Every year, 4 million families lose a baby. One every 8 seconds. Most of them carry it alone.

Our daughter Yasmin was born on May 16th after a healthy pregnancy. Likely an acute lack of oxygen in the last minutes of labor changed everything.

We spent 49 days in hospital and 51 days at home, holding her around the clock with the help of family. We hoped. We raged. We researched. Pumped milk. Begged for certainty that never came.

On the way to the hospital during those months, there was a café we used to pass. The staff knew us. They’d say “we hope you’ll come with your baby soon.” We never did. After she died, we drove past it, and cried like hell, and got back on the bike, and kept going.

That’s what the first year looks like. You keep going. But whether you recover - really recover, not just get through the days - depends so much on what you have access to.

Your life will never be the same. But it can be more full of love than it was before. Because love is the other side of grief. The person is gone, but the love stays - and it has nowhere to go.

I have more love for Yasmin than I know what to do with. I don’t have her to give it to. So I want to give it to this - to the parents sitting in the same silence I sat in.

Every year, 4 million families lose a baby to stillbirth or neonatal death. That’s one family every 8 seconds. And it doesn’t count the 23 million miscarriages that happen alongside that - losses that are just as real, and even more invisible. And it doesn’t count the children who die in their first years of life, or at any age - because no parent should ever bury their child.

When I lost Yasmin, I was fortunate. I had financial security, a company that gave me time to recover, and the resources to access grief therapy, professional and self-help support. One message from another parent who had been through something similar, telling me honestly what to expect, was so supportive I will never forget it. That kind of knowledge - that someone has walked this and come back - is itself a lifeline. Most parents never receive it.

Most bereaved parents don’t have any of this. They lose a child and then they lose themselves - their ability to think, to work, to function - with no support and no roadmap. Many are still stuck there years later. Not because they aren’t strong enough. Because no one came, and they didn’t have access to what helps.

Where the money goes:

What your support makes possible

This project is in its early stages. These are our best current estimates — we’ll report back openly as the work develops.

If you already know what this loss feels like - the way it takes your ability to think, to work, to be yourself, for months - then you already know why this matters.

And if you don’t, I hope you never do. But somewhere right now, a parent is leaving a hospital without their baby. They’re about to find out what the silence looks like. What they have access to in that first year makes all the difference.

You can be part of changing that. Donate today.

"Her life mattered, no matter how short. And the love she left behind is too big to carry alone." - Zara, Yasmin’s mother

May 16th is her birthday. That’s when this goes wide. But you’re here now, and that already means something.