Six Losses Later
This is my story of loss and grief, and of everything these experiences have carried with them. I share it with the hope that it brings comfort and connection to those walking a similar path. For a long time, I struggled to find the words for what these experiences meant to me, but I hope that by sharing them now, someone else may feel less alone.
Becoming a mom has always been a dream of mine — a family of three, two years apart if I had anything to say about it. So shortly after I got married — the day after, to be exact — my husband and I were over the moon to see those two pink lines. My first pregnancy went along uneventfully until 32 weeks, when we found out the little stinker was breech and stayed breech… resulting in a C-section birth.
We welcomed our son, on June 24, 2019.
During my C-section, I was told I had a septate uterus — a congenital condition where tissue divides the uterus. It can make getting pregnant more difficult and increase the risk of miscarriage, and in my case, it likely contributed to R being breech. At the time, as a new mom, I didn’t give it much thought. Pregnancy had come easily before, and even with this new information, I hoped it would again. In the meantime, I had a beautiful baby boy to love.
I found out I was pregnant again at the end of October 2020. We were excited, but also deeply relieved. I hadn’t realized how much the diagnosis of a septate uterus had been sitting in the back of my mind, quietly making me wonder if getting pregnant again would be difficult. Even now, I sometimes think about how lucky we were with R’s pregnancy.
We shared our news with our immediate family and a few close friends, and before I knew it, it was time for my 8-week scan.
Looking back, that ultrasound feels like the moment my life split in two — before loss and after loss. Sometimes I try to remember who I was before that day, the version of me who moved through pregnancy with excitement instead of fear.
There I was, my husband beside me at my eight-week ultrasound, when I heard the words that will forever echo in my mind: “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.” Despite weeks of nausea, exhaustion, and every symptom convincing me I was still carrying life, it felt as though my body was playing a cruel joke on me. My baby was gone, and I had no idea. One moment I was full of joy, already mapping out pregnancy milestones; the next, I was being given instructions for what a medically assisted miscarriage would look like
A missed miscarriage—that was the label they gave my loss. I was told they are common, that they happen by chance and are beyond anyone’s control. If that was meant to bring comfort, it didn’t. I was devastated and couldn’t understand why this had happened.
I couldn’t shake the gut feeling that the road to expanding our family was going to be a difficult one. Anyone who knows me knows that patience has never been my strength, and for me, taking action felt easier than sitting with the uncertainty. Not long after, I asked my family doctor for a referral to a fertility clinic. In April 2021, I officially became a fertility patient.
As with any new clinic, there was standard intake paperwork and lab work—routine blood tests meant to see if there was anything obvious from the start. For the most part, our results came back normal. Except for one thing: my egg count. At 27 years old, it was considered lower than average for my age. Was it critically low? No. But all I could hear was you have low eggs, followed by my doctor advising that I complete my family sooner rather than later. It felt like an enormous weight had been placed on me. I was only going to get older. My egg count would only continue to decline. And who knew what the quality of those eggs even was?
I felt panicked. Pressured. Desperate to try anything that might help.
When I first became a fertility patient, I felt confident—almost cocky. I had gotten pregnant on my own twice before; surely, with smart doctors and fancy reproductive technology, this wouldn’t take long.
Oh, to be that f*cking naïve again.
I was started on ovulation medication, hoping it would help things along. The first dose didn’t work and my body didn’t ovulate. Panic set in almost immediately. The dose was increased, and this time my body responded — perfect ovulation. But month after month passed and nothing happened. My anxiety grew, and desperation slowly started to creep in. As I approached the one-year mark since my first loss, I convinced myself I needed to try something new.
That decision will haunt me for the rest of my life. I still don’t know if what happened next was always inevitable, or if that choice somehow set the stage for the pain and grief that have since taken up permanent residence in my heart. I just wanted a baby — why was that so hard? The next step we tried was IUI (intrauterine insemination), and I felt very optimistic that it would work. Unfortunately, a negative blood test and my period showing up quickly dashed that hope.
After recovering from the disappointment that the IUI hadn’t worked, my ovulation window was approaching again and I was ready to try. Hope has a strange way of regenerating after heartbreak. Even after everything, my mind kept moving forward: baby, baby, baby. When you’re tracking ovulation, you rely on test strips that detect a hormone surge signaling ovulation is coming. When the line turns dark, that’s your window.
This time the line was dark instantly — days before my predicted ovulation. I remember staring at it thinking, Why is it dark already? Something about it made me uneasy, but the urgency to try again was louder. I told myself cycles shift, especially when you’re on medication, and maybe this one was simply earlier than expected. So I pushed the worry aside and waited to test again in the morning, hoping the line would still be dark so I could get to the clinic in time.
I woke up around 5:00 a.m. and checked the test again. The line was still dark — YAY. I went back to bed to wait for the fertility clinic to open. But not long after, I started feeling a cramp on one side. It felt strange, though I told myself it might just be ovulation. When I got up to start the morning, the pain suddenly turned sharp. I went to the bathroom and saw blood in the toilet. Instantly my mind went to one terrifying thought: ectopic pregnancy. The pregnancy test was positive. My husband was still asleep when I told him, “I need to go to the emergency room. I’m pregnant and I think it’s ectopic.”
