Christopher Lee

I’m running 2k a day in January for families facing baby loss

Like many people, I believed that once you see a heartbeat, once you reach that early reassuring scan, you can finally relax. We learned, in the hardest way possible, that this isn’t always true.

Hayley and I conceived through private IVF after a long and emotional journey. Reaching pregnancy felt like something we had worked incredibly hard for, and when our six-week scan confirmed a heartbeat, we allowed ourselves to believe that the future we had been hoping for was beginning to take shape.

At our twelve-week scan, everything changed.

We were told there was no heartbeat. Our baby had stopped growing quietly, without any sign that something was wrong. In a single moment, the future we had been planning was gone, replaced by shock and a sadness that’s difficult to put into words.

The staff at Sharoe Green Hospital in Preston were kind and compassionate throughout. They gave us time, space, and care at a moment when nothing felt real, and for that we will always be grateful.

That day, we were given a small memory box from Aching Arms, donated by someone who had experienced baby loss before us. Inside were a few simple items, including a bear, a book, seeds, and smaller teddy bears. Small gestures, but deeply thoughtful ones, and a quiet reminder that we were not alone in what we were going through.

That evening, we had to tell our four-year-old son Teddy that he wouldn’t be getting the baby brother or sister we had spoken about. We explained that the baby wasn’t well and had gone to heaven, but that they loved him very much and wanted to give him a gift. We gave Teddy one of the small bears from the box, a gift from his sibling.

He slept with that bear that night. Although he was sad, what stayed with us was his instinctive kindness and care, offering comfort in his own small way when we needed it most.

That moment says a great deal about why baby loss awareness matters.

Baby loss doesn’t just affect parents. It reaches into families in ways people don’t always see or talk about. It affects siblings, relationships, and everyday life long after the initial shock has passed. Many families carry this quietly, while continuing to show up and get on with life as best they can.

For us, this experience sits within a longer IVF journey, one that has involved both hope and heartbreak. 2025 has been an emotional year for our family, bringing moments of great joy alongside deep sadness, often closer together than we ever expected.

But 2026 is a new year. A year we are choosing to approach with hope. And for us, that begins by gently sharing our experience and helping to raise awareness, so that fewer families feel alone in their grief.

This is why I’ve committed to running 2km every day in January, for every much-loved baby who is sadly not here today.

I’m doing this in support of Sands, who support families through baby loss, campaign for better care, provide training for healthcare professionals, and fund research to help reduce the number of babies lost and the number of families affected.

Anything you’re able to donate truly means more than we can express. Thank you for taking the time to read this, for your kindness, and for helping to raise awareness for a cause that now means a great deal to our family.

Our baby may not be here with us, but they are still part of our family. Still part of Teddy, and always remembered.