Today, October 11th, marks ten years since my son, Josh Hanson, was taken from us in an unprovoked, violent attack. Ten years. It’s a date that sits heavily in my heart, not as an anniversary to celebrate, but as a sombre milestone marking a decade of a life fundamentally split into before and after.
For any parent, the loss of a child is an unnatural, world-shattering event. When that loss is due to murder, the grief is instantly complicated, becoming an outsider in the world of traditional grief support. It’s a grief intertwined with legal battles, public scrutiny, the chilling details of the crime, and the endless, silent shout of ‘why?’
People often talk about ‘moving on.’ But there is no moving on from the murder of your child. There is only moving forward, with your heart truly and permanently broken.
In the wake of murder, the calendar becomes a minefield. The pain doesn’t just surface on the one day of the anniversary; it is a current that runs through every single date that used to bring joy: birthdays, Christmas, Mother’s Day, and simple family holidays. Each celebration throughout the year is now shadowed by an unbearable longing for a smile, a hug, a simple presence that is gone. We struggle daily with the survivor’s guilt—the quiet agony of being here when our loved one is not. This is a perpetual state of being that is often invisible to the world, compounded by the isolation and stigma of murder that few outside our community truly comprehend.
We desperately need a more compassionate, understanding world. Every day, we must look at those struggling with loss, grief, and guilt and offer care, not judgment. Their pain is real, heavy, and daily.
Over the past ten years, I’ve been asked countlessly: “How can you possibly believe in God when your child was murdered?”
My answer has always been simple: How can I not?
My faith is not a comfort blanket; it is the absolute bedrock of my resolve and determination. It is the unwavering certainty that my beautiful Josh sits at the right hand of God, watching over me. I know this because he constantly lets me know he is with me. Through signs—small, powerful, unmistakable moments—he helps steer and guide me. This is what allows me to get up every day and choose to move forward, to honour his life, and to campaign for the rights of others. That divine connection is the reason I can channel my pain into purpose.
My resolve to move forward has been dedicated to leaving a positive legacy for Josh. That dedication brings me to a system that continues to let victims down, a system we are fighting to fix with Josh’s Law.
Josh’s Law is an incredibly modest request for fairness and equality in the criminal justice system. We are focusing on the Unduly Lenient Sentence (ULS) scheme, which gives victims only 28 days to appeal an offender’s sentence they believe is too lenient.
The injustice is that victims are often not informed of this right at all, as was my personal experience. However, if an offender’s legal team misses a deadline, they can often ask for a review, citing ‘exceptional circumstances.’
Josh’s Law would simply require the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) to notify all victims of offences within the scheme, including bereaved families, of their right to appeal either before or at the time of sentencing. Crucially, it would also ensure that if victims are not properly informed, this failure is recognised as an exceptional circumstance, permitting a review outside the restrictive 28-day period.
This simple, vital reform would close a damaging gap and bring victims’ rights into line with offenders’ rights—a balance that has been absent for far too long. We are not asking to extend the 28-day limit; we are asking for basic, mandated notification and fairness when the system fails to provide it.
To everyone who reads this, I share the essence of my pain and longing. My heart is truly broken, but every day, I dedicate my life to the fight for justice in Josh’s name.
I love you, Josh. I will never stop.
Mum 💙🙏🏻
