Tag Archives: grief

Our Story

A letter to my baby

December 27, 2025

Hey buddy,

Somehow, six years is starting to feel like a lifetime away.

I think of all the versions of myself that have come and gone since then, but nothing is the same as the person that woke up on December 27, 2019.

You were my hope. I saw so much in those 11 weeks we were together (6 that I knew about); our future was set. I was so ready to be your mom. But the week leading up to that day, I also saw it all slipping away. It was like a nightmare in slow motion. I tried to shake myself awake so many times, convince myself that it was just my anxiety talking. But in think deep in my heart I knew I wouldn’t hold you. And I never will.

I wish I could hold that version of myself. I wish I could go back and observe how I walked through that day – how I called out for your Mima (my mom, your sisters gave her that name. I wonder if you would have started the trend…) because your dad had just stepped out. How the moment I saw the red I knew it was over. How I called my OB’s office to be met nonchalance, no chance to save you. How your dad came home and took over for Mima. How he held me as I changed clothes and fell into him crying out how I couldn’t do this.

I was right and wrong. I lived it. I survived it. The week after was a lesson in advocacy for myself, my health, and most importantly, my family. That week of losing you slowly and painfully made me into the mom I am today, the one I got to be for your sisters. The one I still hope I am for you.

But I was right when I said I couldn’t lose you. I never will.

A couple of weeks before your sister was born, I had a dream that she was fused to my bones. I woke up knowing that this was the hold you and your siblings would have on me. You are so much a part of me and my every day, you’re just far away. It is so strange to miss someone who was once fused to you. I am quite literally missing a part of me, and I haven’t been the same since you left.

You were so small when we lost you, but your impact has been far greater than I could have imagined. Mommy loves telling stories, and while it’s hard, yours is my favorite to tell because it proves you were here. A lot of people know about you, isn’t that cool? And you help people go through tough times, because their families know they’re not alone. You are doing so much good in a world you spent a small amount of time in. I’m so proud to be your mom and I will never stop talking about you.

I love you, sweet boy. Say hi to your great-grandparents for me and tell them I said thanks for taking care of you.

Love you always and forever,

Mommy

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Miscarriage

Ashton’s Story

Gabriel

Hello Mamas!  My name is Ashton Koehlmoos and I’m the Mama to my angel son Gabriel and 3 earthy sons – Oliver, Mason, & Lincoln. 

Our story begins actually before my first was born as my husband and we navigated infertility. We didn’t know of his infertility until I had my first endometriosis removal and diagnostic surgery through PPVI. It was then we discovered that I wasn’t ovulating and my husband had a sperm count of five (low is considered 15 million). To say we were devastated was an understatement.

We continued to work through NaPro Technology to heal both of us. We underwent 3 surgeries between the two of us and I was now ovulating on my own with lots of other improvements and my husband increased his sperm count to 1.5 million. After 4 years of working with NaPro, it was evident that we would never conceive naturally with my husband’s sperm count. Infertility was beginning to affect our marriage so we chose to do 1 round of IVF as we has such a strong calling to pursue biological children. IVF was very successful for us and finally after 5 years, we brought our first child home.

Shortly after Oliver turned 1, we transferred who is now known as Gabriel (we don’t know the genders of our embryos). We actually transferred him secretly as we always hated how infertility robbed us of the opportunity to surprise our parents with a pregnancy. We found out we were pregnant right around December 2020. Shocked and so excited, we FINALLY felt our longest, darkest days were behind us as it seemed we only needed help with conception.

On December 21st, we got the great news that the pregnancy was viable at our 7 week appointment and surprised our families at Christmas time.

We moved to our current location in NW Iowa from SW Iowa. My husband and I both grew up here and wanted to be closer to family. So we changed providers. Everything was going as it should and Gabriel was always growing 3 days ahead of his due date of 8-7-21.

On January 18th, I heard his heartbeat for the first time via my doppler. I was 11 weeks along. At my 12 week appointment, my doctor had a hard time finding the heartbeat in the room, but I wasn’t worried since I had found it at home before our appointment. We went back to a room with an ultrasound machine which confirmed everything was okay and he was still growing 3 days ahead.

As we were approaching the 15 week mark, we still hadn’t told “the world yet”. And this is where I struggle. We don’t really know why. It wasn’t that we didn’t want to, but COVID restrictions were still rampid and we weren’t really seeing anyone. In coming up with clever ways to share, I saw one where a Mama and the other child shared a number but one was weeks and one was months. Oliver was turning 15 months in the same week Gabriel was turning 15 weeks – perfect! I suggested it to my husband and he loved it.

So on Saturday Feb. 13, 2021, we shared with the world. Before we took the picture though on Friday the 12th, I told my husband that I wanted to check with my doppler just to “be sure”. Immediately I found his little heart thumping away. Little did I know that would be the last time I would hear his little heart. 

For 10 days, we basked in the love and congratulations from our family and loved ones. The next weekend, my parents were over and we were sharing all our plans of how we would adjust our home to a family of 4.

Monday Feb. 22nd was my 16 week appointment. I vividly remember assuring my husband that he didn’t need to come. “They are just going to get my weight, measure my tummy, check my blood pressure, check via doppler, ask some questions, and have me pee in a cup” was what I told him. 

My mother-in-law was coming over to watch Oliver for me. And as I was scrambling around trying to get ready, something just felt off. I wanted to check doppler as that was “my thing” before appointments, but ran out of time that day. I remember telling myself that I was only feeling off because I ran out of time and that this was a time I needed to lean into trusting my body. I shutter now what I would have been like had I tried. I REALLY think Gabriel protected me in that moment.

