If I were to get a tattoo, I know exactly what it would be. It wouldn’t be flashy or bold—just something small and simple to remember a baby that Helen and I lost due to miscarriage.
Maybe a tiny footprint or a delicate feather, something subtle yet meaningful. I’d probably place it on my wrist or over my heart, somewhere close to me. It wouldn’t be for anyone else—just a quiet reminder of someone we never got to meet but will always carry with us.
Grief is strange like that. It’s not always loud or visible. Sometimes it’s the quiet moments that hit the hardest—a passing thought, a certain date on the calendar, or a song that suddenly feels too heavy. A tattoo would be a way to honour that feeling without needing to explain it.
It’s hard to put into words how you can miss someone you never really knew, but that doesn’t make the loss any less real. And maybe that’s what the tattoo would represent—not just loss, but love. A reminder that even though life didn’t unfold the way we hoped, that little life still mattered. And always will.
Writing this little post has helped me work through a lot of emotions. It’s my way of processing everything and finding a bit of healing in the process. Turning these thoughts into something meaningful is just part of how I’m coping.
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