I sat in the Hospital for hours while they confirmed I was pregnant but couldn’t see anything yet. When I heard the word ectopic, I assumed everything would move quickly. Instead, I sat there feeling like I had a ticking bomb in one of my fallopian tubes. Eventually they sent me to a different hospital. That drive felt like the longest one of my life.
Things didn’t move any faster in the city. Blood work again confirmed I was pregnant. A very painful ultrasound showed there might be something in my fallopian tube, but it was too small to confirm. I sat in emergency for hours — starving, scared, and retelling my story to what felt like an endless rotation of doctors. The message was the same: yes, you’re pregnant. Yes, we see something that could be in your fallopian tube. But it could also very well be a cyst. It’s too early to tell.
I couldn’t understand how I was in this situation, I had just had a period. My blood test had been negative. How is this even happening? I didn’t know whether to grieve, panic, or hope. Part of me just wanted a clear answer so I could deal with it and go home — whatever “moving on” was supposed to look like. But if there was even the slightest chance this could be a viable pregnancy, I couldn’t walk away. I needed to be certain. I was told to stay in the city and return in two days for more tests. I felt like I was stuck in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Just that morning I had been hopeful we were heading to the city for my second IUI. Instead, I was terrified something inside me might rupture.
The days that followed were filled with waiting and uncertainty. Each visit brought more questions than answers. Finally, a week later, they confirmed what I had feared: the pregnancy was ectopic. I was given two options — surgery or medication. In the end I chose methotrexate. The injections were painful, and the moment was incredibly heavy, but after weeks of not knowing, there was also a strange sense of relief. At least we finally had an answer. Other than our immediate family, no one really knew what we were going through. I’ve always been someone who cries easily — it’s just part of who I am. But when grief like this hits, the tears aren’t something you can hold back. I quickly learned that tears have a way of making people uncomfortable. Conversations would fade, questions wouldn’t come, and it often felt like the conversation ended before it ever really began. Even when I eventually worked up the courage to bring it up myself, I could feel the discomfort in the room. After a while, it just felt easier to keep it to myself.
Being told we had to wait at least three months before trying again felt like an eternity. When you’re already desperate to move forward, time suddenly moves painfully slow. I felt like the only way forward was to get pregnant again. I couldn’t understand how it had happened twice on its own — no medication, no doctors — and now it had been over a year with another loss as all I had to show for it.
I was hesitant to try again, but I was also desperate to try anything. For some reason I convinced myself IVF would be the answer.
Again — to be that f*cking naïve.
Going through IVF is its own special kind of torture. It’s not as simple as egg plus sperm equals baby. In the weeks leading up to egg retrieval, my life revolved around hormones and daily injections. Every day I had to push a needle into my own stomach. And as someone who used to give people needles for a living, I can tell you — giving yourself a needle is a completely different experience. On top of the injections come the ultrasounds. Many, many ultrasounds with my good old friend Wanda (if you know… you know), measuring and counting follicles, watching to see how many were growing and whether they were big enough. When retrieval day finally comes, they prepare you for the numbers game. The number of eggs they collect is never really the number you get to keep. At every step — maturity, fertilization, development — the number usually drops. On my retrieval day they collected eleven eggs. Seven were mature. And in the end, only three made it to the embryo stage. I had to wait a week to find out that number. The longest week of my life. And three, to me, was not a comforting number. And for the people who like to say “it only takes one,” kindly f off. Because it could also mean none.
I was devastated to find out, first transfer was negative. I couldn’t seem to get pregnant naturally. I couldn’t get pregnant on ovulation medication. IUI had ended in an ectopic pregnancy. And now what felt like the last option — IVF — had also ended with the words NOT PREGNANT. Just like that, I was down to two embryos. Feeling completely drained and numb to the process, I kept going. This time we were preparing for a frozen embryo transfer — something I had been told was often even more successful. But fluid in my lining cancelled the chance for a transfer. I felt like no matter how hard I tried, I kept getting taken out by some invisible fertility sniper. Every time I thought we were finally getting somewhere, something else knocked us back down.More than once I wanted to wave the white flag. I never imagined growing my family would be this hard.
It was now May 2022. My first loss had been in November 2020. I couldn’t wrap my head around how so much time had passed, yet I felt like I was standing in the exact same place. My fertility doctor and I decided to go back to the medication protocol that had worked before, which meant returning to the familiar routine of needles in my stomach. As transfer time got closer, though, the injections “upgraded” to intramuscular — a 25-gauge needle. OUCH. Suddenly the belly shots didn’t seem so bad. What I hadn’t expected was how psychologically hard it would be to push a needle like that into my own thigh. And yes, my husband was more than willing to give the injections. But something about him coming at me with a needle — with absolutely no training — was a hard no for me.
