I’ve gone back and forth about writing this. Some parts of me wanted to keep it tucked away in my heart where it still hurts. But I know how much it has helped me to read the stories of other women—other moms—who’ve walked through loss. So, as had as it is, I’m writing this not just for me, but for anyone else out there who might be searching for comfort, for words to match their pain, or just to feel seen.
We found out we were pregnant after IVF – with our very last embryo, and it was one of the happiest moments of my life. After everything it took to get there—the appointments, the injections, the heartbreak and the hope—I was so relieved we’d be getting another miracle, and the chance to expand our family.
But a few weeks later, I started experiencing a subchorionic hematoma. [read more about that experience here.] It scared us. But we saw a heartbeat. And we clung to that little flicker of hope with everything we had. I let myself imagine who this baby might become. I started mentally planning my due date and quietly dreaming about our life with another little one. We saw baby growing normal and healthy at a few more ultrasound appointments, and even had our NIPT bloodwork to rule out any genetic abnormalities, and to find out the gender!
We had our 12-week ultrasound, everything looked great. I was still spotting, but baby was fine and everyone said not to worry.
Then, at 13.5 weeks, everything changed.
I woke up in the middle of the night cramping. At first, I hoped it was just my body stretching or reacting to the SCH. But the cramps got worse, and then I started bleeding. I called the on-call nurse around 5am. Since the OB office wouldn’t open for several more hours, she suggested I go to the ER for an ultrasound. I woke up my husband to tell him I’d be going to the ER alone, and he should stay home with our toddler, bring her to daycare when it opened, and meet me in the ER “if I was still there”. After all, it was probably just another SCH scare.
I never imagined I’d lose my baby in the emergency room.
The cramping intensified. I was scared. Everything was happening so fast, and I was so completely out of control of what my body was doing. And then, there in the ER, I miscarried.
Even though I never got to hold them in my arms, I loved that baby with my whole heart. They were real. They were deeply wanted. And their loss has left a space that I’ll carry with me always.
The moments, days and weeks that followed were a blur. Grief came in waves—sometimes crashing, sometimes still and quiet. I’ve felt sadness, numbness, anger, emptiness, and moments of peace. I’ve learned that all of those emotions can exist at the same time. And I’ve learned that miscarriage isn’t something you “get over.” It’s something you carry. It becomes part of your motherhood story.
I still talk to my baby sometimes. I still think about who they might have been. I still light a candle on hard days. And I’ve been trying to find small ways to honor their memory, to make sure their short time in this world was seen and remembered. I have a ring with their birthstone that I wear every day and will cherish always. I haven’t taken the ultrasounds off the fridge yet, because I like to look at and remember my baby every day.
One of the hardest parts has been suffering in silence. We told friends and family right away with our first pregnancy. They knew we were doing IVF. This time we wanted to enjoy the “secret”. I convinced my husband to wait until we knew the gender and do one big announcement. Our families knew, but we had only told 2 of our friends. I now know why people ignore the rules about waiting. It’s hard to reach out and tell someone “we were pregnant, but then we lost the baby”. I wish we would have told our friends sooner, so they would have known this baby as long as we did.
If you’ve gone through this kind of loss, I want you to know: you’re not alone. Your grief is valid. Your baby mattered. You don’t have to move on quickly or find silver linings right away. It’s okay to just miss them.
This experience has changed me. I’m softer in some ways, more protective in others. I’ve found strength I didn’t know I had—and I’ve also allowed myself to fall apart when I needed to. Both are part of healing.
To the baby I’ll always love: thank you for the time we had. You made me a mother all over again. You will never be forgotten.