Guest blogs

A love that doesn’t end.

Written by Breege Hoyne, June 2025

Seven years ago my life was devastatingly turned upside down and inside out, my heart
shattered into pieces, when my beautiful little boy Ruairí died, just six weeks after his first birthday. I miss the family of four that we should be and everything that is lost because we are three. I miss all the things he’ll never get to do. To be.

Being his Mom during his life was the most amazing and terrifying experience. He was sick for most of it. A “medically complex child,” I cared for him around the clock. His life and his death have altered mine irrevocably, have changed who I am, and how I live in this world.

I still sometimes find myself not quite able to comprehend that he’ll never be here again. Disbelief is a recurring feeling when it comes to his death. I wish time travel was real, so I could go back to him. Often, I do, in a way. In the quiet moments, I find my beautiful boy. His scent. His curls. It is the most powerful, all-encompassing feeling of love, of aching.

It is breathtaking. It is necessary.

My son would have been eight years old this April. I like to imagine him, but it’s heartbreaking too. Would he still have those beautiful blonde curls that I loved to twirl my fingers through? Would he like trains, or Lego or something else? Would he be a sensitive boy like his brother? Or more boisterous? A whole lifetime of questions and imagining.

Living in this world since my son’s death is challenging. If I bring him into conversations, it often tends to be awkward. The air changes in the room, the conversation switches or platitudes are given, and while they’re well intended, they don’t usually help - my son isn’t in a better place, there is no silver lining, lesson to be learned or worthwhile wisdom to be gained. This is not going to get easier
nor is it fixable.

I have learned to choose carefully when and with whom I bring my son into conversations and I don’t always get it right. Sometimes, I hold back, because I am protecting my heart from awkward or uncomfortable situations. When I choose not to mention him, I try to be kind to myself. I’ll quietly whisper, “I’m sorry,” to him. Still, I’ve gotten better at including him, even when it feels awkward. I’ve learned to be proud of myself in those moments, when I speak his name, share a memory, when I bring him into conversation without apology.

At first, when my son first died the passing of time without him felt impossible. I felt as though I was being dragged away from him. A vast sea of emptiness where he should be. The ache of grief was all consuming. The only light in my life came through my family. I had no light of my own. When I woke up every morning my first thoughts were of my son, wondering how I’d get through yet another day without him, my body and my heart weighed down by grief. The simple daily tasks of caring for my older son gave me purpose, his sweet smiling face with the same ocean blue eyes and his own beautiful blonde wavy hair were my reason to get up every single day. The steady nature of my husband who was always close by, helped me stay anchored.

Over the course of years, I have learned that we are still connected, Ruairí and I - his essence lives on within me. It is him who makes me who I am today. So much of me has changed in the years since he died. He has taught me what matters and what doesn’t. I am a kinder, more understanding human being because of him. My own light has slowly returned, it started with small glimmers of
hope and it has gotten brighter. Life, a good life, has returned to me, with genuine gratitude, purpose, laughter, and so much love. When I wake in the mornings now, my son is still one of my first thoughts - as my eyes land on the framed photo of him sleeping that hangs on my bedroom wall, I gently murmur “Good morning beautiful” and then begin my day.

My son is never coming back. It took a long time to understand that his death has not ended our relationship. It has changed it.

I continue to nurture my relationship with him every single day.

The pain of living without him here exists as it always has. It hasn’t gotten easier but it has gotten softer. And with that softening I have learned so much about living without him here, with love and support from others. Those who have known me for a long time, and those who I didn’t before but have held my hand and sat with me, gently guiding me through my darkest days towards a life
shaped by the loss of Ruairí.

The ache that arrived with my son’s departure from this life - it’s still here, it simply ebbs and flows now. When it takes hold and reverberates through every part of me, I remind myself that it is love, and that my beautiful boy is still here within me - his heart inside mine. His life continues to make a difference in this world through who I am and what I do. Every little kind thing I do is my son shining bright, making that difference.

So as I walk this earth without my child here with me, I will continue to find ways to keep loving him and have his life matter through what I do with mine.

It will never be enough.
Yet it has to be.
Because it is.
His heart inside mine, always.

Breege Hoyne writes about grief and loss as a bereaved parent. She is also the author of a children’s book Ruairí’s Rocket to heaven, written about sibling loss. You can find out more at www.storiesforourhearts.co.uk