For Ryan, the moment he became a father was unlike anything he had ever experienced. From the moment his son, Leo, entered the world, Ryan felt a love so powerful it was almost overwhelming. “I’ll never forget the sound of his first cry,” Ryan said, his voice soft but filled with emotion. “It was tiny, but it was everything. I looked at him and thought, ‘That’s my boy. That’s my son.’”
But Leo’s arrival was far from smooth. Complications during labour had caused severe breathing difficulties, and before Ryan or his wife, Charlotte, could hold their baby, he was whisked away to the neonatal intensive care unit. “I didn’t even get to cut the cord,” Ryan said. “One second, I was staring at my son, and the next, he was gone, surrounded by doctors and machines. It didn’t feel real. How could something so joyful turn so terrifying in an instant?”
Standing outside the neonatal unit, Ryan felt a strange mix of pride and helplessness. “I could see him through the glass,” Ryan said. “He was so tiny, but he was mine. All I wanted to do was hold him, tell him he’d be okay, but instead, I just stood there, feeling useless while strangers worked to save his life.”
The days that followed were an emotional whirlwind. Ryan and Charlotte spent every possible moment at Leo’s bedside, watching as the medical team did everything they could to help him. “It was a constant rollercoaster,” Ryan said. “One moment, the doctors would say he was responding well, and I’d feel this surge of hope, like maybe we were going to bring him home. And then the next moment, something would go wrong, and I’d feel like the ground had been ripped out from under me.”
Despite his fragile state, Leo showed a quiet strength that inspired his parents. “He was so small, but he had this determination about him,” Ryan said. “When I’d stroke his hand, he’d squeeze my finger with this tiny grip. It was like he was telling me, ‘I’m trying, Dad.’ And I believed him. I believed he’d pull through.”
A nurse suggested taking a photograph of Leo in his incubator, a gesture that Ryan initially resisted. “At the time, it felt too much like a goodbye,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to think about needing a memory of him. I wanted to believe he’d be coming home with us, that we’d have years of memories ahead. But Charlotte insisted, and now I’m so grateful she did.”
The photo shows Leo lying in the incubator, his delicate features framed by a sea of wires and tubes, his tiny hand resting against the glass. “It’s not the picture I imagined taking of my son,” Ryan said, tears welling in his eyes. “But now, it’s one of the only things I have of him. It’s proof that he was here, that he fought, that he mattered.”
After a week in intensive care, Leo’s condition took a turn for the worse. The doctors explained that his organs were failing, and there was nothing more they could do. “Hearing those words felt like being hit by a train,” Ryan said, his voice cracking. “I kept thinking, ‘This can’t be it. He’s supposed to come home with us. He’s supposed to grow up.’”
The hospital staff brought Leo to Ryan and Charlotte, allowing them to hold their son without the barrier of wires and machines for the first and last time. “He was so small, so warm,” Ryan said. “I held him close and told him how much I loved him. I told him how proud I was of him, how brave he was. I told him that he would always be my son, and I would always be his dad.”
As Leo’s breathing slowed and eventually stopped, Ryan felt a mixture of heartbreak and peace. “It was like he was telling us it was okay to let go,” he said. “I didn’t want to, but I knew he wasn’t in pain anymore. I just held him and cried.”
In the months that followed Leo’s death, Ryan struggled with an overwhelming sense of guilt and failure. “I kept replaying everything in my head,” he said. “What if I’d done something differently? What if I’d noticed something sooner, or pushed harder for answers? I felt like I’d let him down, like I hadn’t been able to protect him the way a father should.”
Ryan also found himself feeling isolated in his grief. “Everyone was so focused on Charlotte, which I completely understood,” he said. “She’d just lost her son too, and she was devastated. But no one really asked how I was doing. I think they assumed I was fine because I wasn’t crying in front of them or breaking down. But inside, I was completely shattered.”
The photograph of Leo became Ryan’s source of comfort in those dark moments. “Every night, I’d sit with that picture, just looking at him,” he said. “I’d trace his tiny face with my finger and remember how strong he was, how much he fought. It’s not enough, but it’s something. It reminds me that he was real, that he was ours.”
Eventually, Ryan sought help through a support group for fathers who had experienced baby loss. At first, he was hesitant, unsure if he could open up about the pain he had kept buried inside. But hearing the stories of other dads helped him feel less alone. “It was like a weight had been lifted,” Ryan said. “Talking about Leo, sharing his story—it made me realise that my grief mattered too. I wasn’t just his dad in the hospital. I’m his dad forever.”
To honour Leo’s memory, Ryan and Charlotte created a small space in their home filled with keepsakes: the photograph, a lock of his hair, and the blanket he had been wrapped in during his final moments. “That space is sacred to us,” Ryan said. “It’s where we go when we need to feel close to him. It’s not the life we wanted for him, but it’s how we keep his memory alive.”
Reflecting on his journey, Ryan said, “Losing Leo was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through. But he also taught me what it means to love unconditionally. He may not be here physically, but he’s still a part of me. I carry him with me every day, in everything I do.”
The photograph of Leo remains on Ryan’s bedside table, a constant reminder of the little boy who changed his world forever. “He may have only been here for a short time,” Ryan said, “but his impact was immeasurable. He’s my son, and he always will be. That will never change.”
