We met in 2008, and within five minutes I knew he was the one. He was tall, charming, handsome, gentle, witty—honestly, what more could you want in a guy? From that very first moment, something just felt right.
I was only 30 when he died. A baby myself, some might say. And yet, I’ve never grown up so fast or so suddenly in my life.
I was 19 weeks pregnant, and I can say with my hand on my heart that pregnancy is the only reason I’m still here. We married just seven wonderful months after a whirlwind relationship. Life felt incredible—happy, exciting, full of promise. And then, in an instant, my reality shattered.
Widowed. Nowhere to live. No life insurance. Moving back from London to my parents’ home, pregnant with our little Bubba. I have never felt a wave of darkness crash over me as quickly as it did that day.
In July 2011, we had been on a beautiful family holiday to Portugal. Everything felt perfect. A week with parents, followed by a week just for us. On the day our parents were due to leave, we went on an organized boat trip. Geoff decided to jump in for a swim. Five minutes later, he started having what looked like a seizure in the water. I shouted his name—“Geoff… GEOFF?!”—but there was no response. I shouted again, louder, more desperate. His eyes and mouth were wide open as he stared at the sky, gasping for air. Then he went limp. It all happened in less than 40 seconds.
They took him to shore, leaving us behind on the main boat. I had no idea what life was about to take from me. I begged the captain to turn the boat around and head back to Albufeira. His response still chills me: “You need to think of the other people who paid for this trip. I can’t just turn the boat around.” It took two hours and twenty minutes before they returned to take my mother, my father-in-law, and me back to shore. We sat there the entire time, hoping, praying, clinging to the belief that he would be okay. Fellow passengers comforted us, all wishing the same outcome.
I don’t remember much from the moment I was told, “I’m sorry, we did everything we could. He didn’t make it.” I laughed nervously. Then I passed out. When I woke up, I was attached to a drip and asked the paramedic to let me see him. He refused. Instead, he asked me how I would feel if I lost both my husband and my baby in the same day. I was taken to hospital for scans—still without seeing Geoff, still without a moment to process what had just happened.
It took two more days to find out where they had taken him. When we finally did, we went straight there. We stood outside the large iron doors of the morgue in Portimão. I stared at them, silently begging that the man on the other side was a stranger, not my gorgeous, gentle giant of a husband. I asked his best friend to hold my hand—and if it was Geoff, to squeeze it. As we walked in, I kept my eyes closed, holding onto hope. Then came the squeeze. I opened my eyes. There he was. My husband of seven months. The father of my growing little bean. My soulmate. My Geoff. He looked absolutely perfect. I held his hand, cried, and tried to absorb the reality of it all. I noticed an eyelash on his cheek. To this day, I keep it in my wallet.
We brought him home to Ireland on the Thursday and buried him two days later. It was a beautiful send-off, exactly as he would have wanted. From that moment on, I was rarely alone—surrounded by people and faces, moving through life in a fog of grief—until the night my waters broke at 1 a.m. on December 11, 2011.
And then she arrived.
The moment I had been waiting for—the chance to hold the beautiful baby we had created together, the reason I had stayed. I had no idea how I was going to do this, but with my mum and sister beside me, she made her entrance. Our perfect, beautiful baby girl.
I felt an overwhelming mix of relief and devastation. She was here—two weeks early—and she had survived 19 weeks of my tears, my panic attacks, my inability to eat or breathe. She was perfect. But he wasn’t there. Nothing could have prepared me for that ache—the pain of knowing he would never meet her.
The labor was long, difficult, and full of complications. I spent five days in hospital, went home, and was readmitted just two days later. I endured 12 weeks sitting on a ring cushion, followed by further surgery the following March to repair the damage. I was so angry that this, too, was happening to me.
She’s almost eight now, and she is the light of my world. She knows exactly what to say—and when to say it, sometimes a little too well. She makes me laugh and smile in ways I never thought possible again. She talks openly about the man she never met, her Daddy. To her, it’s just normal.
The journey since July 2011 has been a roller coaster, but one I’m incredibly proud of. I forced myself to live. In 2013, I met a wonderful man at a mutual friend’s wedding. Truly, he deserves a Nobel Peace Prize for putting up with me. There was something about him I couldn’t get enough of—he brought back a spark, made me feel alive again. It took him a while to realize I was interested, but after a sneaky kiss outside the restaurant we’d been eating in, we never looked back. He knew my story. He knew about Lily. And somehow, that made it easier. He has stood by me through every tear, every emotion, every frustration. He is simply incredible.
Lily adores him too. He moved from London to Ireland in 2016, and together we began building new memories—while still cherishing the old ones. The relationship came with a whole new set of emotions, but we’ve faced them side by side.
In 2018, we added to our family with the arrival of Dylan. And this August, we got married. It was the most emotional wedding I’ve ever attended, surrounded by the people we love most, and the most incredible day.
When I look back over the last eight years, I feel everything all at once. I went from not wanting to live, from being unable to see a future, to having a beautiful home, two gorgeous tiny humans, and a husband. Despite the trauma and heartbreak, I feel incredibly lucky.
There is light at the end of what was once a very dark, very terrifying tunnel.
After swearing I’d never love again, here I am—in love. After saying I’d never have more children, here I am, bursting with pride over my two little humans. After believing I couldn’t do this without him, here I am, doing it.
There is always hope. Time is a powerful thing, one we often take for granted. I still have ups and downs. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never had thoughts that everyone might be better off without me—but those thoughts pass. There were days I wanted to stay under a duvet and hide from the world, but I pushed myself to get up, knowing the feeling would ease. And it did.
When you hit rock bottom, the only way left is up.
So if you’re feeling like this is the end, like you can’t keep going—just wait. Take your time. Breathe. Surround yourself with people and things that bring you comfort. Talk to someone. People want to help, but they need to know how you’re feeling—we’re frighteningly good at hiding our pain.
Do this for as long as it takes. Time will help you rebuild. It will help you heal. That, I promise.
If anything good can come from my story, I hope it’s this: the dark cloud will lift. You will live again—not just exist.