Once again I was in the transfer chair, legs up, coochie on display for God knows how many people. It’s honestly hard to describe the feeling. You’re sitting there completely vulnerable, one of the most private parts of yourself exposed in a room full of strangers — men and women alike — and they’re talking to you like it’s just another ordinary day. Such is life when pursuing a baby.
After a transfer, I waited nine days before it was time for my blood test. Nine very long days. Somehow, I made it through without taking a single home pregnancy test. Mentally I was preparing myself for bad news, while quietly praying for good.
Finally results were in, Beta HCG: 100!!
I was pregnant.
Pregnancy after loss carries a lot of mixed emotions. I was excited, but I had already learned that two pink lines don’t guarantee a baby. With my septate uterus and history of an ectopic pregnancy, I was terrified about where the embryo might have implanted. Having a fertility clinic involved this time helped ease some of that fear. At six weeks I had an ultrasound that confirmed the pregnancy was in the right place, and I got to see the most beautiful little heartbeat.
My first trimester kicked my ass — sickness, insomnia, you name it. Between caring for a toddler and working 12-hour nursing shifts, it felt like an ongoing struggle. But I also felt like I had no right to complain. This was what I had fought so hard for.
During my second trimester, I found out that I had a marginally inserted umbilical cord. Normally, the umbilical cord connects near the middle of the placenta, allowing nutrients and oxygen to flow easily to the baby. In my case, the cord was attached near the edge of the placenta instead. Most of the time this doesn’t cause problems, it just means closer monitoring. But it also comes with increased risks — lower birth weight, fetal growth restriction, and in rare cases, stillbirth. My OB told me they weren’t worried at that point. Growth looked good and everything seemed to be progressing normally. It was just something they wanted to keep an eye on. But that seemed to become the theme of the rest of my pregnancy. Looks normal, BUT could be cause for concern. I was terrified. Between appointments, I had no way of knowing what was happening inside my body. Was the baby still growing? Was everything still okay? The not knowing ate at me.
At my 28-week ultrasound we found out baby was measuring in the 12th percentile for growth. My OB reassured me they weren’t worried. Growth was still considered to be progressing the way it should, baby was just measuring small. That did very little to comfort me. I couldn’t wrap my head around going four weeks without seeing the baby and not knowing if everything was okay. Luckily, I had an OB who truly listened to me and was willing to support whatever monitoring might help ease my mind. That meant that instead of closer ultrasounds in Lloyd, I was now driving to the Maternal Fetal Medicine unit at the Hospital every two weeks, along with weekly non-stress tests at another Hospital.
And even with all of that, the fear never really left. I was terrified my body would become a coffin. That thought haunted me. It sent me rushing more than once to the Hospital because I needed a physician to tell me my baby was still alive and well. My home Doppler, the ultrasounds, the monitoring — none of it seemed to quiet the fear. Baby was breech again, which meant a VBAC was out of the question. I did mourn that a little. I knew now I would never experience labor — never feel the excitement of rushing to the hospital because my water broke, never see how my husband would coach me through it, never experience any of those moments people talk about. But at the end of the day, all I cared about was having a healthy, alive baby. Somehow, I had made it to 38 weeks. After everything — the fear, the monitoring, the constant worry — reaching that point felt like a milestone I wasn’t sure I would ever see.
January 18, 2023, we welcomed our sweet, spicy baby girl, J-M I had made it. She was here, alive and well, weighing 6 pounds 8 ounces. Having a baby after loss comes with complicated, often misunderstood emotions. Yes, I’m happy. Yes, J healed parts of me. But the scars from my losses are not something that will ever fully go away. On one hand, I felt more at peace than I had in three years. On the other, the future was always on my mind. I knew how hard it had been to get J here, and expanding my family was still something I deeply wanted. For a long time, I felt guilty for feeling that way. Why couldn’t I just be happy with what I had? It had taken three years from my first loss to reach this point. Why couldn’t I just “think positive” and be grateful? I didn’t want another baby right away, but that didn’t take away the fear that came with every period. What if I couldn’t get pregnant naturally again? If growing our family was something we wanted in the future, would the road be just as heartbreaking the next time? My emotions constantly pinballed between those fears and trying to stay present, soaking in every moment with my precious rainbow baby.
In December of 2023, when J was ten months old, I was delighted to see two pink lines on a home pregnancy test. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. We had gotten pregnant the old-fashioned way — no drugs, no needles, no doctors, no big build-up. It had just… happened. For the first time in a long time, everything seemed like it was finally falling into place. I had always dreamed of a family of three, and after my two losses and the long road it took to bring J into the world, that dream hadn’t always felt within reach. More than once I referred to that pregnancy as “healing.” My pregnancy seemed to be cruising along. I was passing every test with flying colors. There had been no worry or cause for concern like there was with J. Everything looked perfect.
And then, at 23 weeks, it wasn’t.