In my appointment, the doctor again couldn’t find the HR, but I thought absolutely nothing of it because this happened last time. We made small talk as we walked back to the room. I again felt the feeling I had at home, but took a deep breath and said “no, trust your body”.

I got up on the table, got the goo and immediately knew that what was on the screen wasn’t right. The baby was lifeless. Then simultaneously, the doctor said the worst sense known to mankind, “I’m sorry, but there is no heartbeat”

This is where my memory gets fuzzy. Despair and disbelief washed over me. For some reason, the first thought that came to me was “we have to untell our news”. The doctor left and got a nurse. I couldn’t speak. I somehow got out that I needed to call my husband which she did for me.

I then got taken to a formal ultrasound room – the one with all the baby pictures on the wall. And the first thing the tech did was shut off the big TV I could see. I was trying to see her screen out of the corner of my eye. I remember asking what the gender was, but she said she couldn’t tell with how he was lying. As she was finishing up, I asked if she had any pictures, and when she was all done, and she put her hand on my shoulder and said “Oh honey, why don’t you take a few days to decide if you want them. If you do, you can always reach out”. She then left the room and there I sat for over an hour alone.

I now know how wrongly I was treated and refuse to ever be seen there again, but in the moment, I was too in shock to realize how wrongly I was being treated let alone recognize it and or fight for what I needed.

The ultrasound tech then asked if she could give me a hug and then left the room. And there I sat, completely alone with babies and happy mothers all around me. My husband worked 50 min away from the hospital and I sat alone in the room until he got there. I remember feeling desperate, longing for someone to hold space with me. I tried calling my mom, but because I was in the middle of a hospital, I had no reception. Texts weren’t going through, and I wasn’t able to learn where my husband was.

When he arrived, they brought him through a different door than the one I had. They let us be and we clung to each other and we wept and I told him what I knew which wasn’t very much. We then again sat….and sat….and sat.

Finally, the doctor came in to explain we couldn’t deliver there and the baby needed to come out that night (again, wrongly treated) and that we either had to go to Sioux Falls or Sioux City. He wanted to know if we had a preference. We said no and agreed that whoever got back first is where we would go.

Thankfully by the grace of God and Gabriel, Sioux Falls got back to him first, but not after letting my husband and I sit alone for over an hour. At this point, it was almost 5pm and my appointment had been at 1pm. Sioux Falls wanted me to come up the next day to be seen by their team since our pregnancy was IVF and they dealt with those all the time, “We know what to look for” is what they said. That felt fine to us as we only wanted to get home and squeeze Oliver.

Before we left, the doctor asked if he could pray over us. We agreed. And that was the very last we ever heard from him again. Not hearing from him after my delivery was the nail in the coffin for me to never ever return. More on this at the end of my story.

That night, I contacted a mentor and friend only because she was the one person I knew who had experienced pregnancy loss. I had no idea 1 in 4 experienced loss. To my surprise, I also learned that she was a bereavement doula and had recently supported a Mama who experienced the loss of her twins at 15 weeks and delivered in the same hospital I would be just a few months earlier. She was able to explain to me all my options and that I could deliver my baby if I wanted to. She was also able to walk us through what the COVID procedures looked like since it was early 2021 at that time and precautions were still in place.

That night, my husband kept asking if I was sure if I wanted to deliver this baby. He felt that a D&C may just be better so I didn’t have to go through anything. But when I was stating my reasons, I cried out that “He’s a BABY Andrew, a baby with bones and a spine, I can’t just let them scrape that out of me.” And I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t realize how formed the baby was because the last time he saw the baby it was a little gummy bear bouncing around. He looked at me and said, “I didn’t realize that.” Again, goes back to how poorly we were treated. They should have ran another ultrasound when my husband arrived.

We spent the rest of the night talking through names as I felt that was most appropriate. If I was going to deliver this baby, it was going to be given a name. Except this time, it felt so strange picking out 2 names for a child that was deceased versus last time – when we did this for a child we brought home. I can’t tell you what we picked out for the girl’s name, but my husband landed on “Gabriel” for the boy’s name. He shared the meaning and I cried…it was perfect because all I could imagine was someday him bringing us our rainbow baby when the timing was right.

The next day, we met Dr. Boyle and his team of angels. I got the ultrasound pictures of him that I wanted and the tech walked us through everything she was doing and looking for. She too couldn’t tell his gender based on how he was lying, but confirmed he was still 3 days ahead in gestation, so he passed away right before my appointment. After she closed the door, the first thing my husband said with tears in his eyes was, “It is a baby isn’t it?!”

We didn’t have to wait long before Dr. Boyle walked into the room. And the the first thing he said to us was that this baby was causing me no danger and I could take my time – all the time I needed – deciding how I wanted to deliver him. He encouraged Mamas in my situation to deliver so they could see a potential cause of death and to get the closure.

Already knowing we would deliver before he even said that, we went in on Thursday February 25th for our induction set to begin at 8pm. That day, I asked my husband to take some maternity pictures. I didn’t want to, but knew I would regret not taking them (and I’m so glad I did).

Surprisingly, that night I was able to get some sleep in the hospital, but nothing….nothing was happening. I honestly didn’t know what to expect though as I kinda imagined it to be over in a few hours. But almost 24 hours passed and my body wasn’t responding to the cytotc well. I was beginning to worry about a D&C, as I did not want another surgery because I had had so many through infertility and didn’t want to increases chances of not being able to get pregnant in future. The nurse assured me through my tears that my body just wasn’t ready to let Gabriel go yet and that a D&C wasn’t even on the table.

