Nina & Angel’s story

There is a version of me that existed before I lost my baby, and a version of me that exists after. They are not the same person.

My husband and I have been together for 12 years. From early on in our relationship, we spoke about having a baby one day and building a family together. We would talk about the future and imagine what our child would be like. For some reason, I always imagined we would have a little boy, although my husband and I always said we would have been happy no matter the gender. Our baby was wanted, loved, and dreamed about long before I was ever pregnant.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was so happy. I remember it took us a few months to conceive, and we had started to wonder if we might need support, although we tried to stay calm. Being your first pregnancy, you naturally overthink everything. Like many parents, I immediately started imagining the future – the milestones, the memories, and the life we would share together as a family.

At 13 weeks pregnant, everything changed.

I went to what should have been a routine scan, expecting reassurance and excitement. At first, everything seemed okay. I saw my baby moving around on the screen with a strong heartbeat, and I remember thinking how surreal and amazing it felt seeing him there. We sat watching for around 10 minutes while the sonographer read out measurements. We were even told that my due date was actually two days earlier than we had thought, bringing it to 16th June. In those moments, we truly believed everything was fine.

Then the atmosphere changed.

I could sense something was wrong from the silence in the room and the expressions I was trying desperately to read. I remember a tear rolling down my face and thinking, “That’s not a happy tear.” I just had a gut feeling something was wrong.

The sonographer said he was going to look more closely at the baby’s head. He then said, “It doesn’t look how we would like it to right now,” before telling us he needed someone else to confirm. In that moment, my husband and I were left sitting there in complete shock. It felt like the rug had been pulled from underneath us.

I remember crying and saying, “This is bad.” My husband stayed calm and kept trying to reassure me, but all I could think was, if the skull has not formed properly, how can this be okay? I also saw the word “abnormal” written on the screen. I suddenly felt unwell and just wanted to leave.

A consultant then came into the room and asked me to lie back down for another scan. Suddenly we were hearing words and medical terminology we had never heard before. Everything became a blur.

We were told our baby had anencephaly, a fatal condition where parts of the brain and skull do not develop properly. In one moment, the future I had imagined disappeared completely.

My immediate thought was, “What have I done wrong?” I instantly blamed myself. I replayed everything over and over in my mind, searching for a reason, convinced somehow my body had failed my baby. I kept asking if there was anything we could do, what happened next, and whether anything could change. I had never been in a position like this before. I remember being told over and over that there was nothing I had done wrong and that it was just incredibly unlucky.

I had not suffered from sickness during my pregnancy, but after hearing the diagnosis, I became violently sick. My body went into complete shock. The mix of emotions, fear, grief, guilt, and the reality of what was happening completely overwhelmed me.

Nothing prepares you for hearing that your baby is not going to survive.

After the scan, we were taken into another room to discuss our options. I remember sitting there completely numb, trying to process how our lives had changed so quickly. No mother or father should ever be put in the position of having to choose whether to end a wanted pregnancy because of a fatal diagnosis.

The hardest part, and one I still struggle with deeply, was taking the tablet to begin the TFMR process. I remember clutching onto my stomach and repeatedly saying “I’m sorry” over and over again. I could feel tingling afterwards and instantly felt overwhelming guilt and self-hatred for what I believed I had done. Minutes earlier, I had watched my baby moving around on the screen with a heartbeat. Trying to reconcile that with the decision we were forced to make completely shattered me.

The days between taking the tablet and going into the hospital felt unreal. I felt numb knowing these were the last moments I would ever have carrying my baby. I barely slept at all. My mind was constantly racing between heartbreak, guilt, fear, and disbelief. Every movement reminded me he was still there, and I knew time with him was running out.

But the reality is that we chose TFMR because we loved our baby completely and could not allow him to suffer. People often use the word “choice,” but it never felt like a choice. It felt like heartbreak. It felt like losing our child while still carrying him.

I went into hospital on the Friday, gave birth to Angel on Saturday, 13/12/25, and left the hospital in the early hours of Sunday morning.

I did not know what to expect from labour and birth. It was extremely painful, and at times it felt like my body was holding on for as long as possible because it knew this was not natural. Even after I gave birth to Angel, my placenta would not come away, and after 12 hours, I had to have it manually removed.

Despite all of the trauma, meeting Angel and holding him brought a sense of peace I cannot fully explain. We were able to spend time with him in our room while he lay in a cold cot beside us. The midwife managed to get hand and footprints of Angel, which I am so grateful for. Those moments felt calm, quiet, and full of love.

We are not religious people, but we chose to have a chaplain come and name Angel and hold a small service for him. My mum, my husband Ashley, and I were all there together in that moment. After everything we had been through, it was peaceful and deeply needed.

We chose to have Angel cremated, and I am so thankful that babies lost through TFMR and pregnancy loss are recognised and treated with dignity, because having that option helped us begin to process what had happened. Angel was our son. He is not replaceable.

One of the most painful things people say after loss is, “You can just try again.” But another baby would never replace Angel. Nothing prepares you for meeting your baby, loving them so deeply, and then having to leave them behind at the hospital while you walk out carrying only a memory box.

Pregnancy loss affects every single part of your life. It changes how you see yourself, your future, your relationships, and the world around you. My relationship with my husband changed too. We grieved differently at times while both trying to survive the same heartbreak. Friendships and family relationships became difficult in ways I never expected. Some people did not know what to say, while others avoided talking about it completely.

I just wanted to escape from everything. Everywhere I looked there were reminders – babies, pregnancy announcements, conversations about children, celebrations, milestones. Every occasion seemed to heighten the grief. I often felt completely alone.

I think unless you have been through TFMR yourself, it is difficult to truly understand the complexity of the grief and guilt that comes with it. The greatest support I found came from others who had experienced it themselves and from charities such as Antenatal Results and Choices (ARC), and The Worst Girl Gang Ever, who have a TFMR community. This helped me feel less isolated during the darkest time of my life and heard.

I want to raise awareness because TFMR still feels so taboo. Before this happened to me, I had never even heard of it. People do not talk enough about the reality families face when they receive a fatal diagnosis, or the lifelong impact it has afterwards.

You are expected to somehow return to normal life – go back to work, meet friends, attend celebrations, and continue functioning as though everything is okay. But your entire identity changes.

Life still hits me hard. Some days I feel positive and try to do things that bring me peace or happiness, like gardening, walking my dog, or paddleboarding. But other days feel incredibly heavy. Grief is not linear, and there is no timeline for it. It can hit you at the moments you least expect – standing next to a newborn baby in public, hearing a pregnancy announcement, or realising you cannot face attending a baby shower or children’s birthday party because the emotions feel too overwhelming. Even seeing your baby’s due date on an item in the shops.

Even future pregnancies will never feel the same. The innocence and excitement are gone and replaced with fear and anxiety.

I think one of the most important things people can do is simply try to understand and give grieving parents time. We do not “get over” losing our babies. We learn to carry the grief alongside life…

Losing Angel changed me completely. But he will always be loved, remembered, and part of our family forever.