Shattered Dreams: The Quiet Battle of a Grieving Dad

The Day My Dreams Shattered

No dad is prepared for the sound of a silent delivery room.

I stood in that delivery room knowing there would be no cry. I left holding only to a memory.

When my son, Hashim, was born, there was no first breath, no tiny voice, no warm weight wriggling in my arms.

There was only stillness.

And in that stillness, every dream I’d carried for him shattered.

I never got to say, “Hey, little man.”

I never saw his eyes open and lock on mine.

I never watched him take his first steps across the living room floor.

All of those moments I’d quietly imagined as a dad…gone in a heartbeat.

I knew I couldn't have my son back. What I didn’t know was how long his absence would sit beside me.

When Silence Looks Like Strength

In the days after Hashim’s birth, all the focus was on my wife. And honestly, that made sense.
She had carried him. She had gone through labour. Everyone asked, “How is she holding up?” and I wanted them to. I wanted her to be wrapped in care.

As men, many of us are raised to believe our job is to be strong and stoic. Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart. Don’t make it about you. Hold it together. Fix what you can. Swallow what you can’t.

So I did what I thought a “strong” man should do. I pushed my own grief to the side and told myself my feelings could wait.

On the outside, I wore the mask. Keeping busy, staying calm and protecting her from more pain. But inside, I had a storm raging.

I loved my son. I loved my wife and somewhere along the way I picked up this belief:

Real strength means staying silent.

I thought if I kept my grief inside, I was doing the right thing. I thought I was shielding her. I thought my feelings could wait.

What I didn’t see back then was this:

Silence doesn’t protect anyone. It creates distance by hiding love that has nowhere to go.

The Hidden Cost of Staying Strong

Over time, my business became my hiding place. It ran 24 hours a day, and the night shift was a perfect cover.

“I’m working. I’m providing. I’m doing what a man should do.”

But really, I was running.

At night, under bright strip lights, I didn’t have to sit in the dark and think. I didn’t have to face the empty room where a crib might have been. Work made it look like I was coping.

My car became the only place I could really let go. Engine off down a quiet street.
Tears finally allowed to fall where no one could see.

That small metal box was where I could be weak in secret. Cry in secret. Miss my son in secret.

And while I thought I was protecting my wife by not bringing it up, the silence between us slowly grew.

It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other. We did. But unspoken grief builds its own wall. One unshared moment at a time.

I carried guilt too: Guilt that I couldn’t save my son. Guilt that I didn’t know how to help my wife. And guilt that even thinking about my own grief felt selfish.

Maybe you know that feeling. You love your partner deeply. You’d do anything to protect her. And yet, your own heart is breaking and you don’t know where to put that pain.

You tell yourself, “She comes first. My grief can wait.”

But your grief doesn’t wait. It just goes underground.

When the Load Never Leaves

Years passed. Life moved on, at least on the surface.

But the load and the ache never left. The dreams of my son didn’t leave. The “what ifs” a constant reminder.

I thought time would erase it.

Instead, time just taught me how to hide it better.

Only much later, almost 20 years on, did I realise how much that silence had shaped me.

My grief resurfaced in ways I didn’t expect. In small triggers. On certain dates. In seeing other boys the age my son, what would have been.

I found old scraps of writing from those early days, rough notes, bits of journaling I’d done when the pain was still sharp. I hadn’t followed any plan. I just wrote because there was nowhere else for my love to go.

Reading those words again, after so many years, something clicked:

Hashim’s death was my deepest loss… but his short time here was also a gift.

He had given me a truth I could no longer ignore:

Grief doesn’t go away when you bury it. It waits for a voice.

For a long time I felt stuck in a cruel choice: Be the supporter! Strong, steady, quiet. Or be the griever! Open, honest, vulnerable. I didn’t know how to be both. Maybe you feel that too.

You want to hold your partner when the waves hit her. You want to be the calm one in the room. But inside, you’re drowning as well.

You fear that if you open the door to your own pain: You’ll upset her. You’ll look weak. You’ll lose control. And you’ll never be able to shut it again.

So you keep your grief behind the door. You keep the mask on.You keep going.

The cruel part? The more you keep it in, the more alone you feel, even in the same house, in the same bed.

That is the nightmare no one warned me about. Not just losing my baby, but slowly losing myself and the closeness I once had.

What I Finally Learned About Silence and Love

Through reflection and a lot of honest looking in the mirror, I finally understood something simple and hard:

My silence was never strength. But it also wasn't a weakness. My silence was love with no voice.

That love needed to go somewhere. It needed a language. It needed a shape.

When I began to give that love words, for Hashim, for my wife and for myself, the load I’d been carrying didn’t vanish. It started to shift. I realised I didn’t have to “move on.” I needed to learn how to move with my grief. That I could be both a griever and a supporter.

And if I could find a way to do that… Maybe other grieving dads could too.

Why I Created the StillDad Letter Workshop

Out of that realization, the StillDad Letter Workshop was born. A five-step journey of calm, guided reflection for fathers who’ve lost a baby.

It came from one simple question: “What kind of space did I desperately need back then and never found?”

It wasn’t therapy or a big circle group that I needed. Nor a place where I had to talk reluctantly.

What I needed was a quiet, guided way to notice what my grief was trying to say. To put some of that love into words. To feel without falling apart in front of others. And honouring my son while still showing up for my family.

That’s what I’ve tried to build for you.

What This Journey Can Give You as a Dad

If you ever choose to walk this path with me, here’s what I hope it gives you:

• A safe way to feel your grief without losing control. A calm, private space where you can finally stop running from it.

• A way to put words to the love you never got to give. So your baby’s memory isn’t only a pain point, but something you can honour.

• Less pressure to “be strong” all the time. You don’t have to choose between being a supporter or a griever, you can be both.

• A gentler relationship with silence. Instead of silence being a prison, it becomes a place where you listen and understand.

• New language to share with your partner, if and when you’re ready. Not big speeches. Just small, honest sentences that help you feel closer again.

• A way to carry your baby’s memory that doesn’t crush you. The load may not disappear, but it can become easier to hold.

• A sense that you’re not broken or “doing grief wrong.” You’re a dad who loved deeply and your grief is proof of that love.

This journey is not about fixing you because you're not a problem to fix.

It’s about giving you a quiet path to walk, so you don’t have to walk in circles anymore.

A Gentle First Step

If any of this sounds like the place you find yourself in, strong on the outside, tired on the inside, I’d like to offer you a soft first step.

WATCH THE FREE 15-MINUTE LETTER JOURNEY TASTER

If you want to feel how this works quietly on your terms, come sit with me for a moment.

I’ve recorded a free 15-minute taster of the Letter Journey. It’s a simple, quiet space where I guide you through a short reflection. So you can get a feel for what this kind of writing and pausing actually feels like, without any pressure to share or speak.

If it resonates with you, you’ll have the option to add your name and email to a waiting list for the pilot StillDad Letter Journey series.

No pressure, no urgent action and no gimmicks. Just something gentle if you want to try it.

If Your Grief Feels Too Heavy Right Now

If your grief feels very heavy right now, if you’re struggling to cope, to sleep, to function, or if dark thoughts have started to creep in - please don’t carry that alone.

Reach out to a certified counsellor, grief specialist, your doctor, or a trusted local support service.

You matter and your grief matters. Your baby’s life mattered and still does.

And whatever anyone has told you before, I want you to hear this:

Your love as a father didn’t end in that delivery room.

It’s still here and it deserves a voice.