That conversation must have been the safety my body needed as about an hour or so later, I began having contractions. It was around 7-8pm. I didn’t want medications for the pain. I’ve always wanted a unmedicated birth and didn’t get that with Oliver. But honestly this time, I wanted the pain. I wanted to feel something if I was going to do this.

At around 8:30, the contractions were really picking up so I moved from my standing position to the bed on my hands and knees. The nurse with with us for the last 45min or so guiding me through. She needed to step out quickly because she knew I was close to delivering. Shortly after she stepped out, I could feel my body pushing and before I knew it something huge came out of me. I remember crying out to my husband “what was that? Can you see it?!” And he said “it’s here”.

At that moment the nurse came rushing back in with the doctor. It was 8:47pm. They sat me back and there I saw a ball of mass. I had delivered everything completely and “en caul” birth. The doctor praised what a good thing this was as that meant the placenta was inside too which meant a D&C was still completely off the table.

Still not knowing the gender the doctor walked us through everything as she cut open the sac and there lied our baby. “A little boy” she said and my heart wrenched. I wanted a daughter, but knowing he was a little boy and what a joy Oliver was, my heart broke even more. She continued to look through everything and all looked as it should.

She placed him in a blanket and handed him to me and my husband. “Perfection” is all I can say. Every feature was there. The only thing that was slightly off was 1 of his ears was sitting a little high, but it’s around 16 weeks where the ears lower into their proper places. But what stood out to me the most was his little hands and the wrinkles he had on his knuckles. Everything about him was complete perfection.

My parents brought Oliver up so he could meet his little brother as that was something I insisted on. I wanted that 1 family photo because he would always be apart of our family. A priest came in to bless him. By the time we went to bed that night it was around 1am and Gabriel spent the night with us at the foot of the bed. That morning we had breakfast with him and held him a little more. While my husband showered, I snapped photos of him so I would have them. I didn’t want to, but I’m so grateful I did.

When it was time for him to go, it didn’t feel real. It almost felt I was in a fairy tale and he was here and we were going to take him home. I sobbed and cried out as they rolled him away as the funeral home was there to take him to be cremated.

As the nurse was doing our discharge stuff, she brought in a clay heart with his hands imprinted. I cannot tell you how much comfort that gives me still today in helping him feel real.

A few days later, we brought him home and he sits on a special shelf in our living room where he can see everything. 

A few weeks later, we got the call from genetics that everything came back absolutely normal and no cause of death was found. So while we will never know, my Mama guts tells me I wasn’t on enough progesterone support as I’ve needed that in some capacity throughout all my pregnancies, especially early on. And that my doctor decreased my dose 2 weeks prior at a time when it should have been increased. Needless to say, I went back to my first provider for all my subsequent pregnancies.

Circling back to my trauma and how I was poorly treated, I never again heard from my doctor who told me my baby was gone after we had delivered. Both hospitals I worked with were under “Sanford” care, so he should have been notified when my charts were updated in MyChart. When I got a hand-written note from the doctor who cared for in the first night, it was the nail in the coffin for me to never return.

I can’t really tell you how I got through the next few weeks and months because there was just so much anger. “Why us?” cut so deep after having gone through infertility. I kept asking “Haven’t we gone through enough already?” It took a lot of therapy, journaling, and self-reflection to realize that God had us the entire time. Exactly 6 months to the day, I walked into another hospital to transfer our now rainbow baby – Mason. Was was born on 5-2-22 (backwards 25 and 22 was the date we learned Gabriel was gone). 

I continue to share his story and spread education through my business – Resilient Mama Fitness & Lifestyle – where I help Mamas navigate their fitness and lifestyle through the journeys of pregnancy and postpartum. I really have a heart for helping the TTC Mama and Mama with an angel(s) navigate their fitness journeys because of how much more difficult they are emotionally and how no one talks about the role that plays. To honor Gabriel and help other loss Mamas, I created a 100% Free Guide called Gabriel’s Guide which is a guide to help Mamas navigate the “What Comes Next” in both the emotional and physical healing. It includes education and resources, as well as a free 6 week training program to help return to fitness. All things I wish someone would have handed me after loss. I built it with the help of my bereavement doula and therapist to ensure the next Mama is getting the care she deserves. 

If you’re still here, thank you for reading our story.

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Miscarriage

Arlene’s Story

Aria

I was just 16 when I found out I was pregnant. I never thought I would go through loss. I found out I was pregnant with a little girl, Aria.

When I was around 15-16 weeks pregnant, I had a ultrasound done. I thought nothing of it until it happened. I remember the doctor came in and sat down and told me that she needed to talk with me. By the look of her face, it wasn’t good. She told me she thought my baby had something called Dandy-Walker syndrome. I cried and cried for the next couple weeks until I could see a specialist. Around 18 weeks, I saw a specialist. I remember how dark the room was and I was sitting there alone. I remember the ultrasound technician telling a student that it did not look good. 

A few minutes later, the specialist came in. She said it was much worse than Dandy-Walker syndrome, it was something called Alobar holoprosencephaly. I went to a couple more different specialists and there was not much they could do. No one was sure what was going to happen until she was born. Most babies do not live with the case she had.

I got induced and she was born alive! She was in the NICU for most of her short life. She got to come home for around 3 weeks on hospice. Her condition caused her to have seizures constantly and her body temperature was hard to keep up and she had to have oxygen as well. Her brain did not divide into two parts like ours. It was the hardest thing to do she was hurting and screaming and crying in pain. Hospice sent us to the hospital and we all slowly watched her pass away.

