Some people have described pregnancy after loss as holding your breath for 9 months. To me, holding your breath means you have some kind of control. I feel like it’s better described as gasping for air but not being able to fill your lungs.

My last pregnancy followed a soul-crushing time in which I lived through 6 miscarriages back-to-back, one with complications that traumatized me to the point that I’ll simply never be the same. Through that time, I had so many blood tests that my phlebotomist knew me personally. I had multiple procedures, including a uterine surgery that resected a septum thought to have caused my issue. But even after surgery, I had my sixth loss. I felt so defeated. I had a wonderfully compassionate doctor who had done everything she could possibly do in my situation, and I still couldn’t keep my baby. And I couldn’t stomach the thought of going through any more heartache.

But after finding a beautiful support group of women struggling with similar feelings, I decided to keep going. My desire to have another living child outweighed my exhaustion. And in a few months, that second line appeared… again.

How can so many conflicting emotions exist at one time?

I think for the first 5 minutes of that line appearing, I felt excited. But then I quickly dug a deep hole in the sand and buried my head in it. I didn’t want to call my doctor; I didn’t want to tell my family; I didn’t want to acknowledge what might finally destroy me if I lost this one too. I was paralyzed.

But this is when finding the right support group is so crucial. Because I chatted with my new friends every day. And while they couldn’t do anything about my crippling anxiety, they were there. They were my cheerleaders, giving me a sounding board to process everything, sitting in my feelings with me, and offering advice when I asked for it. No one ever really knows what to say. But showing up and checking in matters.

Given my history, I was a high-risk patient. Not only was I at an increased risk of miscarriage in the first and second trimester, but I was at an increased risk of my own health complications, including uterine rupture. I had more appointments and ultrasounds than most pregnant women. And while many women feel excited seeing their baby on the ultrasound screen, I found it triggering. Every appointment, I prepared myself to hear the same cruel words, “There is no heartbeat.” But this pregnancy continued.

I thought when I saw my beta blood tests come back great, I’d feel better. I didn’t. I thought maybe after my first viability scan at 6 weeks, I’d calm down. Nope. Surely when I made it out of the first trimester, I’d feel safer. I was waiting for a time when I felt comfortable and confident enough to share with family and friends that my daughter was growing well. But even after the 20-week anatomy scan, after the week of viability, after I entered the third trimester and officially became full-term, I never felt the joy you’re supposed to feel.

My entire pregnancy was me expecting to see blood when I went to the bathroom. It was not knowing how to respond to people when they asked how many children I have. It was wearing baggy clothes because not only was I acutely aware of how triggering my bump would be to other women struggling with infertility and loss, I realized that it was triggering for me too – my own bump. Every milestone I made with my daughter was a reminder of the milestones I didn’t get to have with my other babies. It’s hard to describe the guilt of that. My daughter is so loved and wanted, but she could not have existed if my other babies hadn’t died. And I often struggle with mourning them and celebrating her at the same time. And that’s when I realized the feeling that was most overwhelming during this pregnancy was grief.

There is no healthy pregnancy or baby that will ever be able to fully heal a miscarriage. I’m coming to terms with that, and I’ve grown exponentially through processing everything that has happened. I’ve become great at setting boundaries with people and topics, I’ve become more compassionate with those within the loss and infertility community, and I’ve accepted that I’ll never get my innocence back.

Was it worth it to bring my daughter into this world? Absolutely yes.
Am I still broken having done so? Also yes, but I’m working on it.