I had been at my parents’ place for the weekend, and even though I had heard the heartbeat on my home Doppler that Friday, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I had never felt much movement — just little flutters here and there — but I hadn’t felt anything in a while, and the anxiety started creeping in. The second I got home, I grabbed my Doppler. Nothing. Just my own heartbeat. Trying not to panic, we rushed to the Hospital to be assessed. And there, our worst fears were confirmed. “I’m sorry… there’s no heartbeat. Baby is gone. “There really are no words to describe the pain of that moment. One moment I was talking about how healing this pregnancy felt, and the next it was all ripped away. And there was nothing I could do about it. I was given two options: medication to start the labor process, or a C-section. In that moment all I wanted was to be knocked out and escape some of the pain. But deep down I knew my body didn’t need to go through another surgery, so I chose the medication. I had already come to terms with the fact that I would probably never experience labor, so realizing this was how I would finally experience it felt incredibly cruel. Once the medication was given, it didn’t take long before the contractions took over. They came hard and close together, leaving very little room to breathe. When a doctor eventually came to check on me, I begged for an epidural, but he refused, saying I wasn’t very far along and that he didn’t know how long the labor might last. ARE YOU KIDDING ME.
Thankfully, my own OB happened to be on the unit that day. She saw my name on the board and came straight to my room. One look at me was enough. She turned to the staff and said, “Give her whatever she wants.” The epidural was in and the physical pain faded, but nothing could touch the mental pain. I was living through what was, without question, the worst day of my life. My body had become a coffin. It was supposed to bring life into this world, yet it felt like death always found its way to me instead. Everything seemed to happen very fast. I had been getting checked hourly and was told I wasn’t very dilated and that it would likely take quite a while longer… but they were wrong. Suddenly I felt a strange sensation, like something was pushing through my body. It took two call bells before the nurses came to check on me, and when they did my room quickly filled with people. Voices were calling out directions to each other while I just clung to my husband crying. Roughly five hours after the epidural was given, on April 30, 2024, Iris was born sleeping. I didn’t know right away that the baby was a girl. I didn’t want to know and I didn’t want to see. At my request they took her away almost immediately after she was born. I struggled with that decision afterward, but in that moment I was simply trying to protect myself.
Unfortunately my experience didn’t end there. My body wasn’t cooperating and the placenta wasn’t fully releasing, so off to surgery I went for a D&C. As I was being prepared for surgery, the anesthesiologist came in and cheerfully asked, “So, are we having a boy or girl today?” — a clear sign he hadn’t read my chart. The nurse shot him the dirtiest look and simply held me while I broke down yet again. When I finally got back to my room, there was a sense of relief that the labor was over. But I still had choices ahead of me that no parent should ever have to make. Do I name the baby? Do I want to hold her? I didn’t want to face any of it, but that’s not how life works. The staff — social workers, doctors, and nurses — gently but repeatedly told me that I might regret not meeting her, finding out the gender, naming her, or holding her. Those words cut deep. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want that version of my baby burned into my memory. But hearing over and over that I might regret it made me feel like I was being pushed to do something I knew would break me, when I already felt completely broken.
Eventually, I found the courage to ask my OB what the baby was. I knew either answer would hurt, but hearing she was a girl broke something in me all over again. I had pictured Josie with a baby sister, only nineteen months apart, growing up together. To know that dream had been so close — and then suddenly gone — is a pain I still struggle to put into words. Eventually my husband and I decided we wanted to meet her. For a long time I couldn’t even look at him holding her. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. When I finally held her myself, the weight of it was far more than I had imagined. Looking down at her tiny face, it felt like a piece of me died that day with her. Now, almost two years later, I’m grateful that I know she was a girl and that we gave her a name. But holding her is still something I struggle with. Seeing her at just twenty-three weeks was deeply traumatic. Maybe I would have regretted not holding her someday, but right now that memory still hurts more than anything.
We named her Iris. I had once thought I might call her Billie, but something in me couldn’t use that name. Iris was a name I had always loved, mostly because of what it means — rainbow. It felt like the only name that made sense. The day I was discharged, my OB came in to discuss what they had found and whether there might be any reason for what had happened. Unfortunately, there weren’t any clear answers. Iris was anatomically perfect, the placenta showed nothing concerning, and most of the testing came back normal. The only thing that appeared was something called “Slap Cheek Syndrome,” a virus that is usually harmless but can sometimes affect pregnancy. It may have been the cause, but there was no way to know for sure. I don’t know if having a concrete reason would have made it easier, but the uncertainty — the not knowing why — made it harder to make sense of it all.
Leaving the hospital was one of the hardest walks I’ve ever taken. I had come in worried but still hopeful, and now I was leaving without her. I remember sitting in the car, looking up at the hospital and just bawling. The reality of what had happened was starting to sink in. All I could think about was how I was going to tell R and J that the baby in mommy’s tummy had died. R was four, and J was only one. My mom had already helped by telling my sisters, but the thought of explaining it to my own children felt almost impossible. I knew they wouldn’t fully understand, and they didn’t need to. But once again I felt like R was being given a version of his mother who was drowning in grief, a version that couldn’t always be the parent he deserved. And now J would experience that version of me too. I’ve always had to parent through my losses, and no one needs to tell me to be grateful for my two living children — though many people have and still do.
