As I sat in the clinic, the heavy silence enveloped me, and I could see the focused expressions on my partner, Tom, and the technician. They were searching for a heartbeat that had brought us so much hope just weeks ago. But deep down, a knowing feeling settled in; I was bracing myself for the realization that this time would be different, and I would emerge from it changed forever.
This wasn’t new territory for us.
Five little souls had slipped away. While the familiarity of this heartache didn’t make it any easier, it did give me a certain strength when faced with the news once more. This time, however, there were no tears—just a list of things to do: arranging another hospital visit, organizing care for my daughter, informing family members, and requesting time off work.
Yet amidst all these responsibilities, I began to lose sight of myself. I thought I would follow the same pattern as before: rest, grieve, lean on my friends and family, and eventually heal. But it didn’t unfold that way.
I came to a startling realization—I was a stranger to my former self. This time, my confidence had taken a hit in every corner of my life. Over the past several months, I’ve hidden behind food, plastered on fake smiles, lied about my well-being, and sought solace in drink.
The old version of me still exists, tucked away, surfacing only when my daughter is near. She deserves the best of me, after all. But my inner voice constantly questions my worth. How could I be enough when I seem to fail at the most fundamental aspect of life?
Once, I felt secure in my role as a mother, wife, and friend. I was proud to strive for those titles, but now, just trying feels insufficient. Regrets from the past haunt me: missed opportunities, decisions made, and moments when I may have hurt others. Self-criticism has become my unwanted pastime, leaving me drained. At night, I find my mind spinning with repetitive thoughts, desperately trying to escape from the burdens that weigh heavily on me throughout the day.
I wear a smile and push through, as it feels like my only option. Each day, I rise and continue to fight because, what else can I do? Sometimes I take a step forward, only to stumble back. Well-meaning friends often say things that pierce my already tender heart. They suggest looking to the future, but my future is intertwined with my past. I need to grieve what has been lost before I can truly move on.
I have to reconcile my past to embrace the present and find hope for the future. Dates of due dates, scan appointments, and birthdays that never were linger in my thoughts, along with loss dates and moments of disappointment. Social media feels like a flood of reminders, as friends announce their joyful news. To cope, I’ve distanced myself from others, whispering agreement to invitations I know I won’t have the strength to accept. I hear about newborns entering chaotic lives, which only deepens my sense of loss.
My plans have shifted, and closing my business feels like the only option. My daughter forms bonds with other children, and I find myself boxing away baby clothes, donating maternity wear, and rethinking our family’s future in a home that feels too large now.
There’s no “getting over it”; it’s about learning to co-exist with this pain, and that’s a daunting path. I recognize that this rawness won’t last forever, but for now, it’s my truth.
I’m slowly rediscovering my path. I’m fortunate to have friends who refuse to let me isolate myself. Tom and our daughter provide a solid support system, and I have a job I genuinely enjoy, along with family who are committed to making life a little easier for us. We are blessed in many ways.
I am gradually finding my way back.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the journey of coping with repeated pregnancy loss, highlighting the emotional toll it takes on identity and self-worth. It emphasizes the importance of support from loved ones and the need to grieve in order to heal. Through resilience and connection, the author is gradually finding her way back to herself.