The story of Sunny, Arlo, Marley and Theodore

As part of our Bound By Love campaign in support of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, the incredible Sammy Brickwood shares with us an insight into her path to motherhood, and the story of her babies, Sunny, Arlo, Marley and Theodore. 

There’s something uniquely isolating about pregnancy loss. It’s a kind of grief that many people don’t know how to talk about, leaving you to carry the weight alone, even when others want to help. How do you explain a heartbreak so profound when the world around you continues as if nothing has changed? You find yourself grappling with why your body, meant to nurture life, has become a place where life can’t thrive. This cruel grief questions your body’s ability to do what should feel so natural.

If you’ve ever experienced the heartbreak of losing a baby, you know that it’s a pain unlike any other. It’s a grief that doesn’t just touch your heart—it changes you, stays with you, and shapes every part of who you are. I never knew how much love I could have for someone I’d never met or how deeply such a tiny, fleeting life could impact my world. This is my story, but it’s also the story of so many others who have walked this painful road, carrying the weight of love and loss.

I will never forget the moment I found out I was pregnant the first time. I was so blissfully unaware of what could happen. So excited. I sprinted from the bathroom and jumped on my still sleeping husband. We were overjoyed, filled with dreams of what our future would look like. Little did we know what was to come. 

A few weeks later, I was sitting in a hospital bed, numb with grief, hearing the doctor’s voice as though it was coming from miles away. When I heard the word 'ectopic,' it was like everything around me faded away. I know so many others have had that moment too—the moment when your world stops, and all you feel is the weight of your broken dreams. Everything you had imagined for that baby, slipping through your fingers. I had all this mother’s love, and suddenly, there was nowhere for it to go. I had never even heard the word ectopic before, yet in a moment, it shattered our entire worlds.

The doctors gave us options, none of them ending with us holding our baby. I remember waking up on Christmas Day, alone in a hospital bed. Just before Jake could visit, I was taken into surgery. I couldn’t believe that instead of celebrating the news of our pregnancy with our loved ones, I was saying goodbye to the baby I had already begun to love so deeply. And it wasn’t just the baby I lost—it was every hope and dream tied to that tiny life. Their first laugh. Their first word. Their first steps. Their first everything. I’d never get to hear them call me "Mum."

As I lay in recovery, Jake shared with me a moment that felt almost magical. When I was in surgery, he was outside waiting for an update when for a brief moment, the clouds opened up, and the sun came out. To him, it felt like the heavens were opening to welcome our little baby. I cried when he told me, feeling an overwhelming mix of love, loss, and something so much bigger than us. In that moment we knew, our little baby would forever be known as Sunny.

Not long after, we found out I was pregnant again. I was hopeful, but fear had found its way into every corner of my heart. As much as I wanted to believe everything would be okay, there was always that lingering thought: What if it happens again? And then it did. The day I started spotting is forever etched into my mind. I remember going to the bathroom and seeing the blood, my already broken heart, shattering into a million more pieces. In that moment, my worst fear had come true. Another baby growing in the wrong place. This time, I was so close to rupture, I lost my fallopian tube too.

I was numb. I was living out a déjà vu of the worst moment of my life. The heartbreak was immediate, but also somehow deeper. The grief hit harder as if it was stacking up inside me, heavier and heavier. There was no parting of the clouds this time. No magic moment, but still, we felt called to name them. And one night, sitting under the stars by the fire, it came to us. Arlo. Our sweet warrior. 

I had no idea how to let go of the dreams I had for Sunny and Arlo. I had imagined their future, all the moments that would never come. I had no idea how to get through each day, with my heart in so many pieces. But life moves forward, even when you’re standing still, and so I kept going. I didn’t know how to be anything but strong because I felt like I had to be.

By the time we lost Marley, I didn’t know how to keep moving forward. I was exhausted from grief, from the loss of hope, from the constant wondering why this kept happening. I felt broken in ways I didn’t think I could heal. Marley was our third loss, and with each one, the pain deepened, and so did the love. It felt like pieces of me were disappearing with every baby we lost, and I didn’t know if I’d ever feel whole again.

IVF felt like the last hope we had, but that journey brought its own kind of pain. Multiple rounds, endless appointments, and the emotional and physical toll it took felt like I was walking through fire. Each failed round was a fresh wave of heartbreak—our hopes built up and then dashed. It was so hard not to give up. The hurt was relentless.

But even through the darkest moments, there was still love. The love I had for Sunny, Arlo, and Marley. The fierce, all-consuming love only a mother knows. A love that keeps you going, even when you don’t think you can.

When I found out I was pregnant again, I was terrified. Pregnancy after loss is something no one can prepare you for.  There’s this constant fear—fear that your body isn’t capable, fear that your baby won’t make it home. You don’t just carry the new life inside you; you carry all the heartache from before. I found myself asking, what if this one doesn’t make it? What if I lose this baby too? After so many losses, it feels like you’re always bracing yourself for more pain. I know I’m not alone in this; so many of us carry that fear, wondering if we’ll ever get to hold the baby we so desperately love. 

Even though every milestone was met with holding my breath, I sometimes allowed myself to hope—just for a second—that this time might be different. And step by step, week by week, we made it. Finally, after everything, we got our miracle. Our rainbow baby.

Holding him in my arms for the first time was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. He was so small, so perfect, his warmth pressing into my chest. In that moment, it felt like time stopped. All the fear, all the grief, everything we had been through faded away. All I could feel was him, his heartbeat against mine, and the overwhelming love that filled every part of me. I looked down at him, and for the first time, I truly exhaled.

But as I held him close, I also thought of Sunny, Arlo, and Marley. I thought of how I had carried them in my heart, how they had shaped me, and in a way, they were there with us in that moment. I whispered their names, silently thanking them for all they had given me, even in their brief time with us. And as tears fell, I realised that this love, this moment, was not just for my rainbow baby—it was for all of them. They were a part of this miracle too.

The journey to our rainbow has taught me that love and loss are forever intertwined. The grief doesn’t just disappear, but it does change. It becomes a part of you, a quiet hum in the background of your life. Yet, in that grief, there is also love - so much love. I carry that love with me every day, and it is that love that has given me the strength to keep going.

I wonder all the time what life would be like if they were here. I picture their faces, their laughter, their little hands reaching for me. I wonder, if they had survived, would Theodore even be here? It’s a question I hate to ask myself, but it lingers all the same, and it brings so much guilt.

Guilt that I’m even asking it. Guilt that I could be so in love with the child in my arms while still missing the ones I never got to meet. Guilt that maybe I’m not allowed to feel this happy, that this grief should take up more space.

I am not the same person I was before. I am stronger, but also more fragile. The losses changed me, but they also shaped me into who I am today—a mother to all of my babies. The ones I hold in my heart, and the one I get to hold in my arms.

To those who have walked this path of loss, I see you. Your grief is valid, your pain is real, and your love for your babies will always matter. And to my rainbow baby, you are the light that followed the storm. You are my proof that love can grow, even in the darkest of places. You are my hope.