It’s as if loss has become an all too familiar visitor. Just two weeks ago, I experienced a miscarriage, a heart-wrenching event that came after the loss of my 15-month-old daughter, Lily, just sixteen months earlier. Life will continue; we will keep loving, living, and even finding moments of joy—but it feels like we’ve endured enough. And truly, we have.
When my partner and I decided to welcome a third child, the possibility of miscarriage wasn’t even on my radar. Maybe it should have been, considering I’m 36, but at that moment, my focus was on hope. I envisioned a future filled with laughter and love, and soon enough, I discovered I was pregnant.
On that day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I radiated happiness, and my husband noticed too. I felt like the luckiest woman alive, fully aware of life’s delicate nature and its uncertainties. I imagined Lily in heaven, carefully selecting her sibling to send us, feeling like I had been blessed with a gift.
Then the bleeding began and didn’t cease. Miscarriage remains a silent struggle, despite the increasing openness about it. The physical pain took me by surprise. I had spent so much time contemplating the emotional toll, yet I hadn’t anticipated the raw physical suffering that accompanied it.
The physical discomfort was not only intense and chaotic but also seemed almost insulting amidst the emotional anguish I was already facing. Just imagine it: emotionally shattered while physically losing your child—struggling to maintain composure while picking up your toddler from daycare, or passing clots as you push a swing at the playground, rushing out of a store without the groceries you need because standing upright has become unbearable.
The emotional pain alone would have been overwhelming. It is all-consuming, draining the very breath from your lungs and filling your heart with sorrow. Once I realized I was miscarrying, I found myself coping by envisioning Lily in heaven, passionately confronting God—pleading on behalf of her parents. The thought of our spirited daughter arguing for us, demanding answers, brought me some solace.
Eventually, I began to reflect on all the mothers out there who felt like I did—ecstatic about their pregnancies, eagerly anticipating morning sickness and the fatigue that would follow, daydreaming about their children growing within. In that moment, I pondered, “What if God had to send a baby that wouldn’t make it, one that would bring hope only to be followed by heartache?”
My thoughts turned to Lily. What if she had volunteered to ensure another mother’s dreams came true first? What if she believed in our strength and love, asking God to send this baby to us? The tears flowed freely as I embraced the pride I felt in having a daughter in heaven who believed in us.
For now, the pain has been enough. Importantly, these two children—my hopes and my love—have been enough, and I hold a deep hope that love will carry us through whatever lies ahead.
If you’re navigating similar experiences, I encourage you to check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, for more information on privacy policies, take a look at our related blog post. And if you’re interested in self insemination resources, consider exploring this authority on the topic.
In summary, experiencing a miscarriage after losing a child is a deeply painful journey that brings both physical and emotional challenges. However, through love and hope, many find a way to cope and honor the memories of their lost children.