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The unique impact of baby loss at the Bar simply cannot be ignored. With the aim of helping others and offering practical advice, Anna Yarde reflects on the tragic experience of losing her first child, Amelia, and returning to a practice specialising in the law relating to children
This article discusses themes of pregnancy, baby loss and grief, which readers may find distressing. Support resources are included below.
Grief is love. It is not to be fixed or undone. It cannot be rushed or ignored.
Grief travels with the bereaved. It is part of who they are, their purpose and their story. It ebbs and flows, not just in the quiet moments or big milestones. It is always there. At home, on the train, and at work.
Yesterday was my daughter’s eighth birthday. Only instead of balloons and party bags and squealing, there was quiet, snowdrops and a memory box. It has taken that long to feel ready to tell our story. But it is one that needs to be shared.
It needs to be shared for those who have walked out of hospital without looking up from the floor. It needs to be shared for those who will, one day, experience the loss of a baby or child. It needs to be shared for those who support them as they navigate their grief.
And, importantly, it needs to be shared for those who write the chambers’ policies, fill the diaries, support them financially and spend time with them at court. The unique impact of baby loss at the Bar simply cannot be ignored.
Our daughter was born prematurely at 23 weeks. She lived for just over an hour. She spent every one of those minutes in our arms, as we poured a lifetime of love into the limited time that we had together. Our hospital did not have a Level 3 Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, so she did not receive medical interventions, and she was not resuscitated. She had us, and we had her.
Our baby moved at the sound of my voice. We stroked and talked to her. We gave her a name and a knitted blanket. I didn’t say ‘hello’ because I couldn’t bear to say ‘goodbye’. I just told her over and over how loved she was. I asked the midwife to carry her out of the room because I couldn’t walk away, leaving her alone. I discharged myself from hospital the same day, carrying a Sands memory box with our few keepsakes, without lifting my gaze from the tiles, for fear of seeing shock and terror on the faces of the other new parents in the corridor.
And then we went home to grieve.
That day, I was 10 days into a final hearing in the Family Court. I was representing the local authority in a suspected non-accidental injury case. I can’t remember the details now, but I’ll never forget the family or the allegations. I remember the Achieving Best Evidence police video interviews. And I remember the relentless, forensic cross-examination that I conducted over the two weeks beforehand, when I was oblivious to how my life was about to change.
I didn’t have a leader. We’d finished hearing evidence and had adjourned for closing submissions and judgment. I never finished the case. But I did go back to work.
In the days and weeks that followed, I spent hours reading the stories of mothers who had experienced the devastating loss of a baby before, during or shortly after birth. I read interviews with Amanda Holden, Lily Allen, Kym Marsh. I listened to Ben and Marina Fogle. Gary Barlow. I can still tell you their babies’ names. I needed to hear about their love, the rawness of their grief and how their journey unfolded. I needed to feel connected to the parents who had been held in the all-consuming grip of visceral grief and kept going.
But none of them were barristers. And I needed to start making decisions:
The support that I received from Chambers was key to my survival and decision to return to work at the Bar.
First, an unendingly kind colleague stepped up to finish my trial. She took responsibility for the case and asked for nothing more than the notes that I had already taken. Until I experienced the sort of unfathomable tragedy that makes it impossible to finish a trial, I would have described this as an ‘impossible’ task. I would have been wrong. Without judgement, and with generosity, integrity and kindness, responsibility for my case was lifted completely and without hesitation. I now know that it is always possible for someone else to shoulder the burden of another barrister’s workload.
Then, my friends and colleagues in Chambers wove themselves into a cushion to soften the impact of grief by sending cards and presents, delivering home-cooked meals, sending groceries to my house, making keepsakes for my daughter’s funeral, using her name, admiring her photo, letting me cry and giving me permission to smile. That kindness was the greatest gift.
So how long should I stay at home for? How would I know when I was ready to meet the demands of a busy court practice, particularly one specialising in the law relating to children? I had saved for one period of parental leave. How long could I afford to spend at home? If I am fortunate enough to experience another (now high-risk) pregnancy, how will I afford to take time away from court for medical appointments? If I am fortunate enough to ever bring a living, breathing baby home, can I afford another period of parental leave?
Self-employed barristers may be eligible for maternity allowance paid by the government. As of 2 April 2025, that payment is £184.03 per week for up to 39 weeks. Eligibility depends on the baby being stillborn after 24 weeks or born alive at any point during the pregnancy.
My baby breathed by herself, so I qualified for maternity allowance. It shouldn’t need pointing out that, regardless of whether my baby was born alive or dead, my recovery from her birth was the same; my milk still came in, she still had the same number of tiny fingernails and the same fair eyelashes, and my love (and grief) was still the same. That’s worth remembering when drafting chambers’ policies or offering support to a colleague.
But £184.03 per week was not going to pay the bills and I knew that any time spent at home now would use my savings.
So, I decided to return to work after about eight weeks at home (and only shortly before I became pregnant with our second daughter).
