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Opinion

My baby died before I even held them – and I was expected to carry on

‘People talk about miscarriage as a medical event,’ Sam Naughton writes for Big Issue. ‘For me, it was a bereavement’

The room went quiet before anyone said a word. I already knew something was wrong. I’d spent the weekend away and ended up in A&E with bleeding. There wasn’t any ultrasound availability over the weekend, so I was sent away with the reassurance that my cervix wasn’t open, and therefore miscarriage was unlikely.

My husband Ben squeezed my hand as the silence stretched on. Then the words came, “I’m  sorry, there’s no heartbeat”. Our baby had died at 10 weeks.

I remember staring at the ceiling. Willow was already real to us. They had a name, a place in our family, a future we had begun to imagine. Yet what followed was language that tried to make it smaller. “It’s very common”. “At least it was early”. Even “It was just a cluster of cells at that stage”.

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People talk about miscarriage as a medical event. For me, it was a bereavement. My baby had died. Yet the language used during such a traumatic event will stay with me forever, “We’ve removed the product of conception”. They were my baby.

I went home to a world that kept moving. I still had to be a mum to my daughter, Ruby. I still had to answer messages, go back to work, show up. Inside, I felt like my body had betrayed me. I was grieving quietly, because grief like this can only really be understood by those who have experienced it.

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I became pregnant again within three months and fear took over. I was terrified to go to the toilet in case I saw blood. I counted the days between appointments, holding my breath each time, never able to relax. Anxiety lived in my chest constantly. I was functioning, but I was not okay.

In search of reassurance, I went for countless private scans, hoping they would help. Instead, many of the spaces felt unbearable. Pink and blue waiting rooms filled with teddy bears that played recorded heartbeats. People making plaster casts of newborn feet in the reception area. Walls covered in celebration.

I remember sitting there thinking if my appointment went badly, I’d have to walk back through all of this carrying my grief past other people’s joy.

Those spaces weren’t built for women like me, women who were scared, traumatised, or already grieving.

When my son, Alby, was born safely, the relief was overwhelming. But something in me had shifted forever. I couldn’t stop thinking about the women I’d met along the way, sitting silently in fear, loss and uncertainty. Women expected to carry on as if nothing had happened, because their grief didn’t fit neatly into society’s expectation.

I knew I couldn’t return to my corporate career. The version of me who had existed before Willow no longer did. I felt an urgent need to create something that acknowledged the reality of pregnancy, that it can be joyful, but it can also be terrifying, heartbreaking and deeply lonely.

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That’s why I opened Cocoon. I built the space I desperately needed when I was at my most vulnerable. A calm, compassionate clinic where you don’t have to put on a brave face. Where fear is taken seriously. Where loss is named, not minimised.

Cocoon is a fertility and women’s wellbeing clinic, created to support women through the full reality of conception, pregnancy and loss. We offer clinical care, but also something just as important, emotional safety. Talking therapy, midwifery support, counselling and space to be held.

One of the things I was very clear about in the beginning was the need for us to provide accessible talking therapy. Because support should not depend on your bank balance. Grief doesn’t discriminate, and neither should care. We partnered with the wonderful team at Taking Baby Steps, led by former bereavement midwife, Jane Bamford. They receive funding that ensures support remains free of charge for those who have experienced baby loss at any stage.

More recently, I lost my best friend Emma to metastatic breast cancer at just 43. When she died, it reinforced everything I already knew, that women so often carry pain quietly, putting others first, minimising their own needs. It strengthened my resolve to make Cocoon a place where women are truly listened to.

Willow changed my life. Their short existence reshaped my purpose. Cocoon is their legacy.

I can’t take away what other women have lost. But alongside my incredible team, I can sit beside them in it. I can make sure they don’t feel invisible, rushed or dismissed. I can create a space where their experience is honoured.

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If sharing my story helps even one woman feel less alone, then Willow’s life continues to matter. And that means everything.

Sam Naughton is the founder of Cocoon.  

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