Hi, I'm Sean and I want to share our story of love, loss and what it’s like to be a dad, a beavered dad, a husband and a man during the hardest moments of my life
Our baby loss journey began on the evening of the 22nd of December 2015, when our baby girl, Harper Raine, grew her wings. She was born at 24 weeks on the 25th of November. Harper was alive for 4 amazing weeks she had two operations and was a little fighter, during our precious time with her we made memories we will cherish forever.
On the night of the 22nd at 7:41pm she took her last breaths in my arms, we spent hours cuddling her, giving her, her first bath, taking photos and trying to understand how something like this could have happened.
I’ll never forget hearing the rain hitting the window. It was strange the room we were in was nowhere near the outside of the building we were in a courtyard, all day it had been bright and sunny. Then suddenly, the rain came down heavy. Kylie looked at me and said, “it sounds like the heavens have opened up.” And she was right. As she sat there cradling Harper, it truly felt like the heavens were crying with us.
The next morning, I woke up and for a few brief seconds thinking it had all been a horrible nightmare. But then the harsh reality hit it was real. And this was now our new normal. Soon after, we met Marie from the honeysuckle bereavement team.
She helped us make the next steps possible arranging for remember my baby to come and take more photos, supporting us with funeral preparations, and even giving me a book to help explain to our eldest daughter, Alesha, that her little sister had passed away.
When we left the hospital, the first song that came on the radio was “coming home” by sigma and Rita ora. We looked at each other, smiled through tears, and without saying a word, both knew Harper was coming home with us. Not in body, but in spirit.
That night, we had one of the hardest conversations of our lives telling Alesha she wouldn’t be able to see her baby sister Harper anymore.
I sat on the floor in my parents’ living room, reading from that book, my hands shaking, my heart pounding. When I saw the innocence leave her face and her eyes fill with tears, it was a moment I'll never forget. With Christmas just a couple of days away, we decided to stay with my parents. Having their support meant we didn’t have to worry about anything except getting through each day while still trying to keep the Christmas spirit alive for Alesha.
Every day brought new challenges. Returning baby items to shops and being asked why to telling family and seeing that look of pity over and over again. I tried to protect kylie and Alesha from as much pain as I could. I used to tell everyone, “I'm okay, as long as they’re okay.” But inside, I was falling apart. Trying to keep my head above water just enough to breath the travel to and from work was the hardest. It gave me too much time to think to question why this happened, what we did wrong. There were dark times when I thought maybe it would be easier if I wasn’t here.
A couple of years later, we decided to try again. We were under closer supervision and made it to 13 weeks. But when kylie started feeling unwell, we went straight to the hospital.
Our first scan on Saturday we were worried fearing for the worst, but our baby was bouncing. During the next scan, early Sunday morning, we heard the words no one ever wants to hear: “there’s no heartbeat.” Then things got even worse the doctors discovered kylie had sepsis. The pain of losing Rory instantly turned into panic and fear thinking I might lose kylie too.
I had to sit and wait in the forget-me-not bereavement room while they rushed her into theatre. Time slowed to a crawl. That night, nurses worked tirelessly to stabilise her windows open, fans running, trying to bring her temperature down. It was terrifying. The next day, we received a 4louis memory box for Rory, this is something that we still cherish to this day and since receiving it have now become good friends with Bob and Tracey from 4louis.
In 2022, the honeysuckle team got in touch about a potential men’s football team in partnership with the LFC foundation. They asked if I'd like to be involved and I jumped at the chance, believing that men would take and could support each other given the right environment.
On the 17th of November Marie, Mark from the LFC foundation, myself and nine other dads met to discuss how it would work. I left that meeting feeling enriched not just for myself, but for what this could mean for other bereaved dads. This was the start of honeysuckle FC and a place where no dad will ever walk alone.
Fast forward a few weeks later it was our first official session. Despite it being called off and on several times that day because of heavy snow and the health and safety teams panicking left, right, and centre the session went ahead.
Before we even kicked a ball, we had to scrape the snow off the pitch which was a workout in itself! After the game, the 12 dads brave enough to turn up gathered We each shared our baby’s name, and some of us opened about our stories and where we were at that moment in time in our journey.