As part of that return, I had a meeting with my Chambers Director, and we discussed the psychological aspects and practicalities of returning to children work. The choices that I made were:
One of the first hearings that I did was, on paper, an ideal brief for confidence-building. I was representing the local authority. The subject child was a bright, articulate teenager seeking legal permanence outside the biological family. What no one could have foreseen was that the child’s mother would attend, support the placement and give me a plastic bag, opening it to display proudly, and with sadness, her child’s newborn hospital hat and paperwork. It was a final act of parental love to surrender the baby keepsakes that she had kept safe throughout the years (and all her own difficulties) for her child to have them instead. And I still hold my breath when I recall holding those precious belongings, tangible memories, and the resilience required to finish the hearing, do my job.
Afterwards, I walked straight back to Chambers and cried. I was utterly broken. My (then) Head of Chambers sat with me for 45 minutes and put me back together again. Ready for a rest, and then the next case, next story, next family, next pain.
It’s important to tell these stories. Not to shock or hurt. But because it would be wrong to avoid talking about the more challenging emotions that returning to children law work evoked during the early days of grief: hopelessness, jealousy, misery.
Part of managing those feelings may include managing significant dates. I do not work on (or often the day before) my daughter’s birthday. It is simply too difficult. I have learned to take a deep breath when a subject child has the same birthday, or is the same age, or has the same name. Sometimes, I wonder whether my child would have shared the same interests, favourite colours, songs and books. Allowing those thoughts to arrive, and inviting them to leave without lingering, helps to manage more challenging feelings.
One of the mantras that I relied upon was, ‘this hearing is about their children; their welfare is so important’. It worked. But occasionally, I have shared my story with those parents who needed to hear it too. Once, I represented the local authority and successfully argued for the adoption of a baby born prematurely. That baby’s older siblings had all been born prematurely and none had survived. I shared the same medical condition as their mother. I almost returned the case. I’m glad I didn’t. The mother spoke about her sorrow in court, and I felt the weight of her grief. As I left the building, I saw her speaking to her advocate. I asked if I could join them, and I explained why I wanted to speak to them. As we said goodbye, I reminded the mother that she had already lived through every single one of her worst days, and she would live through this one too. She smiled and gave me the most meaningful embrace. She knew that I understood. And we both felt better for talking about our babies together. I sometimes think of her.
When I first returned to work, I was worried that I would never feel pure happiness, or pride, or passion again. That everything would be tainted by grief. What I have learned since is that neither cancels the other out. They sit side by side. Each bringing the other into sharper resolve.
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Anna Yarde is a family law barrister at Harcourt. She specialises in the law relating to children, Deprivation of Liberty and Forced Marriage. Anna is a Legal 500 leading junior (2025)
This article discusses themes of pregnancy, baby loss and grief, which readers may find distressing. Support resources are included below.
Grief is love. It is not to be fixed or undone. It cannot be rushed or ignored.
Grief travels with the bereaved. It is part of who they are, their purpose and their story. It ebbs and flows, not just in the quiet moments or big milestones. It is always there. At home, on the train, and at work.
Yesterday was my daughter’s eighth birthday. Only instead of balloons and party bags and squealing, there was quiet, snowdrops and a memory box. It has taken that long to feel ready to tell our story. But it is one that needs to be shared.
It needs to be shared for those who have walked out of hospital without looking up from the floor. It needs to be shared for those who will, one day, experience the loss of a baby or child. It needs to be shared for those who support them as they navigate their grief.
And, importantly, it needs to be shared for those who write the chambers’ policies, fill the diaries, support them financially and spend time with them at court. The unique impact of baby loss at the Bar simply cannot be ignored.
Our daughter was born prematurely at 23 weeks. She lived for just over an hour. She spent every one of those minutes in our arms, as we poured a lifetime of love into the limited time that we had together. Our hospital did not have a Level 3 Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, so she did not receive medical interventions, and she was not resuscitated. She had us, and we had her.
Our baby moved at the sound of my voice. We stroked and talked to her. We gave her a name and a knitted blanket. I didn’t say ‘hello’ because I couldn’t bear to say ‘goodbye’. I just told her over and over how loved she was. I asked the midwife to carry her out of the room because I couldn’t walk away, leaving her alone. I discharged myself from hospital the same day, carrying a Sands memory box with our few keepsakes, without lifting my gaze from the tiles, for fear of seeing shock and terror on the faces of the other new parents in the corridor.
And then we went home to grieve.
That day, I was 10 days into a final hearing in the Family Court. I was representing the local authority in a suspected non-accidental injury case. I can’t remember the details now, but I’ll never forget the family or the allegations. I remember the Achieving Best Evidence police video interviews. And I remember the relentless, forensic cross-examination that I conducted over the two weeks beforehand, when I was oblivious to how my life was about to change.
I didn’t have a leader. We’d finished hearing evidence and had adjourned for closing submissions and judgment. I never finished the case. But I did go back to work.
