Another Milestone Missed: Starting "Big School".
- Stephanie Maloney
- Sep 12
- 5 min read
I remember being told five years ago that all the firsts hurt—and it’s true. This month, another milestone passed: Sophia should’ve started school. My chest tightened, tears fell, and grief hit me like it did the very first time.
As I prepared our rainbow baby to return to preschool, part of me tried to focus on the excitement. But then someone would ask, “Is he starting big school this year?” and reality hit me like a tonne of bricks: No… but Sophia would’ve been…
Sometimes I allow myself to face this reality. Other times, I shy away. I’m only human. I didn’t want grief to overshadow the joy of getting our rainbow back to preschool.
In moments like these, I feel as though I’m balancing on a tightrope—my emotions a delicate mix of sadness and joy, and I’m constantly walking the thin line between the two.
But here’s what I’ve realised: my grief doesn’t actually interfere with life. It’s my fear of it interfering that does.
This year, what weighed on my heart a little more was that not many people reached out. Baby loss taboo still lives on, just as so many mothers before me warned me it would. The cards lessen. The messages lessen. Milestones arrive, and fewer and fewer people acknowledge them.
So to those who did tell me they were thinking of us—especially with Sophia meant to be starting school—we truly appreciate you. When someone remembers her, it tells me she hasn’t been forgotten. And that is what matters most.
To mark this milestone, we found small ways to honour her: tidying her forever bed, planting flowers, her nanny got her a dolly with her name engraved, and on the eve that she should've started school, Dan, Sam and myself built a Lego unicorn for her. We imagined what her school bag might’ve looked like—probably Elsa and Anna, knowing my influence from my love for Disney. Grief sits quietly at times, and roars at others, but even in the ache, I felt her closeness and could breathe again.
I also found that allowing myself to grieve openly helped me process the day. I told people she would've been starting school, I honoured her even if it caused awkward silences. I didn’t try to push the sadness away. Letting grief have space doesn’t weaken us—it honours the love we still carry for the child we lost.
Thankfully the National Light up the Sky remembrance event was on the same week so I had that to put my grief into, the preparing and allowing myself to feel re-connected to our little girl. 395 butterflies placed throughout the butterfly garden, 395 little ones, actually more as some of these included two babies on the one butterfly! over 395 babies honoured, names read out from the register and bubbles blown in memory of them. I ususally hope for a little sign from Sophia and this year although little Robin joined for prep at the garden, it rained so much I didn't think we'd get a sign. But then my brother and my parents sent me photos of the sky during the event. A rainbow had lit up the sky and that's all it took for my heart to feel connected again.
It's been 5 years and I have wondered how the heart hurt so deeply as it does again. How does it feel this intense 5 years on.. The reality is we will always have first milestones to face and they will always hit harder. They will feel like the first time because we are facing another first. So if you were like me and you were wondering why it hurts so much after feeling like you were carrying grief so well. No, there is nothing wrong with you if you're wondering how it feels so heavy. Yes, you are grieving, because you still love your child deeply. Your love for your child will always exist, it doesn't lessen just because they are not here. Your love runs deep and so does your grief. Ride the wave and know you are not alone.
For parents facing similar milestones, here are a few things that helped me:
Acknowledge the milestone: Name it, mark it, or even write about it. You don’t have to ignore it or pretend it doesn’t exist.
Create a small ritual: Plant flowers, light a candle, build something symbolic like Lego, or leave a note. These gestures honour your child and provide a tangible way to feel connected.
Include siblings or rainbow babies: Let them participate in the ritual. It can help them understand the family’s love and loss without feeling heavy or scary.
Give yourself permission to cry: Physical symptoms—tight chest, sore eyes, dry throat—are natural and part of grief. Don’t be afraid to let your body express it.
Reach out to supportive people: Even a text or a memory shared by a friend or family member can provide comfort. Knowing someone else remembers your child validates their presence in your life.
Engage in gentle imagination: Imagine what your child might have done, worn, or loved at this milestone. Disney princesses, favourite toys, or favourite snacks—these little moments keep their memory alive.
Allow mixed emotions: You can feel joy for milestones your living children reach while still grieving for those missed. Both feelings can coexist without diminishing each other.
A Gentle Word for Future Milestones
If you have milestones ahead that your child won’t reach, it’s okay to feel anxious or avoidant at first. Anticipate emotions, but allow yourself small ways to honour your child. Simple acts—planting flowers, building a Lego creation, or talking about them—can provide comfort and create meaningful connection.
Remember, grief is not linear. Some days it roars; other days it rests. Milestones will always carry a mix of joy and sorrow, but giving yourself permission to experience both can transform pain into love remembered.
This milestone stirred a conversation between me and Dan on how we grieve differently and now I have to convince Dan to watch Coco (the Disney Movie) so he can understand why remembrance means so much to me. I will eventually get him to watch it… eventually.
Milestones pass, tears fall, and grief remains—but love endures. It lives in memories, in small gestures, and in the moments we create to remember. And it’s okay if those moments are bittersweet—grief doesn’t have a timetable, and love doesn’t disappear with it.
