I Know What You're Carrying.
I Carried It Too.

I was 40 weeks and 11 days pregnant with my first baby. A boy. We'd already named him Lucas.

Everything had been textbook perfect. I was young, healthy, excited. The nursery was ready. The tiny clothes were washed and folded. I had no reason to believe anything would go wrong.

And then everything did.

During what should have been a routine check, there was an emergency. Cord prolapse. Suddenly I was being rushed to theatre, surrounded by people moving fast, faces that told me something was very wrong.

Lucas was born by emergency C-section.

He didn't survive.

In one moment, I went from a mother-to-be to a mother with empty arms. A nursery with no baby. A body full of milk with no one to feed.

I don't need to tell you what that feels like. You already know.

What followed was over 10 years of survival.

I had panic attacks that came out of nowhere. Flashbacks that pulled me back to that theatre without warning. Hypervigilance that never let me rest — always waiting for the next terrible thing.

I tried counselling. I did everything they told me to do. I talked about it. I told my story. Again and again and again.

And every time, I left feeling worse. More raw. More broken. More convinced that this was just who I was now.

In 2010, I had my rainbow baby, Alfie. I thought motherhood would heal me. That holding a living child would fill the hole Lucas left. It didn't.

Five months after Alfie was born, I collapsed with a life-threatening stomach ulcer. My body was screaming what my mind wouldn't acknowledge: the trauma wasn't going anywhere. It was just finding new ways to surface.

I went on to have more children — a daughter, and another child when I was 44. I loved them fiercely. But underneath the surface, I was still carrying Lucas's death in my body. Still triggered. Still not okay.

And still, nobody could help me in a way that actually worked.

Nine years after losing Lucas, I discovered something different.

It wasn't more talking therapy. It wasn't more reliving the worst day of my life.

It was an approach that worked with my nervous system — directly, gently, without requiring me to retell my story over and over.

First, I found Traumatic Birth Recovery. Then, the Magnetic Mind Method and MAP.

For the first time, I experienced what I'd stopped believing was possible: the trauma began to release. The panic attacks faded. The hypervigilance softened.

• I could think about Lucas without my chest tightening.
• I could talk about him without falling apart.
• I could carry his memory with peace instead of pain.

It wasn't that I forgot him. I never will. He'll always be my firstborn, always part of me.

But the trauma — the way his death had hijacked my nervous system for a decade — that finally began to heal.

And I knew, with complete certainty, that I had to bring this to other mothers.

Today, I'm a certified MAP Practitioner, Magnetic Mind Coach, and Birth Counsellor specialising in baby loss and birth trauma.

I've trained in Traumatic Birth Recovery. I've studied how trauma lives in the body and how it can be released without re-traumatisation. I've written a book to help sensitive, intuitive mothers find their own path to peace.

But here's what matters most:
I'm not helping you from a textbook. I'm helping you from lived experience.

I know what it's like to have panic attacks in the supermarket because you saw a pregnant woman. I know what it's like to dread anniversaries for weeks before they arrive. I know what it's like to love your living children fiercely while still aching for the one who isn't here.

I know what it's like to feel broken by grief that everyone else expects you to have "moved on" from.

And I know what it's like to find healing when you'd stopped believing it was possible.

That's why I do this work. Not because it's a career. Because it's my calling.

Every mother I help is a way of honouring Lucas. Every transformation is proof that there's a way through the darkness.