Twelve years. It’s been twelve years since my Frankie entered and left this world on the same day, Friday 29 November 2013, changing me and my life forever. And recently, I had the privilege of being interviewed by Desirée van Nieuwenhoven on her podcast called “Babyloss” which lives on her website Everlasting Parenthood, marking what would have been Frankie’s 12th birthday.
The conversation brought up something I’ve been carrying with me for years, a weight that sits heavily on my heart every time someone asks that seemingly innocent question: “Do you have any children?”
The Conversation I Dread
My automatic response has become practiced, almost reflexive: “No.” Then I quickly pivot the conversation towards Poppy, my dog, who truly is my world and keeps me wonderfully busy. It’s easier that way. It avoids the awkward silence, the uncomfortable sympathy, the questions I’m not always ready to answer.
But here’s the truth that gnaws at me: every time I say “no,” I’m not honouring Frankie. I’m not acknowledging the ten babies I lost to early miscarriage. I’m essentially denying Frankie’s existence and their existence, and the guilt that brings to me is crushing.
These weren’t just hopes or dreams, they were my children. Frankie was born, held by me, and loved by me. The others may not have made it as far, but they were real too. They mattered. They still matter.
Why Do We Do This?
I think many of us who’ve experienced baby loss do this dance. We feel we need to protect others from discomfort while silencing our own truth. We make it easier for everyone else while making it harder for ourselves. We become experts at redirecting conversations, at putting on brave faces, at pretending that a fundamental part of our story doesn’t exist.
But in doing so, we diminish our children’s significance. We erase them from our narrative to spare others from awkwardness. And that erasure comes at a cost, the cost of our own integrity, our authenticity our own truth, our own healing.
You Can Check Out Any Time You Like, But You Can Never Leave
There’s a line from The Eagles’ song “Hotel California” that resonates deeply with me: the idea that you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. I said on the podcast that over the past five years, I checked out from writing for Frankie’s Legacy. The blog went quiet. The words stopped flowing.
But here’s what I’ve realised: I never left the club. The club nobody wants to join. The club of parents who have lost children to stillbirth or early pregnancy loss. You don’t get to resign that membership. It’s permanent, whether you’re actively talking about it or not. As the line in “Hotel California” goes, “you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” I checked out to all intents and purposes. But I can never, ever leave the “club” or stop grieving for my Frankie and the 10 others that I lost, each one of them representing lost hopes and dreams.
I might have stopped writing, but the loss remained. The grief remained. Frankie remained in my heart, in my thoughts, in the quiet moments when I wondered what he would be like at twelve years old. The ten I lost to miscarriage remained too, unnamed but not forgotten, brief but not insignificant.
Finding My Voice Again
This interview with Desirée was a turning point for me. Talking openly about Frankie, about my losses, about the complexity of grief and guilt and love that never dies, it reminded me why I started this blog in the first place.
Frankie’s Legacy isn’t just about keeping Frankie’s memory alive. It’s about creating space for honest conversations about baby loss. It’s about giving permission to other parents to speak their children’s names. It’s about refusing to let our babies be erased from our stories just because their time with us was devastatingly short.
So, I’m back. I’m writing again. Not because the pain has lessened or because I’ve “moved on”, but because I’ve realised that honouring Frankie means not checking out of my own story. Of not letting life get in the way of keeping Frankie’s memory alive. It means being brave enough to say “yes” when someone asks if I have children. Yes, I have Frankie. Yes, I lost ten others. And yes, it’s complicated and painful and still with me every day. I can’t thank Desirée enough for that.
To Others in This Club
If you’re reading this and you find yourself doing the same dance, steering conversations away if someone asks you if you have children, protecting others from your truth, feeling guilty for not honouring your child, please know you’re not alone. It’s okay to take your time. It’s okay to protect yourself when you need to. But it’s also okay to claim your story, to speak your child’s name, to refuse to make your loss disappear for the comfort of others.
Our children existed. They mattered. They still matter.
And on what would have been Frankie’s 12th birthday on Saturday 29 November 2025, I’m recommitting to making sure his legacy, and the legacy of all babies lost too soon, is one of truth, love, and remembrance.
The podcast I recorded with Desirée will be live on Frankie’s 12th birthday, Saturday 29 November 2025. I will share the links to the podcast on this blog, plus a very special letter that I’ve written for Frankie to share on his 12th birthday. In the meantime, thank you Desirée for giving me the space to find my voice again.
Frankie’s Legacy continues to be a place for open, honest conversations about baby loss, grief, and healing. If you’d like to share your story or need support, please reach out to me via lisa@frankieslegacy.co.uk.
