After years of waiting, I became pregnant at 38. That summer, we celebrated in Germany and Morocco with family, walking through the Secret Garden in Marrakech, sitting under the olive trees in the Menara Garden, and dipping our toes into the Atlantic Ocean. We were filled with joy and hope for the little life growing inside me.

But after returning to the Netherlands, a routine hospital scan changed everything. The silence in the room was unbearable. Fluid had gathered around our baby’s head, heart, and belly. More tests revealed what no parent is ever prepared to hear: our daughter might not survive the pregnancy. For two weeks, my husband and I lived in a haze of fear, disbelief, and unbearable grief, swinging between desperate hope and the painful reality ahead of us.

Eventually, with broken hearts but deep love, we made the most difficult decision of our lives: to let our baby go. After a small but powerful birth, I held my daughter Aischa in my arms. Her name means life in Arabic, and though her time in this world was brief, her legacy is eternal. She changed me forever.

Through my grief, I discovered that healing is not about “moving on” but about learning to live with loss. Aischa taught me to listen to my body, to slow down, and to release the heavy weight of silence and shame. She guided me toward trauma-informed yoga, breathwork, and embodied rituals that supported me through baby loss and TFMR. From my pain grew a calling: to hold space for other bereaved mothers navigating the lonely, unspoken path of pregnancy loss.

Today, I help women with grief yoga, trauma-informed breathwork, and the H.E.A.R.T. framework I created, a gentle pathway to move from heavy heart to light heart. My work is not about fixing grief, but about softening it, creating space for love, and finding ways to stay connected to the babies we carry in our hearts forever.

Aischa made me a mother. Her spirit is always with me, and she continues to guide me in supporting other mothers as they walk their own path of loss, healing, and remembrance. I would love to walk alongside you too.

With love,