Owlet Cares is our charitable initiative that is dedicated to making a positive impact in the lives of babies and parents. One way we do this is by partnering with nonprofits from all over the world who share our mission. Each month, we shine a spotlight on one of our foundation partners and the important work they are doing. 

This month, we’d like to introduce you to Emily Oliver of Baby Loss Club in the UK. Emily and her husband lost their son Archie to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) in 2024. Through her grief, Emily is committed to helping other families navigate similar unthinkable tragedies. 

In her own words, here is her story. 

By: Emily Oliver, Co-Founder of Baby Loss Club

A Leap Year Baby

Archie Oliver arrived on 29 February 2024. He was a leap year baby, a date that was as rare and special as he was. My pregnancy had been completely smooth, with no concerns and an easy birth.  When they placed him on my chest the moment he was born, I felt like the luckiest person in the world.

He was eight pounds of pure joy. I called him “my little man.” By a few months he had already started to giggle and smile - filling every room with a happiness that felt too big for such a small person. Our daughter Bella adored him. Our family felt complete.

Life with two children is delightfully chaotic, and we had settled into our rhythm. I remember so clearly the ordinary magic of those early months - the warm weight of him in my arms, his smell, the tiny sounds he made, the way he looked up at me. Those memories are ones I will hold onto for the rest of my life.

The Night Everything Changed

We had gone up to Norfolk for a long weekend - close to my husband George’s family. I remember mentioning to George’s mother that Archie had seemed a little quieter than usual that day, a little sleepy. He hadn’t quite finished his bottle. But there wasn’t enough wrong to worry.

I put Archie down in his cot beside my bed that evening. He went down more easily than usual. I went downstairs, cleaned the bottles, put the dishwasher on, and went to sleep.

I woke in the night bolt upright, with a fear I couldn’t name. I turned to look at Archie - and he was blue, cold, and motionless. Everything that happened next was a blur of screaming, calling emergency services, the ambulance lights flooding the road outside, the helicopter. George’s parents came for Bella. I sat in the hospital corridor with my head in my hands, praying it was a bad dream.

After four hours, we had to make the most devastating decision of our lives. The doctors, George and I agreed to stop. A nurse brought us a box containing a small piece of his hair and his tiny footprints. It felt surreal. It still does. If I’m honest, I don’t know that I have ever fully accepted what happened.

What Grief Looked Like

In the days that followed, we were surrounded by love. Friends and family dropped everything for us - meals appeared, people sat with us, walked endlessly with us. Nobody left our side. But even in a room full of people, I have never felt so alone.

“The first week or two, when everyone puts their life on hold for you, you’re living in this sort of weird non-reality,” I’ve said before. “You’re trying to exist, but even the smallest daily tasks feel impossible.”

There was also the cruelty of the practical. Funeral arrangements. Waiting months for postmortem results, every dark possibility running through your mind. As a mother, you blame yourself - even when the results confirmed that Archie was a perfectly healthy baby, and that nothing could have been done. I still couldn’t fully let myself off the hook.

I couldn’t say goodbye to him at the hospital. That is one of my deepest regrets. We left at 10am, and Archie stayed behind. Archie was cremated, and he still lives with us at home in London - close to us, where he belongs. My therapy became walking along the beach in Norfolk, talking to him. I still do.

From Grief to Purpose

Grief has a way of revealing the cracks in the world around you. And what George and I discovered, as we tried to put ourselves back together, was a system that was almost entirely unprepared to help us.

There was no single space to find others who had been through this. Accessing therapy felt impossibly daunting during the worst pain of my life. We were lucky - a family friend connected us with a therapist through her charity. But we were quick to realise that not everyone is as lucky as we were.

I remember reflecting on that time and thinking: we felt lost, lonely, isolated and exhausted. There were no tools, no community, no survival kit. Someone has to change this.

That someone became us.

Building Something in His Name

George and I co-founded Baby Loss Club - an accessible platform that brings together community, expert-led resources, and real pathways to therapeutic support for families that suffer infant loss. 

Our mission is bold but simple: we want to fund one million free therapy sessions for people affected by baby loss. And we want to make sure that when a family leaves a hospital the way we did - empty-handed, unsupported, in shock - there is somewhere for them to turn.

What drives me most are the other mothers I’ve connected with through this work. Women who felt invisible. Women who felt like their grief made others uncomfortable. Women who didn’t know how to navigate the simplest tasks. Or just needed someone to say: I understand. You are not alone. And you will not always feel this way.

What I Would Like You to Know

If you are in the depths of baby loss right now, I want you to hear this: your grief is valid. Your love for your baby is real and lasting. And the isolation you feel - that specific loneliness that no visitor can fill - it is something so many of us have felt. But you don’t have to find a way through this alone.

There are people who understand. There are communities being built by parents who have walked this path before you and refused to leave anyone behind. Baby Loss Club exists because of Archie, and because of every baby who deserved to be here longer. We are here for you.

What Comes Next

I am now a mother to Teddy, born just over a year after Archie died. I won’t pretend that isn’t terrifying and those joyful moments still have a slight element of sadness to them. But we try keep Archie with us every step of the way, we just have to do things a little differently. He does have funny little ways of showing us he is with us, too. Pregnancy after loss and parenting after loss ask everything of you but it’s always possible. Sometimes with help and support, you will surprise yourself…even if things just look, feel and are done a little differently.

I still walk the beach and talk to Archie. Building Baby Loss Club has been, in its own way, a way of celebrating him. Of making sure his short, joyful life meant something beyond our family’s heartbreak.

What I hope Baby Loss Club becomes is a place where no parent feels like an afterthought. Where the question, “who can you call”, the question a nurse asked me in that hospital corridor - has an answer, always.

Archie was here for three months. His legacy will last much longer.

Partnership with Owlet Cares

What has moved me most about working with Owlet is that they are actively investing in the communities around baby loss, amplifying voices that deserve to be heard, and standing beside and supporting charities that are doing the hard, necessary work. Their commitment to supporting organizations like Baby Loss Club shows that they understand that behind every monitor, every purchase, every piece of technology, there is a family with a story. For a brand with their reach to choose to show up in this way - it matters more than words can say.

To learn more about Baby Loss Club and their work supporting families affected by baby loss, visit babylossclub.com.

Author Bio:

In 2024, George and Emily Oliver lost their son, Archie Oliver, to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) where they experienced firsthand the fragmented nature of support services.

And in the days and weeks that followed, George and Emily found themselves searching for something that didn't exist.

They wanted a community. A place where people who understood could come together. somewhere to find the right support without having to piece it all together themselves during the hardest time of their life. 

The quotes, stories, and experiences shared in this post are those of the individual(s) featured and do not necessarily reflect the views of Owlet. This content is intended for informational and educational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, mental health care, or treatment. If you have questions about your health, your child's health, grief support, or pregnancy after loss, please seek guidance from a qualified healthcare provider or mental health professional.