Ramadan can be a difficult time for bereaved parents navigating grief after pregnancy or baby loss. In this heartfelt blog post, Zaavi’s parents, Taybah and Hasan, share their personal experiences of how the death of their baby has impacted them, the cultural taboos and stigmas that they have personally faced, what the first Ramadan without Zaavi will look like, and why they are determined to share their story and speak up about baby loss to help raise awareness, break the silence and show more parents within South Asian communities that they are not alone.
Taybah shares her story as a bereaved mother:
Zaaviyar Hussain Hasan. We call him Zaavi, which means lion. To be brave. And our precious little one was nothing short of that. Zaavi touched the stars on the 16 March 2025. On that day, I thought I had lost him forever. At six months pregnant, my life fell apart. Every dream. Every hope. Every version of the future I had imagined shattered in a flash.
Zaavi was gone. Darkness remained. That’s what I believed, until I found the courage to say his name in the form of light. To speak about him. To say his name out loud. To encourage other parents to say their babies’ names too. Silence is where our babies are erased. I refuse to let that happen.
In South Asian communities, pregnancy and baby loss is often something you are expected to tuck away. As if losing your child is somehow a reflection of failure. As if grief should be folded neatly like a garment and placed in a cupboard. Take it out for a few days. Wear it quietly. But don’t show it for too long. Then carry on, because “everything happens for a reason”. No parent should bury their child and then be handed a justification. And I will spend the rest of my life fighting that. Fighting what some may call “abnormal”.
Babies in the sky deserve to be spoken about just as much as babies on earth.
What it feels like to experience Ramadan after baby loss
Ramadan is a month of reflection and blessings. This year it ends in Zaavi’s birth month. His first heavenly birthday will be just days before Eid. I imagined him in a tiny traditional outfit. Imagined looking at his peaceful face as he slept through the early hours of Sehri. Instead, it’s just his dad and me. No baby sounds. Just grief echoing. I imagined this season differently. Zaavi is still my blessing but that does not stop me from wishing he was here, in my arms
When Zaavi died, I was told, “Not everyone will come to visit you. Your baby was only six months. That’s not important to them”. Only six months. As if the length of his life determined the depth of his worth. Zaavi had all his organs. All his limbs. A beautiful, beating heart. Hands just like his dad. A tiny button nose. Small, perfect eyes. He was his father’s twin.
But never mind, he was “only” six months in my womb. If he had lived six months outside of me, maybe then society would have granted him status. Respect. Dignity. Human worth.
Those words will never leave me. That is why I will carry Zaavi’s legacy forward because as his mother alongside his father, we will never let the world forget. A baby is a human, no matter how long they lived.
Life after Zaavi ignited something in me. A fire. A voice for the South Asian community. To scream. To shout. To speak our babies’ stories. These voices matter, because they carry the truth of our children. We do not “move on.” We carry forward. There is a difference. No parent forgets their baby and simply continues. We are mothers who conceived. Who gave birth. Some of us only got to hold our babies in our hearts, but we still love. Fiercely.
Zaavi touched a small teddy at birth. We dress it in personalised shirts. He comes with us on our food adventures. He has a giraffe plush with a blue bow, the one we had planned for his gender reveal. We dress him for seasons. For occasions. Zaavi’s birth flower is a daffodil, so we have a teddy dressed as one, a reminder of his delicate heart. I see him in the sun. In the moon. In the stars. In honour of that, I started a small business in his memory to support other bereaved parents. Art is how I mother him. I draw for my child and for many others. Our bedroom windowsill is filled with his memory items. I light a candle for him. Dragonflies became a sign for us, and now other parents send us photos whenever they see one. The world knows Zaavi’s name and that will never change. That is my mission.
It has almost been one year, and I still wish love alone could have saved him. My body aches to hold my child again. The separation is something words struggle to contain. Zaaviyar is my strength. When light breaks through clouds, I imagine it’s him. When the sky is clear, I believe he’s assuring me he’s okay. When the stars twinkle, I know he’s saying hello. Even when it rains, I believe he is watering parts of my life keeping me afloat, helping me bloom after devastation. It is Zaaviyar who carries me through the moments when grief feels unbearable.
My husband, Hasan, is my rock. My lifeline. This incredible man has stood beside me through the unimaginable. I will never let him grieve alone or quietly, the way society expects fathers to.
I have seen the love for his son beat out of his chest. I have seen it in his eyes, in the tears that fall when we speak of the plans we once made. He is a grieving father. He loves Zaavi just as deeply as I do.
People say grief gets easier. It only softens if you allow yourself to feel it. You must cry. You must speak. You must tell your baby’s story. Talking about your child heals parts of the soul that silence destroys.
We will never stop missing Zaavi. The ache will never disappear. The longing for our firstborn will never cease. But we carry the love by saying his name. Out loud. Always. Whatever you do, never stop saying their names.
Hasan shares his story as a bereaved father:
I had planned to do so much with my son. I couldn’t wait to begin my fatherhood journey. I imagined first cuddles, first laughs, first Eid outfits. I imagined feeding him, holding him, watching him grow in our home. I was ready. I was excited. I was proud to be his dad.
Returning to work just two weeks after losing him was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Alongside losing a baby who looked like me, I was expected to step back into ‘reality’ as if my world hadn’t completely fallen apart. Fathers should be allowed more time and space to grieve. We lose a part of ourselves too.
In South Asian communities, pregnancy and baby loss often carries so much negativity.
People say, “get over it” or “try again”, as if our first baby doesn’t matter. As if he was replaceable. As if attachment only begins once a baby is earth-side. He matters. He was my son. He will always be my son.
As Ramadan approaches, I think about all the things I now do without him. I had imagined dressing together for Eid. I had imagined the joy of having our little boy at home. Those quiet moments hit the hardest. Nearly a year on, the pain remains. I continue with life, but I carry this loss with me every single day. It’s hard to describe, it changes you. It stays with you. I will never forget this part of my life.
I am grateful for the immense support of my wife, Taybah, her family, and my mother-in-law. Most of all, I am grateful to Taybah. Losing Zaaviyar brought us closer. We hold each other up. We lean into the pain together. Our relationship has strengthened in ways I never imagined. Since losing our son, I’ve realised nothing is guaranteed. Words can hurt more than people know. But I’ve also gained a deeper empathy for others walking this path.
To every father who is grieving, I want you to know it is okay to hurt. It is okay to cry. It is okay to say your baby’s name. Your grief matters. Your fatherhood is real and your child will always matter.
Support for you
Here at Sands, we know Ramadan and Eid can be difficult for those who have been affected by pregnancy or baby loss. Please know that you are not alone, and there are people who understand and whom you can speak to in confidence.
Sands Helpline
t: 0808 164 3332