Pregnancy is often portrayed as a beautiful, joyous experience—a time filled with excitement, anticipation, and an overwhelming sense of love. It’s a time when you’re counting down the days to meet the precious little one you’ve been dreaming about for nine months. You imagine the fun of baby showers, the excitement of gender reveals, and the joy of shopping for baby clothes. That’s what I envisioned too, back when pregnancy seemed simple and carefree. But for those of us who have experienced the heart-wrenching pain of loss, the reality of pregnancy changes dramatically. What should be a time of celebration becomes filled with fear, anxiety, and overwhelming caution.
I often find myself envying the women who experience pregnancy with complete innocence—who can blissfully pick out baby names, decorate nurseries, and share their pregnancy news without the heavy burden of past loss. Before my first miscarriage, I, too, believed that pregnancy was a joyful, magical experience. But after losing my first baby, that innocence was shattered. With each loss that followed, my hopes were dimmed, and my outlook on pregnancy became more guarded. After our third loss, pregnancy became synonymous with fear and anxiety.
Then, after months of heartache, a faint line on a pregnancy test brought with it a surge of both hope and terror. This time, I wasn’t sure I could allow myself to dream. I had been down this road before and knew how fragile it all was. But I also knew that this new baby deserved a chance—a chance to grow, to thrive, and to be loved. So, I immediately called my doctor and scheduled an HCG test. For women like me, every test, every scan is not just a routine appointment—it’s a lifeline. It’s the thin thread of hope that keeps you moving forward, even when everything inside of you is afraid to believe.
To my surprise, everything looked okay. At 4-5 weeks, we saw the sac. At 6 weeks, we saw the heartbeat. But every milestone was met with caution. I couldn’t let myself fully rejoice. At 8 weeks, I was prepared for the worst—expecting the same tragic outcome that had happened before. The fear of an omphalocele, like the one we lost with Brexton, loomed large in my mind. But when we saw the ultrasound, everything was normal. Still, I couldn’t let myself believe it. I cautiously held on to the hope that this pregnancy would be different, but it was hard to escape the nagging feeling that something could go wrong at any moment.
At 10 weeks, we had genetic testing done. I tried to prepare myself for bad news, but again, we received an all-clear result. I couldn’t believe it—was this really happening? And then, when we found out we were expecting a baby girl, I allowed myself to smile for the first time in months. Yet, the smile didn’t last long. I didn’t have a name for her. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t let myself dream of the future. I was too scared. The fear that she could be taken from me was still so real.
As the weeks went on, things started to feel a little more “real.” At 14 weeks, we saw the specialist. I expected bad news—I couldn’t allow myself to think otherwise—but instead, he told us that our baby girl was perfect, growing beautifully. I could hardly believe it. Maybe, just maybe, this would be different.
But the anxiety never fully left. Pregnancy after loss is nothing like what you see in the movies. It’s not just about the excitement of picking out baby names or the thrill of decorating a nursery. It’s about the constant fear that something might go wrong at any moment. It’s about holding your breath during every ultrasound, praying that you’ll see that little heartbeat on the screen. It’s about checking for the slightest sign that something isn’t right. It’s about being hyper-aware of every little thing you do, every food you eat, every move you make. It’s wondering if you’re eating the right foods, drinking enough water, avoiding the wrong things, all in the hope that nothing will jeopardize this fragile pregnancy.
Every day is a balancing act of hope and fear. I find myself checking her heartbeat, still not trusting that everything is okay. Even at 20 weeks, when we were halfway through the pregnancy, the anxiety didn’t subside. Each week, I went for another ultrasound, hoping that everything would still be perfect. I still couldn’t bring myself to buy the little things—the clothes, the toys—because the fear of losing her still overshadowed my every decision.
But as time passed, I began to let myself feel the tiniest bit of excitement. I bought the big things—a crib, a car seat, a stroller. I finally let myself pick out a few baby clothes. I began to decorate the nursery, creating a space that felt safe, that felt like a home for our baby. I had never done this before, and as much as it felt like a blessing, it also felt like a huge leap of faith.
Pregnancy after loss is a constant tug-of-war between fear and hope. Some days, I feel strong and hopeful, as though everything will turn out fine. Other days, I am consumed by worry, wondering if I’m doing enough to protect this pregnancy, if I’ve somehow jinxed myself by allowing myself to get too excited. There’s guilt, too. Guilt for feeling joy when I never got to hold the babies I lost. Guilt for getting attached to a baby I don’t know if I’ll ever meet. I feel like I’m betraying my lost babies by loving this one so fiercely.
But despite the fear, despite the anxiety, there’s also a sense of peace that comes with taking each day as it comes. Pregnancy after loss is draining—it’s not just physical exhaustion, but emotional exhaustion. There are so many what-ifs, so many ways things can go wrong. But there’s also a deep sense of gratitude for every moment I get to spend carrying this baby girl.
I’m more than halfway through this pregnancy now, and I still feel that same mix of fear and hope. I am cautiously excited, taking each moment as it comes, trying not to think too far
ahead. I am still scared, but I’ve learned to hold on to the hope that keeps me going.
Pregnancy after loss is not easy. It’s not what most people think of when they imagine pregnancy. It’s not all joy and excitement. It’s a journey that’s filled with pain, fear, and uncertainty—but also with immense strength, courage, and resilience. There are days when I want to give up, when I feel overwhelmed by the trauma of all that’s happened before. But then I feel her move, and I remember why I keep going.
For all the women who have walked this path of pregnancy after loss, you are not alone. Your fear, your anxiety, and your hope are valid. We carry the weight of our past losses with us, but we also carry the strength to keep going, one step at a time. And with each step, we grow closer to the blessing of a healthy, happy baby. Keep holding on, because the journey, though hard, is worth it.
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