After she passed away, I found out I was pregnant. I was so scared and hurt. Feeling so many emotions. About a week later I said my finale goodbye to her at her service. The hardest thing in the world!

The next morning I started bleeding and went to the ER, only to find out I was having a miscarriage. I am now a grieving mom of two – at only 18 years old. 

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Stillbirth

Katlyn’s Story

Evelyn Grace

This is us: Katlyn & Stephen, married in 2019.  We already have a son, Landon (now almost 13), from my previous marriage.  We knew we wanted to expand our family & shortly after the wedding we found out we were expecting.  However, on NYE 2019, we unfortunately suffered a miscarriage.  I was 11 weeks along.

After we had time to grieve this loss, we wanted to try again.  We struggled to conceive at first and started to meet with a fertility specialist when miraculously, it happened on its own!  We made it to the 2nd trimester and felt some relief as the risk of a miscarriage dropped.  We then made it to the 3rd trimester and were preparing for her arrival.

It was the week of my 37th birthday and I was at work. That day, the ladies surprised me with a baby shower.  I remember feeling off and thinking I hadn’t felt Evelyn move for a while.  So, after the shower, I went to my car, had something cold and sweet to drink and reclined the seat waiting to feel her kicks, which didn’t come.  I called my doctor and they suggested I head to the hospital to get checked.  I called Stephen to have him meet me there.

Once we got into a room, a nurse searched for a heartbeat and called the doctor in for assistance.  He held my hand and delivered the worst news we could have ever expected.  “I’m sorry, but there doesn’t appear to be a heartbeat.”  They gave us some time to process this news and call our families.  Keep in mind, this was during COVID & they were not allowing more than one support person to be with you.  We asked if we could have our parents come to grieve with us and they said of course, we will make it happen.

The next steps were to move us to a delivery room and start the induction process to deliver our daughter.  Once Evelyn arrived on 4/16/2021, we got to hold her and so did our parents.  She was a beautiful girl.  She was 4lbs 3 oz and was a healthy baby.  However, the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck several times.  Had it not been for that unfortunate incident, she’d be with us today.  We never got to see her eyes or hear her voice, but we knew she was perfect.

After delivering Evelyn, the L&D staff dressed her in an outfit, wrapped her in a blanket, and placed a teddy bear in her bassinet.  We got to spend the night and part of the next day with Evelyn.  I sang her songs I used to sing to her big brother and cuddled her for as long as we possibly could.  Before we left, they also gave us a memory box with locks of her hair, newborn photos they took of her, a handprint keepsake, a pillow her precious head lay on, and more.

We asked our Reverend to come baptize her and pray for us.  It was incredibly emotional, but something we wanted to have done.  What came next seemed so standard and customary, but we just weren’t even thinking of it.

We needed to purchase burial plots and a grave marker for our daughter.  My mom’s side of the family has a section at our local cemetery where my grandparents and aunt are currently buried with several other spots saved for family members.  We were lucky enough to get plots within eyesight of them.  It was a sense of relief knowing she would be close to them.

During the days following our loss of Evelyn, the Teddy Bear and memory box the hospital gave to us meant more than we could ever imagine.  I was able to find the exact bear online and purchased it for Landon so he could have something to hug as well.

I could not imagine not having my Evie Bear with me. It’s something that made me feel close to her and gave me so much comfort.  It got me thinking…what would we have done without these items from the hospital?  What would other families do?  What if the donations they receive from local knitting groups who supply hats & blankets stop?  What if the donation of infant clothes runs out?  I know I would be lost without them.

I decided to put a post out on social media announcing we would be accepting donations of Teddy Bears to drop off at the hospital or if they couldn’t get a Teddy Bear to us, they could make a monetary donation to the Family Additions department at the hospital in Evelyn’s name.  I didn’t expect so many teddy bears.  The hospital was so appreciative & moved by our gesture.  With the amount of money that was donated, they added her name to their Wall of Remembrance.

This got me thinking further, of how we could help.  Our goal is to turn Evie’s Teddies into a Charitable Foundation & make sure families have the resources they need to help them grieve; whether it’s memory boxes, teddy bears, or funds to help with counseling or burial services.  The possibilities are truly endless.

Time has passed & life was moving on.  We had a then 10-year-old that needed us & we needed him, more than ever.  So, we filled our days with baseball, traveling with family, visiting family and fun days!  It was just what we needed.

We traveled to DC with my parents, who had never been there before, and my Dad got to shade his cousin Jimmy’s name from the Vietnam War Memorial.  Then we traveled to Long Island, NY to visit Stephen’s brother and his wife.  It was our first time there together as a family and it was amazing.  We got to spend time at the beach and go on a boat ride.  On our way back we stopped at Gettysburg since Landon had never been there.  It was hot, but still had a good time together.  For my brother’s birthday, he wanted all of us to go to Caddy Shack for the day to ride go karts, mini golf, and more.  Nothing heals the heart better than being with family.

Then, our prayers were answered and we became pregnant!  We were so happy, yet absolutely terrified because of what we just went through.  My OB group was so supportive & reassuring us that they know how we feel & will do everything they could to give us a piece of mind along the way.

Once we reached the 3rd trimester, I had regular appointments, non-stress tests, and growth scans.  We literally got to see her grow and hear her heartbeat so often.

April 28th, 2022 ( a little over 1 year since losing Evelyn) we welcomed Eliana Louise into our life and she was a blessing.  The name Eliana is Hebrew for “my God has answered me”, it couldn’t have been a more perfect name.   We have told Eliana about her sister, that she is our baby in heaven.  We have taken her to visit Evelyn’s grave and we have read her stories about Heaven.  This is all in hopes that she will know of her sister, just like her brother does.