That moment became the heart of why we were there playing in memory and celebration of our little ones. There were a few awkward silences, a few tears held back (as men often do), but it felt good.
Weeks passed and the word was getting out about Honeysuckle fc and the support it was giving to dads/men that needed it, there was something special and it showed when the men sharing their journeys and worries of future pregnancies. The time we seen our kit for the first time is a night that stood out, seeing Harper and Rorys name on a kit was overwhelming, empowering and emotional. Then to see all the other dads kits hanging up, waiting to see their reactions brought tears to my eyes from an idea of getting men together to seeing it at that stage, we are a team, we are in it together and most important our babies will be remembered and seen going forward
After seeing the huge impact that honeysuckle has had on dads in Liverpool, I suggested about me taking it back down to Royal stoke hospital where we lost Rory. I approached the Sarah from the forget me not bereavement team and Brett from the Port Vale foundation and showed them the Honeysuckle video and the impact the team has had on dads. It quickly came together and the first meeting was held at a baby loss ribbon display where five other dads attend, I shared the idea of the model of what Honeysuckle fc has created and this is where Forget Me Knot fc was formed. Weeks later we had our first session held at Port Vale, the doors opened and one by one dads started to enter all be it slowly and unsurely not knowing what to expect apart from one dad who brought some roasted pork belly that went down very well with the rest of the dads there.
Since that night Forget Me Knot has grown strength to strength, expanding our voice and our journeys from radio shows to tv shows. Hearing the impact the team has had from different parts of the world shows that men do grieve and men need spaces like this. For me I've always seen a husband, dad, and a man's roll in life is being strong, silent and not show emotions as it's a sign of weakness but going through baby loss I have learnt that asking for help or showing feelings isn't as sign of weakness or giving up its actual one of the strongest things I've done because i reuse to give up and give in.
Football has always been the bonus the add-on to our team. It might sound strange, but the real magic happens in the changing room before we even step onto the pitch. That space built by the lads themselves has broken down barriers and challenged stereotypes that men don’t talk or open up. Every dad in that room brings something unique, something special. Together, we have created one of the most incredible spaces imaginable transforming grief and loneliness into connection and strength. From such dark and isolating places, we’ve built something powerful a space where none of us have to walk alone anymore.
One dad's journey that I hold close and always refer to when he walked into the changing room. He didn’t say a word just sat there quietly, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. You could tell something was heavy on his mind. After that first session, we chatted briefly in the pub. It wasn’t much, but I could sense there was more going on beneath the surface. Week after week, he kept showing up, but every time it came to his turn to share, he’d pass. Then one evening, something changed. He decided to speak and once he started, the floodgates opened. It was like you could see the pressure lifting off him as he realised this was a safe space, a place where he could open up without judgment, surrounded by men who understood and got it.
We spoke again that night in the pub, and it was like talking to a completely different bloke. We opened about our losses, our journeys, and how lucky we felt to have this group this brotherhood to lean on. Fast forward to today, and he’s one of the first to speak up. He offers advice, listens with empathy, and when he talks, the whole room listens. He’s even been there for me when I've had my own struggles. He’s living proof of what this space can do how powerful it is when men support each other in times when we really are struggling to take that next step
Over the years, I've done everything I can to keep Harper and Rory's legacy alive and I carry them with every step I take and going forward I aim to help as many dads as I can.
Harper and Rory may have only been here for a short time,
But they’ve made the biggest impact on my life.
They are missed,
They are loved,
They will always be remembered.
And not a single day goes by that I don’t think of them.
And if there’s one thing I want any dad, any man going through something like this to hear, it’s this:
You are not alone.
I know how easy it is to put on a brave face, to tell the world you’re “okay” when inside you’re anything but. I know what it feels like to carry that weight in silence, thinking it’s your job to be the strong one for everyone else.
But strength isn’t about staying quiet.
Real strength is speaking.
Real strength is feeling.
Real strength is asking for help.
There is no right or wrong way to grieve, and no timeline to follow. But you don’t have to go through it on your own. Whether it’s a friend, a group, or just one person who understands—reach out.
Because when you do, things can start to change.
I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. And I’ll keep doing everything I can to make sure no dad ever feels like he has to walk this path alone.
Because we don’t have to be silent.
We don’t have to carry it all by ourselves.
And we never have to walk alone.
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