I lost my beautiful daughter Rosie just four months before discovering I was pregnant again. From the moment I saw those two pink lines, fear consumed me. For nearly the entirety of Teddy’s pregnancy, I was gripped by the certainty that something would go wrong, that I would lose my baby boy too. Every appointment, every scan, was accompanied by unbearable anxiety, and the days in between felt endless as I desperately sought reassurance that everything was okay.
It was only two weeks after Rosie’s due date that we found out we were pregnant—right in the middle of our first lockdown. Four months had passed since Rosie’s birth, and I was still trying to navigate the raw, aching grief of losing our little girl. The reality of our new life weighed heavily, and I felt unprepared to find joy again.
Those nine months were filled with challenges I could never have imagined. Just weeks after discovering my pregnancy, my dad suffered a sudden, severe anaphylactic episode. Incredibly, he died before being resuscitated while I held his hand. We moved in with my mum while Dad recovered, his body weakened from broken ribs caused by CPR and stress on his heart.
Not long after returning to our home, at just seven weeks pregnant, I was struck by extreme abdominal pain. Fear gripped me—I thought I was losing Teddy. Alone in the emergency department due to COVID restrictions, I waited for scans and tests, heart pounding. When they found Teddy’s heartbeat, I wept with relief. They discovered a large cyst on my right ovary that had twisted, causing the pain. Surgery was too risky, as it could trigger a miscarriage, and I was given a 50/50 chance of it resolving on its own. I stayed in hospital for two nights for monitoring, terrified it might burst, but thankfully, it gradually resolved over the next weeks.
Shortly after, Melbourne emerged from lockdown, and during this fragile time, we lost our beloved dog Mishka, who had been a family member for 15 years. Then, just three weeks later, stage-four lockdown returned, lasting 112 days. In the early days of lockdown, our daughter Sunny had a terrifying accident, flying head-first off her trampoline and remaining unconscious for over four hours. I spent the day in the emergency department alone, praying she would be okay. She suffered a severe concussion and needed six weeks to recover fully.
Just weeks later, my grandfather contracted COVID. We Skyped him daily, heartbreakingly watching him deteriorate until he passed three weeks later.
At thirty weeks pregnant, the day before restrictions eased, I was suddenly struck with severe chest pain. I could barely breathe. With my mum racing to stay with Sunny, Ned rushed me to the emergency department. After three nights locally and five nights at the Royal Women’s Hospital—the same ward where I had stayed after Rosie’s birth—I was finally diagnosed with pleurisy. Being pregnant meant I couldn’t take the medication to treat it and had to endure the pain while trying to rest. It took three weeks before I could lie down flat again or move comfortably.
During this time, my mental health deteriorated. I felt trapped in exhaustion and grief, like I had during those first weeks after losing Rosie. I fought to shield Sunny from my sadness, but I was completely depleted, unsure how I would make it through the rest of my pregnancy.
One day, after three weeks at home, my mum insisted I get dressed and take Sunny out for lunch. It felt impossible, but I did it. Sitting in a café for the first time in months was strange and yet comforting. That day became a turning point—a small step back into life, back into hope.
At 34 weeks, a follow-up ultrasound revealed Teddy had turned breech, raising the possibility of a C-section. Determined to give it my best, I committed to supporting my body, mind, and pregnancy. I saw my psychologist biweekly, visited an acupuncturist and chiropractor weekly, and received incredible support from my hospital and social worker. Over three weeks, Teddy turned and turned back twice, but with persistent care and love, he eventually settled head-down. Slowly, I regained hope, taking life one day at a time.
At 37 weeks, I could hardly believe we were almost there. Teddy was head-down, but my measurements lagged behind, showing only 35 weeks. At 38 weeks, it became clear he had stopped growing, and my amniotic fluid was low. Induction was recommended within 48 hours. We tried everything to encourage natural labor but to no avail.
On New Year’s Eve, I arrived at the hospital to begin induction the following morning, only to discover I was already three centimeters dilated. Overjoyed, I went home to be with Ned and returned the next morning ready to meet our son.
The labor was intense. Contractions came hard and fast, and soon my body bore down almost uncontrollably. I felt panicked and overwhelmed, yet I could sense Rosie’s presence in the room, her spirit giving me strength when fear took over. My midwife and doula, along with Ned, guided me with care, grounding me through each moment.
During the pushing stage, Teddy descended rapidly. My midwife expertly helped me control each contraction to protect my perineum. Though it felt like my body would split, I came through with only a first-degree tear, grateful beyond words for her skill and guidance.
At 1:23 p.m., Teddy arrived. I held him in my arms, stunned, overjoyed, and finally able to breathe. He was perfect. Ned and Lacey, our doula, were beside me, and soon Sunny joined us, eyes wide with awe at her baby brother. For the first time since losing Rosie, I felt a shift in my heart. I could love Teddy fully while still honoring Rosie’s place in our family.
Those first hours were blissful, wrapped in the warmth of our new family. Teddy weighed seven pounds, and as we shared our first moments alone, I realized something profound: with him came peace, happiness, and a deep, overwhelming love I had thought I might never feel again. Through unimaginable grief, fear, and challenges, our family had found hope—and the miracle of our beautiful rainbow baby boy.