In the days and weeks that followed, I spent hours reading the stories of mothers who had experienced the devastating loss of a baby before, during or shortly after birth. I read interviews with Amanda Holden, Lily Allen, Kym Marsh. I listened to Ben and Marina Fogle. Gary Barlow. I can still tell you their babies’ names. I needed to hear about their love, the rawness of their grief and how their journey unfolded. I needed to feel connected to the parents who had been held in the all-consuming grip of visceral grief and kept going.
But none of them were barristers. And I needed to start making decisions:
The support that I received from Chambers was key to my survival and decision to return to work at the Bar.
First, an unendingly kind colleague stepped up to finish my trial. She took responsibility for the case and asked for nothing more than the notes that I had already taken. Until I experienced the sort of unfathomable tragedy that makes it impossible to finish a trial, I would have described this as an ‘impossible’ task. I would have been wrong. Without judgement, and with generosity, integrity and kindness, responsibility for my case was lifted completely and without hesitation. I now know that it is always possible for someone else to shoulder the burden of another barrister’s workload.
Then, my friends and colleagues in Chambers wove themselves into a cushion to soften the impact of grief by sending cards and presents, delivering home-cooked meals, sending groceries to my house, making keepsakes for my daughter’s funeral, using her name, admiring her photo, letting me cry and giving me permission to smile. That kindness was the greatest gift.
So how long should I stay at home for? How would I know when I was ready to meet the demands of a busy court practice, particularly one specialising in the law relating to children? I had saved for one period of parental leave. How long could I afford to spend at home? If I am fortunate enough to experience another (now high-risk) pregnancy, how will I afford to take time away from court for medical appointments? If I am fortunate enough to ever bring a living, breathing baby home, can I afford another period of parental leave?
Self-employed barristers may be eligible for maternity allowance paid by the government. As of 2 April 2025, that payment is £184.03 per week for up to 39 weeks. Eligibility depends on the baby being stillborn after 24 weeks or born alive at any point during the pregnancy.
My baby breathed by herself, so I qualified for maternity allowance. It shouldn’t need pointing out that, regardless of whether my baby was born alive or dead, my recovery from her birth was the same; my milk still came in, she still had the same number of tiny fingernails and the same fair eyelashes, and my love (and grief) was still the same. That’s worth remembering when drafting chambers’ policies or offering support to a colleague.
But £184.03 per week was not going to pay the bills and I knew that any time spent at home now would use my savings.
So, I decided to return to work after about eight weeks at home (and only shortly before I became pregnant with our second daughter).
As part of that return, I had a meeting with my Chambers Director, and we discussed the psychological aspects and practicalities of returning to children work. The choices that I made were:
One of the first hearings that I did was, on paper, an ideal brief for confidence-building. I was representing the local authority. The subject child was a bright, articulate teenager seeking legal permanence outside the biological family. What no one could have foreseen was that the child’s mother would attend, support the placement and give me a plastic bag, opening it to display proudly, and with sadness, her child’s newborn hospital hat and paperwork. It was a final act of parental love to surrender the baby keepsakes that she had kept safe throughout the years (and all her own difficulties) for her child to have them instead. And I still hold my breath when I recall holding those precious belongings, tangible memories, and the resilience required to finish the hearing, do my job.
Afterwards, I walked straight back to Chambers and cried. I was utterly broken. My (then) Head of Chambers sat with me for 45 minutes and put me back together again. Ready for a rest, and then the next case, next story, next family, next pain.
It’s important to tell these stories. Not to shock or hurt. But because it would be wrong to avoid talking about the more challenging emotions that returning to children law work evoked during the early days of grief: hopelessness, jealousy, misery.
Part of managing those feelings may include managing significant dates. I do not work on (or often the day before) my daughter’s birthday. It is simply too difficult. I have learned to take a deep breath when a subject child has the same birthday, or is the same age, or has the same name. Sometimes, I wonder whether my child would have shared the same interests, favourite colours, songs and books. Allowing those thoughts to arrive, and inviting them to leave without lingering, helps to manage more challenging feelings.
One of the mantras that I relied upon was, ‘this hearing is about their children; their welfare is so important’. It worked. But occasionally, I have shared my story with those parents who needed to hear it too. Once, I represented the local authority and successfully argued for the adoption of a baby born prematurely. That baby’s older siblings had all been born prematurely and none had survived. I shared the same medical condition as their mother. I almost returned the case. I’m glad I didn’t. The mother spoke about her sorrow in court, and I felt the weight of her grief. As I left the building, I saw her speaking to her advocate. I asked if I could join them, and I explained why I wanted to speak to them. As we said goodbye, I reminded the mother that she had already lived through every single one of her worst days, and she would live through this one too. She smiled and gave me the most meaningful embrace. She knew that I understood. And we both felt better for talking about our babies together. I sometimes think of her.
When I first returned to work, I was worried that I would never feel pure happiness, or pride, or passion again. That everything would be tainted by grief. What I have learned since is that neither cancels the other out. They sit side by side. Each bringing the other into sharper resolve.
The unique impact of baby loss at the Bar simply cannot be ignored. With the aim of helping others and offering practical advice, Anna Yarde reflects on the tragic experience of losing her first child, Amelia, and returning to a practice specialising in the law relating to children
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