Layla El-Hamid

Why this means a lot

This May, I’ll be running/walking/cycling 50 kilometres for Sands, the stillbirth and neonatal death charity. It’s not just a physical challenge—it’s something deeply personal, shaped by what I’ve seen, what I’ve felt, and the quiet, often unseen grief that surrounds baby loss.

Working as a childcare teacher, I spend my days surrounded by life in its earliest, most hopeful stages. I see first steps, hear first words, and witness the small, beautiful moments that make up a child’s beginning. It’s a privilege I never take lightly. But alongside that joy, I’ve also come to understand something else—the fragility of those beginnings.

Not every story gets to unfold the way it should.

Through my work, I’ve seen the impact of baby loss on families. The silence that follows. The way grief lingers in spaces where there should be laughter. It’s not always spoken about openly, but it’s there—in the pauses, in the strength parents carry, in the love that doesn’t disappear just because a life was too short.

Those experiences stay with you.

They’ve shaped how I see my role, not just as a teacher, but as someone who supports families through every chapter—both the joyful and the heartbreaking ones. And they’ve made me realise how important it is to have organisations like Sands, who provide support, understanding, and a space for remembrance when families need it most.

There are also personal reasons behind this run—ones that are harder to put into words. Like many people, I carry my own experiences and emotions connected to loss. They’ve deepened my empathy and strengthened my belief that no one should have to face this kind of grief alone.

Running/walking/cycling 50K isn’t easy. There will be moments when my legs feel heavy, when I question whether I can keep going. But in those moments, I’ll think about the families who carry a far heavier weight every single day. And I’ll keep moving—for them.

This run/cycle/walk is about more than distance. It’s about remembrance. It’s about honouring the babies who are loved beyond words, even if their time was brief. It’s about standing in solidarity with parents, families, and communities who have experienced loss. And it’s about raising awareness so that these conversations become less hidden, less lonely.

Sands does incredible work—offering support to bereaved families, training for healthcare professionals, and campaigning to reduce the number of babies who die. But beyond all of that, they remind people that their grief is valid, their babies are remembered, and they are not alone.

If you’re reading this, I’d love your support—whether that’s through a donation, sharing this message, or simply taking a moment to reflect on why this cause matters.

Every step I take in May will be for something bigger than me.

For the lives that should have been.

For the families who carry love and loss side by side. For hope, healing, and change.

Thank you for being part of this journey.