It’s now Fall 2024 and we are expecting another baby girl to arrive in December, God willing.  In the meantime, we have been working closely with our hospital with sharing our story and our hopes of creating this foundation.  

My hope for all of you is to know that you are loved, you are thought of, and we are hear to grieve with you.  Nothing can ever replace the loss of your child, but grieving together and sharing their stories is comforting, at least to me.

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Coping With Loss

A letter to my baby

December 27, 2024

Every year, near the anniversary of my miscarriage, I write a letter. The first year, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter and made a video for her. In 2021, I wrote it to my pre-miscarriage self. In 2022 and 2023, I wrote letters to Anthony; my son I miscarried at 10 weeks and 5 days in January 2020.

Here’s this year’s letter.

______

Hi baby,

Five years.

I cannot believe it’s been five years since I met you.

Lost you.

This year feels like a milestone for us. Not a good one – milestones just mean I’m further from you. This year has me feeling like I’m being carried forward but my arms keep reaching back for you. My grief used to consume and bury me. Now that I’ve resurfaced, I’ve learned to swim, but I swim on my own.

This year, you will turn the age I always have pictured you as; five. The tall little boy with brown hair and blue eyes I see in my head every time I hear an earth side boy say “mama!” continues in my imagination. And this year, he feels real.

I have been hit recently with the harsh reality that I get to watch your sisters grow up because I never got to watch you. It is so strange to love all three of you more than anything in this world, and to know that the three of you can never coexist in the same place. The family of five I pictured in my head forever incomplete, forever wondering if you were the third baby I was meant to have.

I know, mommy’s gettin’ all serious. You’re only 4 and a half. Let’s talk about something else.

Let’s talk about how much I miss you.

I miss you when I desperately search for rainbows when it rains and the sun peaks through.

I miss you when I see your name.

I miss you when your sister grabs your giraffe stuffie Mima and Papa got you for Christmas. The one I cried opening knowing my pregnancy symptoms were fading, knowing something wasn’t right.

I miss you when someone asks about the letter A on my necklace, the flowers tattooed on my back, the number of times I’ve been pregnant.

I miss you every day.

As time continues to separate us, know my hand will always be reaching back for yours. Now more than ever, I know my place as your mommy; to continue to speak about you, uplift other families like ours, and continue to love you and your sisters with all my heart.

I love you so much, buddy.

Love,

Mommy

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Miscarriage

Sharna’s Story

Hello beautiful souls, 

My name is Sharna Southan. I am an Angel Mum & a rainbow mum.

Today, I want to share my story with you, starting from the beginning.

I always envisioned having a family. 

As one of four children, I didn’t want a big family myself, but I always dreamed of having one or two children. In my twenties, I believed that getting pregnant would be easy. I assumed I’d get married, have sex, fall pregnant, and start my family without any issues.

After trying to conceive for a couple of years, I began to see cracks in my perfect plan. On paper, I seemed like the ideal candidate for motherhood: fit, healthy, a non-smoker, with a stable job, a loving husband, and a home. 

Yet, I wasn’t getting pregnant. The well-meaning advice from others to “just relax, it’ll happen” was increasingly frustrating.

We decided to see a fertility specialist. After a few cycles of medication, I finally found out I was pregnant. I was overjoyed. 

In that moment, everything changed. I was going to be a mom; my future plans revolved around my baby. 

We got confirmation from the doctor and scheduled an ultrasound.

Because my periods were always irregular, we didn’t know exactly how far along I was. We went to the ultrasound appointment full of excitement. 

After an uncomfortable wait with a full bladder, the ultrasound technician said they couldn’t see anything and needed to do an internal ultrasound. 

Then came the life-altering words: “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

The room fell silent, and I felt everything drain away. 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. 

I turned to my husband and cried, and he just held me. 

A senior technician confirmed that the pregnancy had stopped growing at seven weeks.

We were shuffled back into the waiting room and then to the doctor, who explained that I would start miscarrying naturally at home. 

We went to my mums after the appointment, for support. Her cry is still etched in my mind. She grieved my loss so heavily!

The Doctor told me to expect a heavy period. 

What happened next was far from what she described. 

I experienced severe contractions and bleeding to the point of passing out. 

My husband was frantically Googling my symptoms. 

By Monday, I was in such bad shape that my doctor called an ambulance to take me to the hospital, which was 45 minutes away.

The ambulance officer, who had helped me before during epileptic seizures, was like a guardian angel to me. I felt my dad, who had passed away when I was 19, had sent him to look out for me.

At the hospital, I was met with blank stares as I explained my situation. I was admitted to the emergency department and given pain relief for the contractions. 

For the first time, a gynecologist mentioned that one in four pregnancies end in loss. 

Despite this statistic, I felt completely alone. 

The nurse in the emergency department was kind, she had a lovely sense of humour and tried to make the situation bearable. My husband stayed with me the entire time up until surgery. 

I was prepped for a D&C (dilation and curettage). 

The nurse told me I would be fertile within the next few months, but in my medicated state, I didn’t respond. 

Later, I wondered why she would say that—it wasn’t helpful at the moment.

I woke up alone in recovery and was sent home, feeling utterly empty. This all happened in 2017, and it remains one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. 

I was fortunate to have a supportive family to help me heal and recover.

When I got home, I was left to navigate the grief, heartache, physical & emotional changes & challenges on my own.