The truth is parenting after loss is fucking hard. Yes, they kept me going. They pulled me out of some very dark days and gave me moments of joy when it felt like none existed. But I felt I couldn’t always grieve the way I needed to. Most days I just craved a little time alone — even for a moment — to not be “mom,” to put my own needs first, to sit in my grief without feeling guilty and allow myself to simply be numb.
Will was my rock through it all. He was able to take four months off work, and during that time he carried so much of the weight when I simply couldn’t. He held me through countless moments when I broke down and quietly took care of everything that needed to be done. The house stayed clean, the kids were looked after, meals were made — life somehow kept moving forward even when I felt completely stuck.
Looking back, I feel a lot of guilt about that. He was grieving too, but when I fell apart, he stayed strong. He never made me feel like I was asking too much of him. He just stepped in and held our family together when I couldn’t. One thing I wasn’t prepared for was how quiet the world became afterward. When a baby dies, people often don’t know what to say, and sometimes that means they say nothing at all. The messages about Iris never really came, and life around us seemed to continue as if nothing had happened. There were no meals showing up at the door, no steady stream of texts asking how we were doing or checking in. I know many people were likely trying to respect our privacy, but I never imagined that would mean hearing nothing at all. If I’m being honest, the silence hurt, and it still does. Some days it even makes me angry. My first two losses were something very few people knew about, so I never expected much response then. But with Iris, even if people didn’t know her name, they knew we had suffered a devastating loss. I never expected grand gestures, but the quiet that followed was harder than I ever imagined.
The months that followed were a blur of grief, survival, and trying to find some sense of normal again. Eventually I reached out to my fertility clinic to begin baseline testing, just to understand where things stood. During that process they discovered a uterine polyp that would need to be removed before we could move forward with anything else. The earliest appointment just to meet with a surgeon wasn’t until September, which meant even more waiting. After everything we had already been through, the thought of more waiting felt unbearable. Somehow, though, I managed to find a surgeon willing to remove it sooner — August 13th. For once, it felt like something had finally gone my way.
August 13th was also the day Iris had been scheduled to be born by C-section. Instead of welcoming her into the world, I found myself back in an operating room for a completely different reason, having the polyp removed. At the time, I remember feeling strangely grateful that at least something had worked out in our favor. Looking back now, that moment feels more complicated. Grief has a way of making you question every step that came before what happened next. My surgeon told me we could start trying again right away after the polyp was removed. Hearing that gave me a small sense of hope. The fertility clinic wasn’t planning to begin preparing me for another embryo transfer until October, so in my mind we could at least try naturally in September and see what happened. Unfortunately, history decided to repeat itself. My period came, not pregnant. But once again a couple weeks later, I felt one-sided cramping, and was spotting read. A trip to the emergency confirmed I was pregnant, after monitoring blood work was confirmed another ectopic. Even my losses couldn’t seem to be simple. I given another injection, followed by weekly trips to the lab to monitor. I was exhausted.
That experience brings up a lot of guilt for me. Once again, I found myself wondering if my impatience played a role, if I should have just waited for the fertility clinic. I know logically it isn’t fair to blame myself, but that thought still creeps in sometimes. After losing Iris, I truly believed the worst thing that could ever happen to me had already happened. I told myself that surely life wouldn’t ask me to carry any more loss after that. I thought the unimaginable had already happened, and that somehow, we had already endured the hardest part. But life doesn’t make those kinds of promises, and I would learn that the hard way. Facing another loss so soon after Iris made the future feel incredibly hopeless.
In many ways, it felt like before I had even begun to process the grief of losing Iris, I was suddenly thrown into another fresh loss I didn’t see coming. Once again, I didn’t even know I was pregnant, was just hoping maybe next month would be our month. Instead, it felt like I had been drop-kicked into the deep end and was somehow expected to figure out how to stay afloat. After losing Iris, I realized that people knowing didn’t necessarily make things easier, and I still didn’t really know how to talk about it. I was often afraid of how people would respond — or if they would respond at all. There had been moments where I shared parts of my story and all I received was a quick “I’m sorry” before the conversation shifted to something happening in their own life. Moments like that made me question myself — like maybe I was sharing too much or grieving in a way that made people uncomfortable. After a while, I stopped trying to.
We eventually started the frozen embryo protocol again, which meant more medication and more self-injections. Coming back to that process felt very different this time. Instead of hope or anticipation, I mostly felt numb. Part of me even questioned why I was putting myself through it again. The only answer I could come up with was that I still wanted a baby, and I still had one embryo left. That felt like reason enough to try. The embryo transfer happened in March. This time I couldn’t bring myself to wait for the blood test and took several home pregnancy tests instead. They were all negative, which made me feel defeated even before the official results came back. When the blood work came back, my beta HCG was 13. In the fertility world, at that point they usually hope to see a number closer to 100 or higher. Right away I had a sinking feeling, still clung to hope that I was going to be the one that had a low beta and against all odds would get my happy ending. It didn’t work out that way.
