By Laura Johnstone
When I look in the mirror, I see more than just my reflection. I see scars—two on my neck from when I survived sepsis, and one on my bellybutton that has been with me since birth. These aren’t just marks on my body—they’re the remnants of trauma, of survival, of a story that began long before I knew what storytelling was.
That scar on my stomach? I used to hate it. It reminded me of being different, of being born far too early—28 weeks and five days, three months before I was meant to arrive. Back then, in 1981, neonatal medicine was only just beginning to understand how to care for babies like me. My twin brother, Nicholas, didn’t survive. But I did.
I carried guilt for years because of that.
But one day, during a quiet conversation, my mum reframed that scar for me. “You don’t need to think of it as trauma,” she told me. “It saved your life. That scar is a miracle.”
And in that moment, something shifted.
Years later, I found myself in a hospital again, this time fighting for my life against sepsis. I was just 15 minutes from not surviving. I woke up in intensive care, tubes in my neck, a new layer of trauma etched into my skin—two angry scars that I still carry today.
But those scars tell a story, too. A story of how far I’ve come, and how deeply this path was always meant for me.
When I was pregnant with my daughter, I remember going to the last scan and Ryan couldn’t come, so my mum came with me. She was mesmerised by how far technology had come. She spoke of the long journeys she took from North Wales back to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham just to get scans done. That moment made me pause—because I, too, had to travel for mine. History, repeating itself—but with progress.
That’s when I realised: this purpose, this work I’m doing to help other families—it’s not new. It’s been with me all along. As a child, I would raise awareness about prematurity and baby loss without even knowing why. Now I know: it’s because I lived it. Because my survival has always carried a story. And I was always meant to tell it.
This business I’ve started—The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey—isn’t just a project. It’s a purpose. It’s my way of making sure no family ever feels alone, like we did back then. It’s about turning pain into power and scars into strength.
Last night, I was talking to Ryan, and he said something I’ll never forget: “I can really see the difference in you now. You’ve found your purpose.” And I have.
So, if you’re reading this and feeling overwhelmed, wondering if what you’re doing matters—trust that it does. Your story, your scars, your survival—they all matter.
And if someone asked me what my dream is? I’d say, I’m living it. I’m helping people. I’m making change. And I’m not done yet.
If you found this blog helpful, please like, share, and subscribe to ‘The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey.’
Let’s keep showing up for each other—scars, stories, and all.
References
Bliss Charity UK. (2024). Support for parents of premature babies. www.bliss.org.uk Sepsis Trust UK. (2024). Understanding Sepsis: Causes, Symptoms, and Recovery. www.sepsistrust.org Sands UK. (2024). Baby Loss Support and Awareness. www.sands.org.uk NHS. (2024). Premature birth and neonatal care. www.nhs.uk
The bad and your parenting journey 