13/10/2026
AFTER I LOST SIENNA, I WAS FU***NG ANGRY. AND I’M NOT ASHAMED TO ADMIT IT.
This is a side of baby loss that people don’t always talk about. The ugly, messy, lonely, self-destructive side of grief. The part that happens behind closed doors when the flowers stop arriving, the messages become fewer and the rest of the world carries on.
After Sienna died, I genuinely felt like I had no future.
Because the future I’d spent nine months dreaming about had died with my daughter.
I cried for her. I cried for the life we should have had. The milestones, the birthdays, the ordinary everyday moments that had been stolen from us.
I didn’t know how to cope.
I started drinking to block out the pain. I started smoking. I’d drink, wake up hungover, spend the day in bed with the blackout blinds down, and then do it all over again.
Day after day.
I was angry. So fu***ng angry.
I resented people . I resented watching people carry on with their happy little lives while mine had completely fallen apart.
I wasn’t thinking straight.
I hated my body. The body that had carried my beautiful daughter for nine months but hadn’t brought her home alive.
I stopped answering the phone. Even receiving a text message gave me anxiety.
I was terrified of going out in public in case somebody innocently asked where my baby was.
Yet at the same time, I wanted to stand in the middle of the supermarket and scream,
“MY BABY JUST DIED!”
I wanted people around me, but I wanted to be alone. I needed help, but I didn’t even know what help looked like anymore.
And do you know what made everything so much worse?
I WAS OFFERED NO COUNSELLING. NO BEREAVEMENT CARE. NO PROPER EMOTIONAL SUPPORT.
My family weren’t here in Spain.
I’d just lost my daughter at full term. I’d undergone an emergency C-section, nearly lost my own life, and somehow I was expected to navigate the aftermath of all of that on my own.
Hospital appointments were another level of trauma.
“Are you still breastfeeding?”
“Where is your baby?”
Questions that might seem innocent to somebody else but absolutely destroyed me.
My C-section stitches were forgotten about and not removed when they should have been.
I sat in hospital waiting rooms surrounded by newborn babies, listening to them cry, watching their mothers hold them, while my own arms were empty.
I’d given birth, but I had no baby to take home.
And there was no CuddleCot at the hospital. No opportunity for the precious extra time with my daughter that I so desperately needed.
SO YES, I WAS FU***NG ANGRY.
Angry that my baby didn’t get to stay.
Angry that I was planning a funeral instead of bringing my daughter home.
Angry that my body was recovering from childbirth while my heart was completely shattered.
Angry that there was no CuddleCot.
Angry that there was no support.
Angry at the hospital.
Angry at the world.
And I’m fu***ng angry that during the absolute hardest, darkest time of my life, I was being trolled online.
Imagine losing your baby, nearly losing your own life, trying to recover from major surgery, and having strangers sitting behind screens judging you, criticising you and adding to your pain.
People had absolutely NO idea what was going on behind closed doors.
They saw snippets of what I chose to share. They didn’t see the reality of what I was living through.
THREE WEEKS AFTER MY DAUGHTER DIED, I WAS BACK WORKING ONLINE.
Not because I was okay. Not because I’d moved on. But because life, responsibilities and bills don’t just stop when your baby dies.
FOUR WEEKS AFTER SIENNA DIED, I PACKED AWAY HER BELONGINGS.
Her beautiful little clothes. The things I’d bought with so much excitement. The things I’d spent months preparing for her arrival.
Things that should have been worn, washed, used and scattered around our home.
Instead, I was putting them away because my daughter was never coming home.
Can you even imagine what that does to a mother?
And there was SO much more happening behind closed doors. Things I’ve never shared. Things people will never know. Things I was dealing with while barely being able to function.
Yet somehow I was expected to carry on.
To work. To pay bills. To recover. To answer messages. To attend appointments. To navigate a life I no longer recognised.
And apparently, to tolerate strangers having opinions about how I was grieving.
I didn’t need judgement.
I didn’t need somebody telling me to be strong.
I NEEDED SOMEBODY TO RECOGNISE THAT I WAS FALLING APART.
Because grief isn’t always beautiful quotes, butterflies, rainbows and candles.
Sometimes grief is self-destruction.
Sometimes it’s resentment.
Sometimes it’s shutting everyone out.