After weeks of hoping and watching my HCG slowly climb, it ended in another miscarriage. I was so angry. Why be positive at all? Why couldn’t it have just been negative from the start instead of putting me through weeks of uncertainty and hope? It felt incredibly unfair. More than once I found myself questioning not just whether this was something I wanted, but whether mentally and physically it was something I should continue to pursue. Part of me resisted the idea of stopping, but I couldn’t deny the toll it was taking.
A few months later, I found out I was pregnant again, naturally this time. That excitement only lasted one day. The next day I was bucked off a horse. Nothing was broken, but the pain was intense, and because I was pregnant the options for pain medication were very limited. All I wanted was a few moments of not knowing anything other than that I was pregnant again. I already knew too much. I just wanted to enjoy the moment before being faced with numbers, blood work, and appointments. The riding accident took that away. Instead, I learned once again that my HCG was low, and the small hope I had was quickly shaken.
An early scan confirmed there was a pregnancy, but no heartbeat could be seen yet. I knew that wasn’t unusual that early, and the doctors were mainly focused on confirming the location. Still, I quietly began preparing myself for bad news. Two weeks later it was confirmed — the pregnancy was not viable. They gave me medication to try to start the process, but lab work soon suggested it hadn’t worked. An ultrasound confirmed there was still tissue remaining. What followed became an exhausting cycle — medication, followed by another ultrasound showing the same result.
After the second round of medication failed, I decided to move forward with a D&C. By then it was already August, and because of how the medical system works, the earliest available surgery date wasn’t until September. My fertility clinic recommended an OB surgeon, and I chose to wait for her because of her expertise. In the end, I’m incredibly thankful that I did.
Going through a miscarriage for nearly two months took a tremendous toll on me. The pain, the cramping, and the constant bleeding were daily reminders of the loss. In the year and a bit since losing Iris, I had now lost three more babies, and the weight of that reality was almost too much to process. By the time September arrived and my surgery date was finally scheduled, I was more than ready for it to be over. In my mind, it had become the miscarriage from hell — the longest miscarriage imaginable.
This next part is still incredibly hard for me to process. What was supposed to be a routine fifteen-minute D&C somehow turned into an emergency surgery and a five-day stay at the Misericordia Hospital. Despite countless ultrasounds, no one knew that the embryo had implanted in a defect along my previous C-section scar. When the procedure began it caused a massive hemorrhage. Before they put me under anesthesia, the surgeon asked me a question I will never forget: if it became necessary to save my life, did they have permission to perform a hysterectomy. I had walked into the hospital expecting a routine surgery. Instead I was suddenly being asked to consider losing my uterus — the one thing that still gave me hope of growing my family. Someone told me to focus on the people who needed me instead of what I might lose. I understand what they meant. But everything was happening so quickly that I couldn’t process it. I couldn’t comprehend how a fifteen-minute surgery had suddenly turned into this.
Waking up in the recovery room was terrifying. I had gone into surgery with one IV, but when I woke up there were now two additional IV access sites in my arms. I also had two Foley catheters — one connected to a bag and one not — and two incisions on my abdomen. My throat was raw from being intubated, and I had no idea what had happened while I was under. Eventually I was told they had been able to save my uterus. To stop the bleeding, they had inserted a balloon to apply pressure to the area. At that point they still didn’t know exactly what had caused the hemorrhage. All I could hold onto in that moment was the fact that my uterus was still intact.
All I wanted in that moment was my husband I wished more than anything that family were allowed in the recovery room so I could tell him I was okay and have him hold me. Instead, I had to wait more than an hour before I could see him. What I didn’t realize at the time was that he had no idea what had happened. The staff hadn’t told him anything and looking back now I can only imagine the fear he must have felt while he waited. When I was finally able to see him, it was only for a few minutes before I was taken away again for an MRI. The doctors needed to understand why I had hemorrhaged so they could decide what to do next.
MRIs are the absolute worst, but this one finally gave us an answer. The embryo had implanted in a defect along my previous C-section scar — something known as an isthmocele pregnancy. When the D&C was performed, the tissue attached to that scar area triggered the hemorrhage. Apparently, it’s a rare type of miscarriage, lucky me. I was also given another methotrexate injection in hopes that it would stop any remaining pregnancy tissue from continuing to grow. The next few days were their own kind of hell. I lived in constant fear that the balloon wouldn’t hold and that I would start hemorrhaging again. Every day felt like I was holding my breath. If I coughed the wrong way, moved the wrong way, or even breathed the wrong way, I was convinced it could cause the bleeding to start all over again. Walking out of those hospital doors felt surreal. Just days earlier I had gone in expecting a simple fifteen-minute day surgery procedure. Instead, I had experienced a massive hemorrhage and spent five days in the hospital recovering.
