- Mark Hopkins, a man who tragically lost two babies in the third trimester, is determined to provide support and guidance for other men experiencing similar losses.
- Following the loss of his children, Mark immersed himself in his career to cope with his grief, as he lacked knowledge on how to handle his emotions and seek support.
- Mark’s mission is to facilitate open conversations about child loss among men, allowing them to effectively cope with their grief and find solace in sharing their experiences.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Mark Hopkins. It has been edited for brevity and clarity.
After losing a child, I found myself returning to work just ten days later. As a father and Director of Strategy at a prominent international insurance firm, I sought solace in my career. However, I eventually realized that I couldn’t hide from my grief forever. It caught up with me.
The heartbreaking arrival of our first child
My fiancée suggested we combine our wedding and the christening of our first baby. We eagerly embarked on this journey, only to face a tragic outcome during a home birth in London. Our son, Seth, was born unresponsive, his life hanging by a thread as the cord wrapped around his neck. Though he initially faced challenges, Seth’s remarkable progress, thanks to his mother’s tireless dedication, ensured he met every developmental milestone by the age of two.
We believed this loss was an isolated incident and consequently started trying for a sibling for Seth.
The agonizing decision we had to make for our second baby
By the time Seth turned three, we were living in Vietnam due to my job, and our plans for a growing family were coming to fruition. Unfortunately, at 34 weeks, we received devastating news: our unborn baby boy would not survive outside the womb. Faced with an impossible decision, we were given two options: euthanize him in utero or witness his passing after birth. Unable to bear his suffering, we chose to let him go peacefully. To contribute something positive, we donated Toby’s body to medical science, hoping it would prevent similar tragedies from impacting other families. We spent two precious hours holding Toby and saying goodbye before a nurse placed him in a polystyrene DHL box. Overwhelmed by anger, I shattered the box outside, unable to process the emotions of loss, guilt, and anger that plagued me for years to come.
Once again, I sought refuge in work, just as I did when my unborn daughter, Miah, passed away two years later due to the same genetic condition. The doctors informed us of the heartbreaking news at 28 weeks, and I rushed to be by my wife’s side. Sadly, Miah did not survive the labor due to her premature birth. Lost in my career, I managed to obtain a promotion, becoming the Director of Operations.
Suppressing guilt through career achievements and travel
My job became both a distraction and a source of guilt. When Seth, at the age of five, inquired about the missing brother or sister he anticipated, I recalled the joyous moments I shared with my own sister growing up, realizing Seth would never experience the same. I blamed myself for our decision to relocate to Vietnam, thinking that if we had stayed in London, Toby and Miah could have been saved like Seth. It took me time to recognize that this guilt was intertwined with my grief, and I continued to pile more of it upon myself.
My wife coped with her grief by withdrawing from the world, returning to her home in South Africa, and undergoing therapy. As she physically experienced pregnancy and childbirth three times, each time without a living baby, she had to confront her emotions in a manner that I failed to understand. Even when I resigned from my job to offer support by joining her in South Africa, I instinctively kept us occupied with travel, avoiding facing our pain head-on.
Coping mechanisms that proved unhelpful and a lack of support from friends
My friendships strained under the weight of our pain. Conversations became difficult, as my friends would hesitate to share their problems, considering them inconsequential compared to mine. Similarly, I struggled to discuss my own struggles, as they seemed insurmountable. Instead of providing emotional support, my friends would attempt to offer relief through alcohol, creating an illusion of escape.
I inadvertently burdened Seth, immersing him in an environment of overprotection, constantly smothering him with hugs and even allowing him to sleep in my bed. Unaware of my own need for therapy and communication, I clung to him as a source of solace. It wasn’t until I overheard him say, at the age of six, “I feel so safe when I sleep in Daddy’s bed,” that I realized the harmful impact of my actions. In that moment, I sought professional help and engaged the services of a therapist instead of relying on my young son.
It took four years of therapy and the breakdown of my marriage to come to terms with the loss of my children. Standing on a bridge during a trip to Spain, watching the river flow, I experienced a surreal moment as the weight of guilt lifted from my shoulders. It felt as if Toby and Miah were communicating with me, assuaging my guilt and affirming that their fates were beyond my control.
If I could rewind time, I would prioritize personal healing
If I had the opportunity to rewrite my past, I would take time off work instead of using it as a distraction. Seeking emotional support and counseling, as well as addressing relationship issues, would become my priority. As a society, we must extend our support to the non-birthing partner, particularly in the aftermath of childbirth trauma, miscarriage, or stillbirth. Furthermore, as men, we must recognize and attend to our own needs.
Today, I run coaching programs tailored for high-achieving parents who find the challenges of parenting surpassing those of their careers. My ultimate goal is to guide fathers who have experienced child loss on mindful hikes in nature, offering them a safe space to express their feelings. I don’t aim to solve their grief; rather, I believe in the power of listening and sharing, as it was this support that I unknowingly yearned for during my own journey.
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