This summer, I went to Crete on a family holiday that was never supposed to happen. For my wife Laura and I, 2025 was meant to be very different.

We started the year preparing for the arrival of our second child, excited to become a family of four and welcome a sibling for our toddler, Theodore.

With such joyful upheaval coming fast around the corner, our next holiday would – understandably – have to wait.

I've often heard that parents feel more laid back about the arrival of their second child, and that was certainly true of us as we headed into the new year.

This time round we thought we knew what to expect, and the weeks seemed to fly by as we looked ahead to our baby’s arrival around the middle of July.

However, it was at the end of March when a discovery at our 20-week scan changed our world forever. 

We learned Laura had contracted Cytomegalovirus (CMV) early in her first trimester. Although we'd never heard of CMV, we've since learned it's a shockingly common virus – an estimated 50-80% of adults in the UK will catch it at some point in their lives, but it comes with barely noticeable symptoms beyond those of a common cold.

For a pregnant woman like my wife, catching it at such an early – critical – stage of pregnancy can, in very rare circumstances, cause devastating implications for unborn babies.

We faced a fortnight of near-daily appointments and countless tests before being told we were one of these rare situations. As one specialist doctor told us, he usually experiences just a few cases like ours from the thousands of babies born at his hospital each year.

The NHS does not currently screen for CMV (with only tests for HIV, hepatitis B and syphilis typically offered before 10 weeks) so we always felt like we were playing a seemingly unwinnable game of catch up.

We learned our beloved baby would face a lifetime of health complications, the extent of which we couldn’t know until they were growing up.

Weighing up everything we knew, we took the decision to end the pregnancy.

It's a decision no parent ever imagines they will have to make; a choice that never felt like a choice. Words will never do justice to the absolute heartbreak and pain we went through.

Our beautiful boy, Zachary Glyn Parry, was born sleeping at 25 weeks on Monday 14 April at around 3.30pm.

Wading through grief

The days, weeks and months since, have felt like no others. Going to hospital to have a baby you know won’t be coming home with you is as surreal as it is heartbreaking.

I’d often wonder how, in just a few weeks, our world had gone from a safe, optimistic world full of colour and excitement to a grey dullness. It was like the needle of a record player had suddenly skipped, or the colour had been drained from a vibrant painting.

Yet the precious time we were able to spend with Zachary in hospital is something I am beyond grateful for, and never guaranteed to parents in these desperate and delicate situations.

Leading up to saying goodbye to him felt like being on a treadmill – making seemingly never-ending decisions and moving from one impossible choice to the next – until, after his funeral in early May, things just stopped.

Baby loss in all its forms is not talked about enough within families, friendships and workplaces. And, like so many forms of trauma and grief, it comes with no set rules or guidebook for supporting someone through it. What on earth can you say to possibly even try to make things better?

I’ve found myself thinking a lot about what I would say to someone if our positions were switched. There’s no easy answer. It’s awkward, messy and frustrating for everyone, but I believe just letting someone know you’re there for them goes a long way.

Checking in; asking someone how they feel and what they need; acknowledging simply their grief – this can mean the world in the darkest of times.

Time marches on

Life, inevitably, does go on. And even in these early months since, the ocean of emotions we find ourselves in has ebbed between raging tides to rippling waves.

I’m grateful for the support I’ve received in my own workplace at TTG Media having taken some time out.

But it didn’t stop the anxiety I felt when rejoining the team and the stresses and frustrations I’ve felt since – going through the day-to-day motions, trying to focus on things that suddenly felt trivial after everything that had happened.

(Credit: Tom Parry)

This past week (October 9-15) has been Baby Loss Awareness Week, with charities raising awareness, holding fundraising events to support affected families, and offering the chance for people to come together to remember their loved ones.

I’m not the same person I was six months ago. I don’t want to be defined by the loss of Zachary but nor do I want him, or our experience of losing him, forgotten or glazed over.

Baby loss during pregnancy can sometimes be considered less tangible. But although Zachary’s was a life unlived, he was here. We will always be his parents, Theodore will always be his brother, and he will always be a part of our family. He was, and will always be, our son.

The power of travel

Towards the end of June, two months after saying goodbye to Zachary, we headed to Crete. We needed to get away as a family.

And when we’d never needed it more, travel’s restorative power slowly brought our world back into colour.

Each play in the pool with Theodore (who apparently has grand ambitions to swim the English Channel before he leaves nursery), every towel-wrapped sun lounger cuddle, every “banilla ice cream in a cone” hungrily devoured; the joy we had at seeing his happiness, it all helped us feel a bit more like ourselves.

Laura and I were also grateful for the chance to reconnect as a couple – not that you get much spare time with a rambunctious toddler living his best life! But a break from the mundanities of home and the sadness we had been wrapped up in, was precious.

I remember looking around our hotel pool and thinking, nobody knows what each person next to them is going through. Everyone has their own challenges and difficulties in life.

As travel agents, and as a travel industry, to be able to create this opportunity and help people escape, even for only a short period of time, is a unique magic and one that can’t be taken for granted. What other job can do that for someone?

(Credit: Tom Parry)

A friend of mine recently shared some words with me: “There is no footprint so small that it does not leave an imprint on this world."

I’ve turned those words over in my head, and their power and significance grows each time.

On the final evening of our holiday, we went to a nearby beach as the waves gently rolled in and the sun began to set.  We took Theodore to the water’s edge and he squealed in delight as the waves lapped his toes before a particularly forceful one then drenched his shorts.

Running back up the beach to grab a towel we noticed our trail behind us, our imprints slowly disappearing as the tide rolled in.

The outline of a footprint in the sand is fleeting. Like grief, on the surface it might appear to diminish. But the imprint remains. Zachary’s footprints will never disappear; they are imprinted on our hearts forever, and our memories of him will never fade.

Crete wasn’t a holiday we ever thought we’d take, but one we very much needed. And it was a powerful reminder of why travel remains so special.

*If you have been affected by baby loss, you can access free support through the Sands charity here – www.sands.org.uk

Sands also offers Bereavement in the Workplace training for businesses to learn how to better support staff. Visit here for more information: https://training.sands.org.uk/bereavement-in-the-workplace/