This is our story — the lead up to Aleisha’s birth and the day she entered our world. It’s not an easy story to tell, but it’s one filled with love, strength, heartbreak, and a bond that will never be broken. We share it to honour her, and to give voice to a journey that so many walk in silence.

My pregnancy with Aleisha was completely textbook. Everything was going well. There were no complications, no concerns — just a growing baby we already loved so deeply. The night before she was born, something didn’t feel right.I couldn’t explain it, but deep down I knew something was off. I wondered if maybe I was going into early labour, trying to make sense of the feeling.

The next day, I thought I was having contractions. I went back and forth in my mind, not wanting to waste anyone’s time or overreact. But eventually, Sam and I decided to go to the hospital. When we arrived, I was placed on the monitor. At one point, I moved and accidentally knocked it off my belly. A midwife came in to reposition it.

She couldn’t find a heartbeat.

Another midwife came in.

Still nothing. Then the doctor was called. Everything changed in that moment.

The room filled with people. I was being prepped for an emergency caesarean. An ultrasound machine was brought in.

And then… silence. The doctor came and sat beside me, held my hand, and said the words that will stay with me forever…

“I’m so sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

I will never forget my husband’s scream.

From that moment, everything shattered. I went into shock, and there is so much I don’t remember — maybe that’s my mind trying to protect me.

We made a plan to deliver her the next day. I wanted a vaginal birth. I wanted to hold my girl. I had a stretch and sweep, hoping to bring on labour.

I went to have a shower and noticed blood. At that point, I didn’t care. My mind was telling me I had failed, that I hadn’t protected my girl. That whatever happened now… just happened. Our best friends came to pick us up and took us home. We had to make the calls no one should ever have to make.

At home, the discomfort grew. I went to the toilet and saw blood, a lot of blood. I told my husband and my friend, but I still didn’t think too much of it.

We went outside, and that’s when my mother-in-law, father-in-law, and our 1.5-year-old arrived. We cried. We held each other. My maternity photos were meant to be that Sunday. As I stood up, I felt a pop. And then I started bleeding. A lot. After that, everything becomes a blur. My husband called the ambulance, but because we live out of town, we started driving to meet them. When I got to the hospital, everything was happening so fast. I’ll never forget the look on one of the midwives’ faces, the fear in her eyes. “She needs to go to theatre now.” I was in labour at this point. The pain was unbearable.  No one seemed to fully know what was happening, it was just go, go, go. I was rushed down to theatre, surrounded by a team, my husband by my side… until suddenly he wasn’t. I remember being wheeled into the room, leaving him at the door. The bright lights.  The sounds of machines. And in the middle of it all, my midwife Cassie… stroking my hair, holding my hand.

I remember asking her, “Am I going to wake up?”

My husband was left alone. That still breaks my heart. Sam had just lost his daughter, and in that same moment, he didn’t know if he was going to lose his wife too. No one should ever have to carry that. By some grace, my mother-in-law arrived at the hospital at exactly the right moment there to be with her son when he needed someone most.

In recovery, I woke to Sam holding our precious girl, Aleisha. I don’t remember much, but I remember that. Once I was somewhat awake, I was wheeled to the maternity ward where our family was waiting. That first night is mostly a blur. I was in so much pain. I was in shock. And deep down, I truly hated myself for what had happened. I was placed near the nurses’ station so I could be closely monitored, checked every 30 minutes through the night.

And all around me… life was continuing. I could hear babies being born. Mothers in labour. Newborn cries filling the halls. While I sat there in silence, holding a completely different reality. We later learned what had happened.

I had experienced a placental abruption — a rare and severe form called a Couvelaire uterus.

During the delivery, I lost a significant amount of blood. I received ten plasma transfusions and four blood transfusions.  I am incredibly lucky to be here. And I will forever be grateful to the team who saved my life. In the days that followed, my body continued to go through things I wasn’t prepared for. My breast milk came in. The pain was excruciating — physically and emotionally. My body was doing what it was meant to do… but my baby wasn’t here to feed. I was told by one midwife to express and then told by another not to. It was confusing, overwhelming, and it hurt in more ways than I can explain.

At one point, my blood pressure spiked so high they brought the resuscitation table into my room. I had a drain in my uterus that needed to be removed — it had been stitched in. I was awake. There was no numbing. The pain it stayed with me.

And yet, in the middle of all of this… there was Aleisha.

Our beautiful girl. She had the cutest little button nose, perfect lips, and the tiniest fingers and toes. She was everything I had dreamed of, and more.

We were given the most precious gift — time. A cuddle cot allowed us to spend a few days with her. To hold her. To love her. To be her parents. And even now, I still have those thoughts “I wish I held her more.” “I wish I kissed her more.”

But nothing prepares you for the moment you have to say goodbye. People don’t truly understand that moment. It’s not just loss   it’s a decision.

The last cuddle.

The last kiss.

The last time you see your baby’s face.

The most beautiful midwife, Mel, was the one who held Aleisha and carried her for us. And that moment, broke something in me. We had already begun grieving her…

But this was different. This was goodbye. And it hurt in a way that words will never fully capture.

Aleisha made me a mum in a way that changed me forever.

She is loved beyond words, missed beyond measure, and will always be a part of who we are.

We share her story not just to honour her life, but to give a voice to the silence that surrounds stillbirth, to let others know they are not alone in their grief, their love, or their journey. Aleisha’s story

She will always be our beautiful girl.

Our Aleisha. 🤍

Lovingly shared by Emily and Sam, parents to Aleisha.