Navigating the Emotional Journey of Miscarriage and Healing

"I'm so sorry, but your baby no longer has a heartbeat." Those words hit me like a tidal wave, and I immediately crumbled under their weight. As I turned to my husband, I saw the color drain from his face. We had been anxiously awaiting the results of my ER ultrasound after two days of spotting that had turned into bleeding. We prayed desperately that our little one was okay.

The doctor, cold and matter-of-fact, informed us that we could return to Indiana in the next few days, as we were away from home visiting family at the time. He told us they would follow up with us on the next steps. He apologized again and mentioned that someone would come by to go over our discharge paperwork. I lay in the hospital bed, trying to process what was happening. Just days away from being twelve weeks pregnant, our world had been turned upside down.

The staff explained that our baby had stopped growing at six weeks, and it had taken my body another six weeks to recognize the loss. I felt utterly betrayed by my body. For six weeks, I had carried this child, not knowing they would never come home with us or be cradled in my arms. My mind raced with all the moments we would miss: skin-to-skin contact, their first cry, seeing their siblings meet them, the sleepless nights, and the late-night cluster feeds. I wanted it all.

Instead, I was being asked questions I wasn’t prepared to answer: "Do you want a death certificate?" "Do you want any remains cremated or buried?" My husband and I were blindsided. We had just received the most heartbreaking news of our lives, and we hadn’t even begun to process it. We left the hospital in a daze, knowing only one thing—our baby was gone.

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The drive back into town to tell our parents the news was one of the hardest moments of my life. We hadn’t even shared that we were expecting, and now we had to tell them that our fourth baby was gone. Even three years later, I can still vividly see their faces and hear the words we exchanged in that moment.

As I spoke, the tears flowed freely down my face. I tried to hold myself together, not wanting to completely break down in front of our other three children. My husband and I went through the motions that evening with our families, feeling completely numb and lost.

That night, I went to bed still bleeding and cramping, waiting for our appointment with my OBGYN in two days. But my body didn’t wait. In the early morning hours, while the sky was still pitch black and our children were soundly sleeping, I woke up and knew. I knew what my body was doing.

I quietly called for my husband, trying to suppress my cries so I wouldn’t disturb our little ones. Once we were away from them, the weight of everything hit me like a tidal wave. I was losing our baby, and my body needed medical attention. The panic on my husband’s face is something I will never forget.

We called my OBGYN back in Indiana, and they immediately told him to call 911. The nurse feared I was going into shock. I lay on the bathroom floor, sobbing and apologizing to my husband and mother-in-law, feeling guilty for what was happening in her home. They both tried to reassure and comfort me as we waited for EMS to arrive.

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I wanted to sob uncontrollably but held back, not wanting to appear ungrateful for the care I was receiving. When the ultrasound technician came in to scan me, she confirmed that I had "passed everything." Her words left me feeling hollow. As I left the hospital, it felt as though I was carrying a gaping hole inside me. All I wanted was to hold my baby.

Back at my parents’ house, my husband stood by me as I showered and then watched over me as I slept. He later told me he was terrified something might happen to me after everything he had witnessed in the last twenty-four hours. We were devastated. In that moment, our emotions were raw, and all we could do was sit in silence.

The silence was deafening. It was the silence of knowing that the family we had been dreaming of now looked different. The hopes and wishes we had when we saw the positive pregnancy test had come to a crushing halt. How could we ever move forward? It didn’t seem possible in that moment—or even in the days, weeks, and months that followed.

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I spent so many days crying, begging, pleading, and questioning why. Why couldn’t we keep our baby? Why couldn’t this child have stayed? Why didn’t we get more time? I didn’t understand and felt so much guilt. What could I have done differently?

Nights were the hardest. I would stand in the shower, sobbing, dreading going to bed because my anxiety felt crushing. I couldn’t breathe, and no part of me could relax or feel at peace.

I felt another gut punch when my OBGYN office called to review everything that had happened. The nurse said, "I see you had a spontaneous abortion." I wanted to scream, "Excuse me, what?" This baby was wanted. This baby was everything I had hoped and dreamed for our family. I would have given anything for them to still be with us, where I could feel their little kicks and somersaults. Hearing that term filled me with anger.

I didn’t want to drown anymore. I wanted to come up for air and find a way forward but the grief kept pulling me under.

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I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when the healing began—it was a gradual process that took time. The tears still came, but over time, they became less frequent. Even now, three years later, they still fall at times. A song will play that reminds me of our baby, or we’ll reach their due date month, and my heart will ache for what could have been.

A few months after our loss, I began talking to a therapist. I needed to talk to someone outside of my family, someone who wasn’t my husband, because he was dealing with his own grief. I needed to work through the pain, the anxiety, and the guilt I carried. It helped, but no matter how much time passes or how much talking I do, some moments will always stay with me. The words, the faces, the grief—it will always be there.

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Miscarriage is a part of our story as it is for many others. It can bring people together, fostering mutual connection and understanding. I wanted to share my story so others know they are not alone in their grief, in the weight of loss. I see you, momma. I see you hurting and struggling to put one foot forward. But know this, light can still exist, even in the darkest of times. You aren't alone in this and better days are ahead.