When I was discharged, the instructions sounded routine — light duties, take it easy — the same advice someone might receive after a straightforward D&C. But nothing about the last five days had felt routine. Everything had escalated so quickly, and then just as quickly I was expected to go home and resume life while still trying to process what had happened.
Once I was home, I kept replaying everything that had happened repeatedly in my mind. What started as another pregnancy had turned into months of bleeding, fear, and ultimately surgery. By that point I had endured more loss than I ever thought possible, and I found myself wondering once again how much more my body — and my heart — could handle. There were moments when I wondered how much more my heart and body could take. Loss after loss has a way of slowly wearing you down, changing how you see the world and how you see yourself. What once felt like a simple dream of growing our family had turned into a journey filled with grief, fear, and uncertainty I never expected to carry.
With every loss, I felt pieces of myself change. My hopes shifted. My outlook shifted. Even parts of my personality felt different. It was a quiet transformation that people around me didn’t always understand — but parts of the person I once was simply gone, and other parts will never be the same.
Even now, I’m still learning how to carry all of it. Grief doesn’t disappear, and it doesn’t neatly fit into the past. It changes you, and in many ways, it becomes a part of who you are. My story is not the one I imagined for myself, but it is the one I now live with — a story of love, loss, and learning how to keep moving forward even when parts of your heart will always remain behind.
I’m sharing my story now because loss is something so many people carry quietly. For a long time, I struggled to find the words for what I had been through, and at times it felt like the world struggled to acknowledge it too. Pregnancy loss, infertility, and grief are often hidden behind closed doors, leaving people to navigate some of the hardest experiences of their lives feeling isolated and misunderstood. It has taken me a long time to put words to what this journey has meant to me, and even now it isn’t easy to say out loud. These experiences changed me in ways I never expected. The babies I lost will always be part of my story and part of who I am. Sharing their stories now feels like a way to acknowledge that they mattered, that their brief lives had meaning, and that the grief that followed them is real.
I also hope that by telling my story, it might help others understand how to support someone going through loss. When someone you care about is grieving a pregnancy or infant loss, you don’t need to have the perfect words. Often the most meaningful support comes from simply showing up — acknowledging their loss, listening without trying to fix the pain, and letting them know their baby and their grief matter. Silence can sometimes feel like the hardest part for those walking through loss. A simple message, a check-in weeks or months later, or just sitting with someone in their sadness can mean more than you might realize.
If sharing my story helps even one person feel less alone in their grief or helps someone understand how to better support a loved one walking through loss, then telling it is worth it. And if you are walking a similar road, please know you are not alone. While I may not always have the perfect words, my heart is open to those who may need someone who understands.
We thank this anonymous mother for reaching out and asking to be a guest blogger to share her stories so that others can feel seen. It is not easy to offer parts of ourselves. We know that so many of you will resonate with her words and her experience. It is through the sharing of stories that we feel truly held.
Survivors who reach out to share are placed as anonymous and the names of their partners and babies not shared. As a team, we decided this was what we felt was part of trauma-informed care, to ensure that the survivor felt a sense of safety and less vulnerability. If you reach out to share, please know that we practice this for each survivor.
“Maybe This will be My Year: Navigating a New Year with Pregnancy Loss and Fertility Struggles.”
Every January, the phrase returns: This will be my year.
For many, it sounds hopeful. For those carrying infertility, pregnancy loss, or birth trauma, it often lands differently, as pressure instead of possibility.
Trauma changes how the body relates to time and the future. After reproductive or perinatal trauma, the nervous system isn’t oriented toward “what’s next,” it’s oriented toward what’s safe. So when someone says, “this will be my year,” a traumatized body may hear: Don’t fail again. Don’t hope too hard. Fix what happened. Hurry up. Can you feel the weight of all of that just reading it, never mind if we were actually carrying it.
Instead of excitement, the body often responds with vigilance, tightening, and quiet grief. It can feel the expectations and pressures placed on it and goes on guard to protect you.
One impact of trauma is a foreshortened sense of the future; what this means is that imagining ahead can feel emotionally risky after plans and expectations have already been shattered. This isn’t pessimism; it’s protection. Trauma doesn’t erase hope; it changes its posture. It teaches hope to move more carefully. And as we know, hope after pregnancy loss and fertility struggles can feel almost impossible or slightly out of reach.
The problem with declaring a year is that bodies don’t heal on timelines. Pregnancies don’t obey affirmations. And trauma doesn’t reset on January 1st. If only it were that easy. When the year is framed as something you must conquer, people often internalize failure when life stays complicated.
You don’t need a better year. You need a safer one. And I get why we feel the need to rush into the joyful moments, to finally get there, and after years of working in the field, and personal experience, I know that safety is the foundation that gets us there. We need time and permission to grieve, to sit with the pain that comes with every time we hoped and our hearts did not get what they ache for.
Healing after reproductive and perinatal trauma is less about transformation and more about stabilization. That looks like building regulation, agency, and capacity before expectation. Instead of asking, " Will this be my year, a trauma-informed question sounds more like, “What would help my body feel safer this year?”