If you know someone going through a similar experience, please don’t say, “just relax, it’ll happen” or “you still have time, you’re young” or “at least your loss was early.” Instead, learn to be there for them. 

Sit with them, acknowledge their experience, and even if you don’t know what to say, simply say, “I’m here.”

Thank you for listening to my story. Remember, you are not alone.

If you ever need me, I am here!

Connect further with me:

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Miscarriage

Claire’s Story

How can you miss someone so much who you never really knew?

I lost my baby early at 6 weeks. At first I was relieved, then I was devastated.

I was 20 when I got pregnant, a college student, just lost my virginity, and not in a stable relationship. 

I was worried at first of how I could afford to support a child. Then I thought about what a miracle it is that I could create this tiny life. I decided that I would be willing to drop out, get a fulltime job, and do anything I could for this baby. 

The dad? Not so much. He wanted nothing to do with the child he helped to create. I told him I needed help and received none, I think the stress led to my early miscarriage. 

My baby would be about 3 months old now. She (I like to think it was a baby girl) would be able to feel my heartbeat and know her name when I say it to her. I never knew her well and yet it’s like I lost part of myself, like there’s this empty hole in my heart where that love existed. I want to grieve and yet don’t know how when there is nothing to bury, when there is no sign that this little human existed.

I know this story is different from others here: it’s not in a family, I wasn’t trying to conceive, and there is no happy ending. 

But I think it’s important: not only to help myself to heal but to make it known that not every loss is one that’s easy to understand. Not every loss is one that makes sense to other people. I hope this can also help bring a bit of awareness to it and hopefully a bit of comfort in solidarity with others who have gone through something similar.

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Stillbirth

Mari’s Story

I remember writing our life story a few months ago, and reading it now, I see the progress and the setbacks. I read about the hurt and the pain I went through and still do but with a different perspective. This is our story because it is my husband and I’s story, not just mine. 

Everything I had dreamed about and prepared for fell apart. December 21, 2022, was the day I died while still alive, if that makes sense. I am a 30-year-old female who lives in California. I am married to my high school sweetheart, and we have one beautiful dog named Bella. Our 2022 had been a rough year in general, with work and personal lives, but everything was turned upside down, more than it already was, on October 21, 2022. I had a routine appointment with my OBGYN every year since I was diagnosed with PCOS at 18. During this appointment, my OB was conducting an intervaginal ultrasound, and to our surprise, I was roughly 12 weeks pregnant. Shock has to be an understatement. The panic started to settle in, and the fear of the unknown also started. 

How is this even possible? First, I have had a period every 28-33 days, been on birth control, and even on other medications to help with the PCOS. The baby’s heartbeat was great and was measured at the needed measurements. As I left that office, I was nervous about telling my husband. We had not talked about when we would start trying for babies, and this, by far, was not the best time either. He was leaving his job and starting a new one. This was the same day he was scheduled to be done at the old job. I went home, dressed, and left for a concert my girlfriends and I had tickets to. I would have to talk to my husband after. 

When I told my husband, pure panic and shock came from him. He was nervous and lost. We both knew we were being careful, so he exhibited the same shock I felt. I remember him trying to make light of the situation with comments but was still lost. It took a few days to settle with the idea of what would happen. 

Fast forward to November 12, when we received the NIPT results and our baby’s gender. We did not want to do a gender reveal as we had not told our family yet since we were waiting for my sister-in-law to have her baby, and we also wanted to make sure our baby was okay. So while sitting in our garage and washing cars, we discovered we were expecting a little girl. I remember my husband always wanted girls, and I was happy. That weekend we told our families, and it was pure joy. For his parents, this would be their third grandchild, but for my parents, she was the first. We announced to the rest of the world that upcoming week and that’s when it finally hit; we were having a baby. 

The next few weeks, we spent picking nursery colors, themes, strollers, activities, and anything and everything we could think of. We had planned soccer for her as her first activity, Disney for her first trip to a theme park, and so much more. My husband showed excitement and was already getting called Dad at work. I was excited and knew that, at least for the next 18 years, I would not be alone again. My husband is a first responder and has very crazy work hours, so she was going to be my companion. 

December 16, 2022, everything changed. I got a call from the lab that my fetal protein was higher than usual. They gave me various reasons why it could be high such as twins, placenta problems, or the baby releasing the protein. I told my husband, and he was as scared as I was. I ended up in the hospital on Saturday due to my high blood pressure. While I was hospitalized, an ultrasound was performed. At the end of my visit, I was informed my baby was doing well and, not to worry, she was fine. That calmed us down, and I felt like I could breathe. 

Well, during our specialist visit, reality hit. My husband and I arrived at the center. Our appointment was at 8 am, and we waited for an eternity. When we were finally called, we were taken into a lunchroom with a genetic counselor, who asked every possible history question. I was confused about why we were being asked all of this. Well, the lab technician gave us the wrong fetal protein number. We were told it was 5.8, but in reality, it was 15.8, which a normal fetal protein for one baby is 2.4. My heart broke. I couldn’t answer anything; I was just so numb. I remember being pressured to complete some tests and procedures, but I would not consent to them. It was until my husband told her we would not consent to anything until we saw the specialist, even if we had to pay out of pocket. When we finally were done, we were placed in the waiting room for another 45 minutes, where all I saw were happy pregnant women coming in and out, and I started to feel like I was not going to be one of them.

