What Pregnancy Loss Taught Me About Hope
I have never been someone who does anything in silence. I celebrate loudly, and I don’t grieve in silence either. I learned at an early age that talking openly about both joy and sorrow can be therapeutic—not only for myself, but for others too.
That’s why when Steven and I found out we were expecting in June, we could barely contain our excitement. We wanted to tell everyone immediately. I managed to keep quiet for a few days, but once we received confirmation that I was pregnant, we began sharing the news with our immediate family and close friends.
I knew it was very early, but I wanted the support no matter what happened. Besides, at 43, I wasn’t even sure I would be able to get pregnant. After trying for almost a year, I had pretty much lost hope. But there I was—pregnant.
We started making plans and imagining our future. At the same time, the rest of my life seemed to stand still. Pregnancy left me exhausted, and being a vendor at markets became increasingly difficult—not only because of the Florida heat, but because I was constantly tired and queasy.
I didn’t mind. I believed it would all be worth it.
Unfortunately, with every doctor’s appointment, worry began to outweigh the excitement. The ultrasounds weren’t progressing. No fetus. No heartbeat. Just my body preparing for a baby that would never come.
We are heartbroken. But we’re also hopeful—hopeful that one day we’ll get our little miracle.
That hope is what has carried me through this experience.
People often say the emotional pain is harder than the physical, but for me, the physical side has been incredibly difficult too.
I wanted to share this because people don’t often talk about that part. They talk about the loss, the grief, and the emptiness, but I rarely hear anyone talk about the painful cramping, the bleeding, the exhaustion that has you sleeping all day, or the discomfort that keeps you awake all night. Then, just when you think it’s over, you’re told there are still retained pregnancy tissues and you need surgery to remove them—the very procedure you initially hoped to avoid because, while the risk is low, it carries a small chance of uterine scarring.
When you already feel like the odds are stacked against you, even a very small risk can feel overwhelming.
For me, one of the hardest parts was realizing how much had to happen just to remove every physical reminder of a pregnancy I desperately wanted.
Even the paperwork was painful. Instead of saying “miscarriage,” it referred to my diagnosis as a “threatened abortion” or “spontaneous abortion.”
I understand those are long-established medical terms, but emotionally, seeing the word “abortion” associated with the loss of a very wanted pregnancy was devastating. It brought an overwhelming sense of guilt, even though I know I did nothing to cause my miscarriage.
I have spent so much time reminding myself that this wasn’t my fault—that nothing I did caused this and nothing I could have done would have changed the outcome. Seeing that terminology on my paperwork felt like a punch to the gut. I sobbed when I read it.
Since having my D&C, I have finally started feeling more like myself again. I want to throw myself back into my creative projects, but I also want to throw myself into becoming as healthy as I can be so that when I get pregnant again, I’ll be ready.
Being pregnant for ten weeks taught me just how much pregnancy asks of your body. Since I’ll also be an “older” mom, I want to give myself every opportunity to be healthy—not just for pregnancy, but so I can keep up with our future child for many years to come.
As painful as this experience has been, I am grateful that my body was able to become pregnant. That gives me hope. I am also grateful for its resilience and for the perspective this experience has given me. It’s reminded me to prioritize my health, my strength, and my future.
If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, please know that you are not alone. Your grief is real. Your baby mattered. Your pain is valid. And if you’re still holding onto hope, I’m holding onto it right alongside you.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and pain on this tough topic. When I was going through this 16 years ago, there wasnt much out there. And definitely not people discussing the physical pain of loss and the mental and emotional slap of the medical terminology. If you want to talk, cry, vent, etc. I am here for you.
Thank you so much, Nicci! I am so sorry you had to go through this pain as well – and at a time when it was talked about even less than it is now. I love you! Sending a big hug.