Sometimes that looks like quieter intentions:
Rest without apology.
Say no to triggering spaces.
Let grief coexist with forward movement.
Take small, honest steps instead of perfect ones.
Sometimes adjusting our language really does help, so if “This will be my year” feels too sharp, try something gentler:
This will be a year of listening to my body.
This will be a year of building safety, not pressure.
This will be a year where healing doesn’t have to perform.
And if you’re not ready to name the year at all, that’s okay too. You don’t have to be hopeful to be moving forward. Sometimes the bravest orientation after trauma is simply, I’m still here, and I’m allowed to move slowly.
Not a perfect year.
Not a productive year.
But a more self-compassionate one.
Written by: Dr. Teela Tomassetti (PSYD)- Teela offers support across Canada and specializes in birth trauma, pregnancy loss and fertility struggles
What Every Parent Needs to Know after Pregnancy and Infant Loss
What Every Parent Needs to Know after Pregnancy and Infant Loss
Pregnancy and infant loss is one of the most devastating experiences a parent can endure. It’s a loss that is often invisible to the outside world, yet it reshapes everything inside of you. Whether it happens early in pregnancy or after birth, the grief that follows is real, valid, and life-altering. If you’re walking through this right now, or supporting someone who is, here are some things every parent navigating this should know.
Your grief is real, and it matters.
It doesn’t matter how far along you were or how others perceive your loss. Love begins the moment you imagine your baby, and so does grief when that life is gone. Many parents minimize their pain or compare themselves to others, because they didn’t get to hold their baby or because “it wasn’t as far along.” None of that changes the depth of your loss.
There is no timeline for healing.
Some days, you may feel like you can breathe again, and on other days, it may feel like the loss just happened. Grief isn’t linear, and society often offers misconceptions about it, as well as expectations on how someone should be “over it” by a specific time. Grief doesn’t work that way, it comes in waves. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting; it means learning to carry your loss alongside life, moving forward. Give yourself permission to take the time you need, not the time others expect.
Your body may carry reminders.
Pregnancy and infant loss isn’t only emotional, it’s physical. Hormonal changes, postpartum symptoms, milk production, and medical procedures can all amplify the pain. Be gentle with yourself. Your body is not failing you, it has carried love, and now it is navigating an ending it was never supposed to endure.The traumatic aspect of the experience is also taking a toll on your body impacting areas of the brain that are really important for our functioning each day are either on high alert now due to the loss or shutting down.
You are not alone, even if it feels like it.
One in four pregnancies ends in loss, yet many parents feel silenced by stigma and isolation. Sharing your story, hen you are ready and with safe people, can connect you to others who understand. Support groups, online communities, or even one trusted friend can remind you that your grief does not have to be carried alone.
Relationships may change.
Grief affects everyone differently, and that can be really difficult to understand when we are in the thick of it. You and your partner may grieve in opposite ways, one needing to talk, the other needing silence. Friends or family may not know what to say. Some may avoid you out of discomfort. This can feel like a second loss, or what we call in psychology, secondary losses. Surround yourself with people who can hold space for your grief without judgment or pressure.
It’s okay to hold both love and pain.
The constant push and pull of opposing emotions is exhausting. You may feel joy when you see a friend’s baby and devastation in the same breath. You may smile one moment and sob the next. This duality is part of grieving a child and is complex. Love for your baby will always live alongside the ache of their absence. Both are true, and both are allowed to take up space.
Remembering your baby is healing.
Naming your baby, creating rituals, keeping mementos, writing letters, planting a tree, all of these acts of remembrance are not signs of being “stuck.” They are sacred ways of honouring your child’s existence and keeping their memory alive in your family story. Inviting others into that experience can also be helpful.
Professional support can help.
Loss at this level shakes your nervous system, your identity, and your sense of safety. Therapy, support groups, and trauma-informed care can help you navigate not only the grief but also the anxiety, guilt, or depression that may follow. Reaching for help is not a weakness; it is part of how you survive this.
It’s okay if Hope feels Fragile.
In the depths of loss, hope may feel impossible. Many around you may have the expectation of you to move on, or to express gratitude or hope. You don’t have to. You are allowed to approach hope with caution; you are allowed to feel like it is an emotion that feels far away. The more we create space to understand hope’s fragility, the more likely we are to experience it truly again.
One more thought…
Your baby mattered. Your grief matters. And you deserve support as you navigate this heartbreaking path.
If you’re reading this in the rawness of fresh loss, know this: you are not broken. You are a parent, forever connected to the baby you love. And though this journey is unbearably heavy, you do not have to walk it alone.
Written by: Dr. Teela Tomassetti (PsyD)- Registered Provisional Psychologist, Perinatal Researcher and the Founder of RPTC. Teela is passionate about supporting birth trauma survivors and loss parents, as well as those struggling with fertility. Stay tuned for groups and workshops being offered by her in these areas. You can find her @theteaonbirthtrauma.