Finally, we were taken back to the ultrasound room, where it all was looking good. The technician showed us our little girl’s head, hands, face, and heartbeat, and everything went quiet. She said, “There is a problem with the spine,” and that was the last thing she said. For the next 20 minutes, I lay there wishing it was a terrible dream. Well, the specialist came in and confirmed our worst fear: our baby would not make it. Our little girl has a severe spine problem that did not fully develop, and her little tummy never closed. My first question was about quality of life and what did that look like, and he said there wasn’t one. She would most likely not make it through delivery; if she did, it would be for a few minutes. Bringing her into this world was only going to cause her pain and suffering, as well as put my life at risk. His concern was the spine being a genetic problem, which we recently learned was not a genetic issue but rather a lack of development. Much more was discussed during the visit, but I can’t even begin to explain. The pain is what I remember and still feel.

The specialist left and gave us some time. I remember my husband helping me off the bed and just hugging me. All I could say was sorry to him. I felt so guilty and responsible for putting him and her through this. It has taken me a long time to feel less and less guilty, but I would be lying if I said the guilt was gone. We both knew what we had to do. As much as we wanted to be selfish and bring her into this world and hold her a little longer, as a parent, our job is to be unselfish and do what is best for our child. In this situation, we did not want to cause her more pain. 

The next few days were just full of numbness and pain. We let our immediate family know what was happening and when our baby would grow her angel wings. Christmas Eve came and went. This was our favorite holiday, and it was now full of pain and suffering. My husband was so lost. I remember waking up in the middle of the night while he hugged me and held my stomach crying. The pain in his eyes I will never forget. The fear of losing his new job as he had no time off available to him, thankfully they were very understanding and have always believed family comes first.  

On December 27, 2022, the first part of the D and C was started, and I was already struggling. Because I was about 20-21 weeks, I had to get some assistance to dilate. The following day, I was admitted at 9:30 am. My husband stayed with me through the entire process. He held my hand, tried to make me laugh, and helped me sleep. And at 2:30 pm, I was wheeled away, and I said goodbye to my husband. I feared what would happen, but the pain in my husband’s eyes was the same pain I was feeling. I knew that when I woke up, my baby would be gone, and she was. I woke up at 4:30 feeling panicked, and all I wanted to do was cry. The nurse and anesthesiologist tried calming me down, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t until my OBGYN came in and handed me a piece of paper with my baby’s footprint and a recording of her heartbeat. That is all I will ever have of her. Next time you see your babies, hold them tight because some of us will never be able to do that. 

As time has passed, we have gone through a rollercoaster of emotions. I have received support from many and have heard nasty remarks from others. People who I believed to be close to me have said things that have hurt me as they could never understand. With the help of a therapist, my husband and I have been moving forward and grieving in the healthiest way possible. The way we grieved has been different. I grieved immediately and felt every emotion possible, depression, anxiety, hurt, suicidal thoughts, and so much more. But now, seven months later, I feel a little better. My husband did not hit the lowest point of grieving until recently, I feel it all started around May when I was due. Right now, I am trying to be there for him and help him through the same way he was there for me, unconditionally.  As a couple, we are the strongest we have ever been, which I am grateful for. At the moment, I do have good days and bad days. And on my low days, I try to remember what a dear friend told me “Your little girl forgot something up in the sky, and she will be back.” I pray she does. 

This experience has changed me forever. I will never be the same person I was before. As the days pass, I miss my little girl more and more, but I am learning to move forward. As we talk about trying for another baby, the fear of losing them is there, and I don’t think that will ever go away. My innocence of pregnancy has been taken away, and all it has left me is fear and anxiety. But even with it all, I pray and hope that one day, we will soon be blessed with a baby who can make it earthside healthy. I will endure anything I have to bring a child into this world because, at the end of the day, holding him or her and seeing my husband hold them will be worth any pain and suffering I must endure. 

Termination for medical reasons is what I am labeled as now. Growing up, I remember saying I would never have an abortion. I was one of those people. But it is true; you don’t know until you are in those shoes. Now, I am thankful I live in a state where this is possible. I am aware some people will not approve of what we did, but it would have been selfish of us to put our child in a position to suffer. I pray and hope one day, people will understand the pain we go through and have to endure. This pain will never go away. We are told to move forward and forget by very close people, but all I can say now is let us grieve our way. We lost someone who was very innocent and loved, with no explanation. We will forever have a piece of our heart missing. I want to thank those who have given us our space and been here for us, from family, friends, and employers. Having support has been a big part of our healing process. To my dear husband, thank you for being my support system and showing me so much love; if it were not for you, I would not have made it through this. Our little angel and I love you unconditionally. We will remember her and hold her things close and very tight until we meet again. 

KMT 12/28/2022

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Coping With Loss

A letter to my baby

December 27, 2023

Every year, near the anniversary of my miscarriage, I write a letter. The first year, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter and made a video for her. In 2021, I wrote it to my pre-miscarriage self. You can read the 2022 letter here.

Here is this year’s letter.

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Dear Anthony,

Hi bud. Today is four years since you started to leave. Four years since I knew something was wrong and no one listened. Four years since I cried for grandma (your sister calls her “Mima.” Maybe you would have too) because I saw blood. Four years since that awful ER visit where the ultrasound tech told us stories like ours “didn’t have a happy ending.”

And it didn’t.

But somehow, after four years of mourning you, carrying your sisters, and feeling the ebb and flow of this awful grief, I’ve been able to find joy again.

Don’t get me wrong, the missing you doesn’t go away. My heart still aches whenever I take out the Christmas decorations and think of how your dad packed them all up while you slowly slipped away. I still feel lonely when I’m surrounded by family during our yearly beach vacation, but am thinking of you on what should’ve been your birthday. I still run to the window when the sun comes out after a rainstorm, searching for a rainbow. Looking for a sign of you.

