in my arms, but they will remain in my heart for the rest of my life.

If sharing my story reminds even one person to cherish today, then my beautiful angels continue to leave their mark on this world.

Sandra x