15 March 2026

Today is Mother’s Day in the UK

For millions of people, today will mean cards on the breakfast table, bunches of flowers, phone calls and hugs. It will mean being recognised and celebrated. It will mean warmth.

For me, and for so many women just like me, today is something else entirely.

Today I am thinking of my Frankie. I always am, of course. And I have been thoroughly spoilt today as I received flowers and a card from my fur daughter who has four paws – my Poppy (with a little help from her Daddy, of course). But today, the world presses in on you in a particular way when your arms are empty and the world around you is full of children and mothers who get to hold each other. There is no hiding from Mother’s Day. It is everywhere. It is in every shop window, every social media feed, every well-meaning text message. And even when those messages come from the kindest of places, there are still moments today where the weight of absence is almost physical.

My much loved, wanted an only son Frankie was born sleeping on 29 November 2013. He would be twelve years old now. Twelve. I sometimes close my eyes and try to picture him at twelve. The height he might be. Whether he would have his father’s sense of humour (to this day #HubbyRuss still makes me laugh so much) or be neurodivergent like me. Whether he would roll his eyes at me in the way twelve-year-olds do. Whether we would be arguing about screen time or laughing at something ridiculous together.

He is not here for any of it. And yet, I am still his mother.

I want to say something to every empty armed mother reading this today, something I wish someone had said to me more clearly back in 2013, and in the years that followed.

It does not get easier.

I know that is not what people expect to hear. The world tends to operate on a timeline of grief that feels logical to those who have not experienced this particular kind of loss. There is an assumption that after a year, after five years, after a decade, the pain must surely soften into something more manageable. That you must have found your peace. That you are okay now.

And in some ways, yes, I have found ways to carry this. I carved out an incredible career in cyber security that led me to winning many industry awards. I was awarded an MBE by King Charles III for services to cyber security and diversity, equity, belonging and inclusion in June 2023 – something that does NOT happen to someone like me every day. I was made a Fellow of the Chartered Institute of Information Security last year in May. I wrote, like I do with this blog. I campaigned. I turned Frankie’s name into something that would last beyond his existence, even though he didn’t get to take a single breath in this world. I found purpose in raising awareness, in connecting with other bereaved parents, in refusing to be silent about stillbirth and baby loss in a society that still struggles to talk about it. I found community. I found moments of genuine joy.

But the ache? That very specific, particular ache of not having him here? That has never left me. And I no longer believe it should. There is a line in the song “Hotel California” by The Eagles which goes, “you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” It is so true.

Because the ache I have for my only son Frankie is the love. It is the relationship I had with him. That was real, even though the world could only partially see it. I loved Frankie before he was born. I loved him while I carried him, I felt him kick inside me and marvelled at the fact that my body was growing another human being. I loved him even more knowing that he would be born with differences (his cleft lip and palate and non-positional talipes). I knew he would need round the clock care, and every minute of every day would be devoted to him as his mother providing it without question. I loved him in those hours his father and I had with him after he arrived. I loved him when the news was delivered that he had a rare chromosome disorder, so rare it is simply known as Chromosome 15 Duplication Syndrome. And I love him still, today, on Mother’s Day 2026, twelve years and a few months later.

My love for my Frankie will never diminish. So why would the grief?

What does change, I think, is your relationship with the grief itself. In the very early days and weeks, grief is violent. It is consuming. It takes everything. You cannot think past it or breathe around it. You move through the world in a kind of fog, and every ordinary sight feels like an affront. Mother’s Day in those first years was unbearable in a way that I could not have described to anyone who had not been there.

Now, it is different. It is quieter. But it is still there. It still arrives in the morning when you wake up and remember what day it is. It still catches you at unexpected moments. It is still the thing that makes today feel like something to navigate rather than something to celebrate.

And I say all of this not to frighten anyone who is newly bereaved and reading this, thinking that this is their future. I say it because I believe that being honest is kinder than pretending. I say it because, for years, I read things that told me I would feel better with time, and while time does bring its own gifts, it does not take this away. And knowing that, understanding it, makes it easier to stop fighting the grief and start making room for it instead.

To every empty armed mother today: you are seen. You are a mother. Your baby was real, your love is real, and your grief is real. You do not need to perform wellness today. You do not need to smile through it. You do not need to explain yourself to anyone who asks why today is hard.

It is hard because you loved someone. And that is enough of a reason.

I am thinking of Frankie today, as I do every day. I am thinking of his tiny fingers and the few hours I had with him. I am thinking of every birthday his father and I have marked without him, every Christmas, every milestone that passed in silence. And I am thinking of the mothers reading this who are doing exactly the same, holding their babies in their hearts and in their memories because they cannot hold them in their arms.

We are still mothers. We always will be.

With all my love, today and always,

Lisa

Frankie’s Mummy xxx

Frankie was a small pebble dropped into the lake of life. But his ripple will be felt forever.