I was nearly 12 weeks along when I experienced the loss of our unexpected third child at work, just before rushing off to the nursery to pick up my other two kids. As I neared the nursery, I felt a strange mix of energy and pride, akin to the joy I had felt after giving birth to my daughters. Just like that, it was over.
That morning, a scan had shown a blighted ovum, which had failed to develop past 7 weeks. I wasn’t shocked or particularly sad. I could recall the exact day my symptoms disappeared, and this unplanned addition was coming too soon after our youngest, who was just a year old. We hadn’t decided on a third child yet, I was still breastfeeding, and I yearned to reclaim my body. Plus, I had just returned to work part-time, and the timing felt all wrong.
I quickly texted the few friends in the know, dismissing their concerns. “It wasn’t even a baby,” I reassured them. “I have two healthy girls, and this wasn’t planned.” I kept telling myself that mantra.
I felt as if I had escaped a bullet. I thought about the new jeans I could now buy and the summer vacation we could plan. Most importantly, I felt fortunate to retain my newly negotiated job. I considered myself lucky, lucky me.
However, the emotional aftermath caught me off guard. Two days later, I found myself inexplicably low and felt abandoned by those who assumed I was doing fine because I had said so. Maintaining my composure at work only added to my distress. I wanted to cry, but feared that once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. “I’ll cry tomorrow,” I reassured myself.
All the silver linings I had clung to vanished, leaving behind dark clouds of sorrow. For the first time in my life, I felt utterly indifferent. Not even the jeans I had wanted seemed to matter. Every time I looked at my family, I sensed an absence. Despite my insistence that it wasn’t a real baby, I felt the loss profoundly. As soon as we learn we’re pregnant, we begin to imagine that future life, even if we think we aren’t.
Would it be another girl, or would we finally have a boy? How would our youngest cope, still a baby herself? More crucially, how would I manage? Yet, deep down, we know we will, and despite our worries, hope fills our hearts.
In my otherwise routine life, I realized I was excited about breaking societal norms with that third child, often regarded as a gamble or a luxury. This child was a blessing, teaching me that the little things don’t matter—if two out of three have brushed their teeth, it’s a win.
But miscarriage robbed me of that gift. The calendar stretched out before me, filled with empty milestones I tried to ignore. The future felt uncertain. I didn’t have the assurance that we would try again; that felt too risky. I decided it was better to wait and hope for another blessing.
I never spoke about my miscarriage because I didn’t know how. What words could possibly provide comfort? A generic letter from the health visitor, with the line “please accept our condolences,” was what made me realize I had the right to grieve. I held onto that letter for months; it was the only tangible reminder of my pregnancy.
“It will take time to heal,” I was told, and gradually, I began to feel more like myself. I found the strength to confide in my boss, shared my passion for writing, published a book on Amazon, and started a blog. Suddenly, my miscarriage began to make sense—or perhaps I just needed it to.
However, the question of that third child lingered. It wasn’t until we decided to take control of our future that I truly began to heal.
Two years later, we welcomed our third child, and the hormone balance was restored with a boy. Some days, we handle everything well; other days, it’s a struggle. But there are twice as many hopes as worries—and I was right about that.
My miscarriage no longer haunts me, but I wish I had known how to process it better. I wish I had grieved. I wish someone had told me just how crucial it is to mourn, because a miscarriage doesn’t just end. It remains a part of you, and it should be acknowledged.
You absolutely have every right to grieve.
For those navigating similar experiences, we encourage you to explore more about this topic in our other blog posts, such as this one. If you’re looking for resources on artificial insemination, Make-A-Mom has great tools and kits available. Additionally, for insights on IVF and fertility preservation, check out this Cleveland Clinic podcast.
Summary
Grieving a miscarriage is a deeply personal journey that many women face, often in silence. It’s essential to acknowledge that loss and give oneself permission to mourn. While the pain may feel overwhelming, healing is possible through self-expression, support, and the hope of future possibilities.