But the thing that has surprised me the most is the mother I’ve been able to become despite that grief. Despite the worry and frustration and waiting. It made me strong.

You made me strong.

You did this.

I will never understand why you couldn’t stay. I wonder when your sister K will start to wonder who you are, who this “Anthony” is that we pray for every night. Why we have books about babies that don’t make it earth-side and brothers who are angels. This year, she saw your ultrasound picture on the Christmas tree and asked. I told her I had another baby in my belly named Anthony before her. He was her brother. She said her usual “oooh!” and then moved on to the next ornament. I know the questions will continue (as they always seem to do with her) and I look forward to continuing to talk about you. I want them to know how special it is that they made it here. How wanted they were. All three of you were so, so wanted.

And you, my boy, are so, so missed.

I hope you saw me heal this year. Your littlest sister helped, I had no idea it was possible to be that calm during a pregnancy. Maybe you helped too.

But no matter how much I “heal” or how much time passes, I want you to know that the space I have in my heart for you sits right next to the space I have for those girls. All three of you changed me in a way I never knew possible.

I am a better person because of all of you.

I am still so grateful for those 10 weeks we had.

I am so grateful to know you.

And I love being your mom.

Love you forever,

Mommy

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Pregnancy After Loss

Life After Pregnancy Loss: Rachna

Rachna previously shared the story of the loss of her son, Rohan. This is another piece written by her of a more introspective look into her life after loss and her pregnancy after loss journey.

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The test is positive. I’ve been waiting for this moment for the last year. And even though I thought this moment would be “the moment”–the moment where my grief would at least be mellowed, and I could breathe a sigh of relief– it’s not.

I am in disbelief when I get my confirmation blood tests. I didn’t believe the ten pregnancy tests I took, and I don’t believe this test either.

My heart sinks when I start bleeding at 6 weeks. I demand an early ultrasound. I expect to see the worst, only to be told that everything looks perfect.

When I get the indeterminate results of my early genetic screening, I assume my baby has a high risk defect, even though follow up testing is normal.

I nearly break down when I am in the operating room at 13 weeks pregnant, feet in stirrups, a cerclage (cervical stitch) newly sewn into my cervix. The stitch that is somehow supposed to prevent the devastating loss I had last year.

I am frozen in disbelief at my 20 week scan, when my OB tells me to go on bed rest “just to be safe”. I essentially lay in bed for 8 weeks, scared that every shower, bathroom break, cough or sneeze is the beginning of another end.

A friend from college texts me that she is pregnant. I haven’t shared my news with anyone yet, and I am angry that she casually mentions her perfectly healthy pregnancy when she knows about the loss I went through. I block her texts and never speak to her again.

My heart fills with hope when I find out the precious baby I am carrying is another boy.  A boy who will never replace the one I lost, but who I am protecting with every fiber of my being in order to hold him alive, in my arms.

I have new strength when I make it to viability, further than I have ever been in pregnancy. It is immediately shadowed by worry. I just continue to count the weeks and days, looking up the statistics that my baby will survive if he’s born at 24 weeks, then 28 weeks, then 32 weeks…

There are moments of happiness, such as when I am allowed to go back to work. Yet my pregnant belly is also the prompt for heart-breaking questions like, “Is this your first?”

I find out my sister is pregnant too, three months behind me, happily buying things for her baby’s nursery, while my husband hides our necessary purchases in the garage, knowing even the sight of a crib may set off a panic attack.

I lay awake at night and try to feel my baby’s kicks, certain that there were more yesterday, and that something is terribly wrong.

The end of my third trimester should be celebratory, but I have more anxiety as time passes. It’s almost as if the further along I am, the harder it is to accept that if something goes wrong–this far along–I don’t/won’t/can’t have the strength to do it again.

It feels like I stop breathing.

I don’t breathe when I go in for the additional growth ultrasounds and heart monitoring I “get” to have because of my high risk pregnancy, I just wait to hear the words “I’m sorry” or “The baby’s not moving”. Those words never come, but I still wait.

I don’t breathe when I make it to 36.5 weeks and my cerclage is removed. The doctor shows me the thick band of surgical suture that has brought me this far, given my baby this chance, but I still don’t breathe.

I don’t breathe when I make it to my scheduled induction, in the hospital where I lost my first son.

And then, they lay my warm, wriggling baby on my chest, and I finally breathe. I cry tears of joy, then anger, grief, and fear. I cry every emotion I have felt in the last nine months–the last two years. Maybe that’s why they are called rainbow babies, because we experience the full spectrum of emotions while we grow them.

It doesn’t end there. Being a loss mom, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about my lost son. I think about how I would have had two under two. How cute Rohan would look helping out his younger brother. How my family would feel complete.

I also spend some part of every day worried about my living son. Will he get cancer? Will he be in an accident? Will he get shot at his pre-school? Is this what being a parent is? Doing your best to protect your children, but reconciling with the fact that we live in a world where keeping them forever is not a certainty?

Pregnancy after loss is a special kind of hell. Everything is tinged with sadness and thoughts about “what may have been”. It’s just the way it is.

Shortly after I lost Rohan, I listened to a podcast about the idea of “meaning making” in grief. In the episode someone quoted, “Loss is what happens to you in life, meaning is what you make happen.”

I use Rohan’s loss to make moments of meaning with Sam. Enjoying his laugh, cheering on his first steps, gazing at his dimpled smile. I never shy away from holding him or kissing him, telling him I love him. I try to experience each moment fully–for the son I have and the one I lost.

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