Hope beyond heartbreak: A Petals Exclusive
When author Ali Harris’ daughter Poppy was stillborn at 23 weeks, she found herself silenced by grief. Through Petals, she found the space and support that led her from heartbreak towards healing, hope and purpose.
In this powerful blog, exclusively for the Petals Community, Ali opens up about losing her daughter Poppy, her journey with counselling and finding her way back to writing.
It began with silence.
The silence during the scan. No reassuring words from the consultant, just a frown. Then tests, another scan, and the sentence that detonated inside my world: “I’m so sorry, she’s gone.”
The silence of the delivery room. Muted voices, reverence from the midwives as they tried not to intrude on our devastation. No baby’s cries. No jubilant “It’s a girl!” Just disbelief, roaring in my head.
That silence stayed when we returned home. People didn’t know what to say, nor did I.
Some avoided me. Others offered clichés that stung: “At least you didn’t go full term.” “At least you can try again.”
I cocooned myself at home, focusing on my two small children (then aged 3 and 5) when they were around, and falling apart when they weren’t.
In those early months, I barely survived. Seeing people felt impossible. Speaking of my grief felt harder still. I couldn’t return to work. I had been in the middle of writing my fourth novel, but for the first time, I couldn’t lose myself in fiction. I knew I couldn’t escape; I had to live through my loss.
Through Addenbrooke’s Hospital, I was referred to Petals. That referral was a lifeline.
Finding My Voice Again
I vividly remember those first sessions with my counsellor, Sue. How gentle she was. How relieved I felt to have a space where I could talk openly about Poppy.
It was my fourth session that stands out most. Sue had encouraged me to write about my feelings, but I had always resisted. Writing had been my trade for over a decade, and I feared I would write what I felt others wanted to hear, not what I truly felt.
That was exactly how I had been grieving: neatly, “perfectly,” skipping over messy emotions like anger, pushing myself towards gratitude and control. But beneath the controlled surface, I was unravelling.
That day, we were talking about the conflicting feelings that consumed me: grief for Poppy alongside my desperate longing for another baby. My mind was full of guilt, uncertainty, fear of what moving forward meant for my love for her – and for my marriage and family.
My counsellor handed me a piece of paper and a pen and said: “Write it down. This will never leave this room.”
So I did. I filled both sides within minutes – raw, unfiltered words spilling faster than I could write. I wrote about my grief, longing, loyalty to Poppy, hopes and fears for the future, my husband, my children. Everything I had held inside tumbled out in messy spider diagrams of trauma, grief, loss, longing, and confusion.
I wasn’t writing for anyone else. I wasn’t editing or shaping. I was writing about the chaos inside my head, my love and pain – for me, my family, and for Poppy.
That exercise released something in me. I realised I didn’t have to hold it all inside. I could love Poppy forever without drowning in grief to prove it. I could long for another baby and still hold space for her in my heart. What was on that page wasn’t neat or digestible. It was messy, and it was mine. It gave me my words back.
The Gifts of Grief
Over time, counselling helped me accept that it was possible to long for another baby while still loving Poppy deeply, to honour her place in my life while still imagining a future, and to connect with others who understood my pain. It led me to run a half marathon for Petals in 2020, after the birth of my rainbow baby, Rex. It was my way of saying thank you -acknowledging that his presence in my life is as much down to Petals as to me. Around this time, I began thinking that perhaps I would write again one day.
When Rex turned one, I found the book title I’d jotted down on a training run three years earlier, and realised I was finally ready to write This Wasn’t Meant to Happen, a novel inspired by my own experience of baby loss. It tells the story of Sofie, a woman terrified of risk, whose world is upended when she experiences the stillbirth of her baby boy, Leo. As Sofie and her husband navigate the deep waters of grief, they are forced to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew about love, marriage, identity, and the fragility of life.
Writing it was another act of mothering Poppy – a way to ensure that her story, and those of so many babies like her, would not remain hidden. It was also a way to reflect the healing, conversation, counselling, and community I had experienced on the other side of immense loss. In doing so, I hoped to give something back to other couples who might need support – navigating grief alone, looking for comfort, or simply the courage to tell their story.
A Fight to Be Heard
Writing the book was only half the battle. The publishing industry’s response was disheartening. I was told more than once the subject matter was “too sad,” “too niche,” that there wasn’t “a big enough readership” for stories of baby loss. In other words, that a story like this didn’t belong on the shelves.
These rejections had only strengthened my resolve. Because even if gatekeepers couldn’t see the value, I knew parents like me could. I knew so many families were carrying these losses quietly, desperate for their realities to be reflected in the pages of a book. I became determined that this book would be published for every baby, every parent whose story is so often submerged in silence.
Luckily, my editor at Harper Collins saw its power and importance and had the same vision as me. This Wasn’t Meant to Happen is, in many ways, the book I needed back then: a mirror, a companion, a hand reaching through the darkness to say, “You’re not alone.”
Why Petals Matters
Petals was for me, quite simply, a lifeline. It gave me back my words when grief had stolen them. It gave me a place to honour Poppy without fear of judgement. It gave me hope. It gave me the strength to believe I could have another baby. It gave me purpose.
It pains me that Petals no longer has a contract with Addenbrooke’s, and that limited funding means some couples are turned away when they most desperately need help. I know, from the bottom of my heart, how vital that support is.
Every bereaved parent deserves the chance to sit in that safe space and be met with gentleness, understanding, and hope. To be reminded that their baby matters. That they matter. That they are not alone.
Grief doesn’t end. It reshapes, folds into your life. But with the right support, it can become something you carry with love and purpose, not just pain. That’s what Petals gave me. That’s why I will always be grateful. And if my book can provide a fraction of the support Petals gave me, then it will have done what I hoped.