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Life has a funny way of delivering the most profound news when you least expect it.
For my husband Liam and me, that news arrived just after a trip to the United States two years ago, where we took Liam’s daughter to Disneyland.
At the time, I joked that it really is the happiest place on earth. For a long time, that felt like a massive understatement.
Finding out we were pregnant with our baby boy, James, shortly after that trip was nothing short of magical.
We had been mentally and physically preparing to begin the gruelling, clinical journey of IVF.
To fall pregnant naturally, after we had already braced ourselves for the uphill battle of fertility treatments, felt like the most beautiful and completely unexpected gift the universe could have handed us.
When we reached the 10-week mark, the harmony test came back clear. We remember the literal wave of relief that washed over us.
We were hopeful, and we were utterly convinced that “clear” meant everything was going to be OK.
We started to let our guards down, allowing ourselves to finally imagine the “love and chaos” a new baby would bring to our lives.
But at our 12-week scan, the narrative shifted. The news was not what we expected.
There were “concerns” – a word that hangs heavy, cold, and clinical in an ultrasound room.
We were told to wait, to come back, and to hope the next scan would tell a different story.
For weeks, we lived in a state of limbo, flipping between desperate hope and a paralysing fear.
At 16 weeks, the news did not improve. We sought second opinions, we underwent more scans, and we waited for a miracle that simply wouldn’t come.
Then, we heard the words no parent should ever have to hear: “There was a global issue.”
Our beautiful boy was not growing as he should. By 20 weeks, the medical reality became undeniable, and we were forced to make the most impossible, soul-crushing decision. I had to deliver him, knowing we would never see him grow up.
James arrived at 4.20 pm on August 15, 2024. He was tiny, weighing just 190 grams.
He was so small that Liam could carry him in the palm of his hand. He was perfect. He had the sweetest lips and the cutest little button nose.
The experience of meeting James was surreal. I had always imagined what childbirth would be like with the monitors, the excitement and the eventual cry of a newborn.
But it was never supposed to be like this. We knew the devastating reality that we would not be bringing our baby home.
Yet, amid the heartbreak, we were given a profound gift: the gift of time. We were granted an afternoon, a full night, and the next morning to simply be his parents. To hold him, to look at him, and to tell him he was loved.
I was already familiar with the compassionate support offered by Red Nose through my work, but experiencing their grace firsthand changed everything.
While I was lucky to have a strong support network of family and friends, there is a specific kind of comfort in knowing that an organisation like Red Nose is only ever a phone call away.
They are a safety net for when the weight of grief feels too heavy to carry alone.
Now, our lives have moved forward, as lives inevitably do. Our beautiful baby girl, our rainbow baby Mila, was born on October 2, 2025.
She is almost six months old now, and her arrival has been a whirlwind of new energy and light.
Along with my stepdaughter Sophia, who turns seven this year and understands in her own way that she has a brother in the stars, our home is full of life.
We keep James close in everything we do. We have a small shrine for him which is home to his ashes, his tiny foot and handprints, and the soft baby wrap and beanie he wore.
Every Christmas, his bauble takes its rightful place on our tree, and every single day, without fail, I carry a key ring with his photo. He is a part of our family’s “love and chaos”, even if he isn’t physically here.
This is why Say Their Name Day is so vital to me, and to thousands of parents like me.
There is a common misconception that speaking the name of a child who has passed will “remind” the parents of their loss and make them sad.
But really, you do not have to worry about reminding us that our son died. We never forget.
When you say “James”, it feels like a hug for my soul. Simply showing up and acknowledging that our child existed – that he has a name and a place in this world – tells us his life mattered.
Grief, as the saying goes, is just love with nowhere to go. It is the surplus of affection we had saved up for a lifetime that now has to be channelled into shrines, baubles, and stories.
To every parent walking this path: we see your love, we see your pain, and we see your child.
We are part of a brave, heartbroken, and beautiful family of parents who understand that a tiny life can leave a footprint larger than the world itself.
This Say Their Name Day, we invite you to join us in breaking the silence. Don’t be afraid of the tears. They are just another way of saying our angel babies were here.
To our boy James: you are not a secret, and you are never a memory we want to hide.
We will keep saying your name. You are loved, you are missed, and you are ours. Always.
Say Their Name day runs every year on March 25 to help break the stigma around pregnancy loss and child loss. Anyone who needs support or would like to donate can visit Say Their Name and Red Nose.
Tracy Vo is a 9News Perth journalist and presenter.From our partners
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