Five Years On: Finding Myself Again After Loss

It’s been a while.

Life has shifted quietly and completely since I last sat down like this—to write from my soul, with vulnerability, honesty, and open-heartedness. I used to come here often—to this space, to blogging, to podcasting—because they were the only places where my grief felt like it could stretch out fully. But somewhere along the way, I stopped. Not because I was done grieving, but because I needed to breathe. To live. To survive.

And now… now I’m slowly learning to thrive.

At the end of 2023, I returned to work. It was daunting. I wondered if my passion for helping others still existed. I didn’t know if I could still do it,—this version of life, with grief stitched into every fibre. But I did. And somehow, in just a year, I took a promotion. Now, our next chapter to find our forever home.

It still feels surreal to say. Because five years ago, everything broke.

Five years ago, we met our daughter Sophia and said goodbye in the same breath.

Five years ago, I held her tiny body in my arms, feeling both the fullness and the complete collapse of love.

Five years. It doesn’t feel possible. And yet here I am. Still standing. Still aching. Still loving her.

Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t follow a timeline. It lingers. It evolves. It shows up in unexpected ways and sits quietly in the background when you least expect it. But most of all—grief teaches you how to carry love in a world that no longer carries the person you love.

From Surviving to Living

Grief doesn’t vanish. But it changes. It no longer looks like nightly sobs in the dark. Sometimes it still does—but mostly, it looks like this:

It’s knowing when I need space.

It’s recognising the somatic—where I hold grief in my body.

It’s breathing through that tightness.

It’s gentler, but still deep.

It’s a soft ache coexisting with joy.

Joy exists too. In my rainbow baby’s laughter. In his endless, beautiful questions about his sister. In the way he throws his arms around me and whispers things like, “I wish Sophia could come and play.”

He never met her in this world, but somehow, he knows her.

He asks what heaven looks like. He once asked me if we could go to heaven, to which I asked him what he thought and he quickly responded with yes we should go rescue Sophia. Then, moments later, he turned into a superhero and flew around the room. That’s the beauty of children—they hold the heaviest truths with the lightest touch. His heart and imagination remind me to stay open, to stay soft, to stay curious—even in grief.

Books like The Invisible String and A Rainbow Baby help guide these conversations, but honestly? It’s him. He leads me while I hold space for his feelings. He keeps her alive in the most unexpected ways and reminds me how a child’s mind holds space for both pain and wonder—how maybe, we all need to relearn that.

Achievements and Acknowledgements: The Path I’ve Walked

Since losing Sophia, my world has shifted in ways I never imagined.

One of the most profound achievements has been the co-creation of the Butterfly Garden in Swinford, Co. Mayo. A baby memorial garden that started as a gentle idea in a blog post in May 2020 and became a community sanctuary in 2022.

The Butterfly Garden has received numerous community awards since and in 2023 a national Pride of Place Award for its contribution to supporting bereaved parents. It's surreal to think that what began as a "brain baby" now stands in real life—a place of remembrance, hope, and healing.  

Marking Five Years: Skipping for Sophia

This June, to mark five years, I set out on a challenge: 1,000 skips a day. Over 30,000 skips in one month. My heart, my lungs, my legs—they ached. But it was nothing compared to the ache I carry daily.

I skipped in her honour. I skipped for all the babies remembered through Feileacain, who the fundraiser supported. I skipped because grief needs movement. Energy. Ritual.

I knew my heart would ache for what should’ve been as she would’ve graduated preschool and our house should be filled with excitement of her starting big school in September. So I proactively planned this fundraiser as a way to honour, a way to grieve holding my love and loss in the most positive way possible.

You can still support here: idonate.ie/skipping4sophia

What I’ve Learned in Five Years

These five years have taught me more than I ever wanted to learn about heartbreak. But they’ve also gifted me lessons in love, strength, and humanity that I’ll carry for life.

• I’ve learned that time doesn’t heal all wounds—but time gives us space to learn how to live with them.

• I’ve learned that grief evolves—from sharp, raw pain to a deep, ever-present ache that lives beside joy.

• I’ve learned to honour the love that remains, even when the physical presence is gone.

There have been moments of deep grief—moments I didn’t blog or podcast, not because I was “over it,” but because I needed to find myself again.

I’ve shed tears with those I trust. I’ve celebrated small wins. I’ve learned to give myself space—to sit with my pain without shame.

And through it all, I’ve started to rediscover who I am.

The Gift of Feeling

One of the most profound realisations I’ve had is this:

To hurt is to have loved. To cry is to have felt. And to grieve is proof that we are still alive.

Sophia never got to see the sky. She never got the squeeziest hugs her brother now gives me. She never got to laugh or dance or run barefoot through the garden.

But I do.

He does.

We do.

And I’ve learned to be grateful for that. For this life. For this love. For the ache. For the laughter. For all of it.

Breaking the Timeline of Grief

Sometimes, I feel like I shouldn't still be grieving.

That maybe five years on, I should be “better,” “moved on,” “healed.” Because that’s what society often tells us — that grief has a timeline. That there's an acceptable window for sadness… and once it closes, we're expected to be okay.

But here’s what I want to say — no, what I need to say: That’s not how grief works.

I still ache. I still cry. I still long for the life we didn’t get. Not every day. But some days. And that’s okay.

I’ve learned that grief doesn’t ask for permission — it lives quietly beneath the surface and rises in unexpected moments: When I see a child her age. When her little brother says her name. When I’m happy, and suddenly there’s a pang — because someone’s missing from the joy.

But the difference now is — I hold it better.

Grief isn’t all-consuming like it once was. It’s become part of me. A quiet companion. It no longer defines my days, but it still shapes my heart.

And I want others to know: It’s okay to say you’re still hurting — even five, ten, twenty years on. It’s okay if your heart still aches. You don’t have to perform being “over it.”

You don’t have to minimise your love to make others comfortable.

Because grief is love with nowhere to go. And that love? It doesn’t fade.

I’m Still Finding Myself… But I’ll Be Back

Since returning to work, I’ve had moments where I missed writing. I missed my blog. I missed my podcast.

But I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t settled. I needed space to come back to myself.

Now, as we step closer to our next chapter — our forever home — it feels like something I can create space for. The pull to share. To write. To speak. To honour Sophia and every part of me that has been transformed since her. To continue to heal through writing.

So I will return to blogging. Not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I’ve learned to live with it all.

I want to break the idea that grief has an expiration date. I want people to feel safe saying, "Actually, I'm still grieving — and that doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means I’ve loved deeply."

Grief evolves. We learn to carry it. We build a life around it. But we never stop missing the person who made us a parent. We never stop loving them.

I’m not quite back yet. But once the dust settles and we find our forever home, I’ll be back.

Because I have more to say, to share. And because grief, love, healing, and motherhood… deserve to be spoken about.

Thank you for still being here,

With love, always smiling

Steffi