Sometimes it’s drinking yourself into oblivion because you can’t bear the thought of waking up to another day without your baby.
I’m not proud of every way I coped, but I’m not ashamed of the woman I was when I was simply trying to survive the unimaginable.
AND ALL OF THAT ANGER… WHERE WAS IT SUPPOSED TO GO?
All that heartbreak. All that trauma. All that resentment. All that love I had for my little girl with nowhere to put it.
The reality is, I had to find a way to heal myself.
There was no counselling. No bereavement support. Nobody coming to rescue me from the darkest place I’d ever been.
It was sink or swim.
And believe me, there were times when I was sinking.
I could have spiralled completely out of control. I could have continued drinking, shutting the world out, destroying myself a little more every day.
And for a while, that’s exactly the direction I was heading.
But somewhere amongst all that darkness, I made a choice.
I COULDN’T SAVE MY DAUGHTER. BUT I HAD TO FIND A WAY TO SAVE MYSELF.
Not because I was suddenly okay.
Not because the anger disappeared.
Not because the grief became easier.
But because I couldn’t let the day Sienna died be the day I stopped living too.
And that’s where Sienna’s Legacy saved me.
What started as anger that my daughter hadn’t had a CuddleCot became a determination that other families shouldn’t have to experience the same lack of care.
I took that anger, that helplessness, that overwhelming love for my daughter, and I poured it into something that mattered.
I couldn’t change what happened to Sienna.
But maybe I could change what happened to another family.
Maybe I could give another mother those precious extra hours with her baby.
Maybe I could give another father the chance to hold his child a little longer.
Maybe I could help another family make memories when time was the one thing they desperately needed more of.
And slowly, Sienna’s Legacy gave me a reason to get out of bed.
A purpose.
Something to fight for.
Something positive to focus on when everything around me felt so dark.
I THOUGHT I WAS BUILDING A LEGACY FOR MY DAUGHTER. BUT IN SO MANY WAYS, MY DAUGHTER WAS SAVING HER MUMMY.
It didn’t take away my grief.
It didn’t fix the trauma.
It didn’t suddenly make everything okay.
And it certainly didn’t mean I stopped being angry.
I still have those days. I still cry. I still look at the life I should have had and wonder why my beautiful girl couldn’t stay.
But I found a way to turn some of that anger into something meaningful.
And I’m incredibly proud of that.
Because out of the darkest period of my entire life, Sienna’s Legacy has gone on to help other bereaved families. We’ve raised money, provided CuddleCots to hospitals and helped give families something I so desperately wish I’d had.
More time. More compassion. More dignity. More memories.
And while people might look at what I’ve achieved and call me strong, I need them to understand something.
I never wanted to be strong.
I never wanted to become a voice for baby loss.
I never wanted to start a legacy.
I never wanted to know what a CuddleCot was.
I JUST WANTED MY DAUGHTER.
I wanted to bring Sienna home. I wanted to dress her in those beautiful little outfits. I wanted sleepless nights, dirty nappies, first smiles and all the ordinary things other parents sometimes take for granted.
I would trade every CuddleCot, every fundraiser, every achievement and every bit of recognition to have my little girl here.
But I can’t.
And that is a reality I have to live with for the rest of my life.
So yes, I was angry.
And sometimes I still am.
But I refused to let that anger be the end of my story.
Sienna’s Legacy was born from heartbreak, built from anger and continues because of love.
I share this because I want people to understand that there is so much more to baby loss than the funeral, the sympathy cards and the first few weeks.
There is the mother left behind.
The mother trying to survive.
The mother trying to work out who she even is anymore.
The mother who needs support long after everybody else has returned to their normal lives.
And if sharing the reality of what happened to me makes even one person show a little more compassion to a grieving parent, then it’s worth being this vulnerable.
Because nobody should have to navigate the death of their baby feeling as alone as I did.
I wasn’t just grieving my daughter. I was grieving the future we’d planned, the mother I thought I’d be and the life that disappeared the day Sienna died.
And somehow, through all that pain, my beautiful little girl gave me a purpose.
I will spend the rest of my life wishing she were here.
But I will also spend the rest of my life making sure her name is heard.
Sienna Elizabeth Rose O’Shea.
My daughter. My reason. My little girl.
I couldn’t give her the life she deserved, but I will spend mine making sure her little life makes a difference. 🤍
