The part nobody tells you about miscarriage

Some of you will know that I've been moving through something over the last couple of weeks.

I've shared little pieces of it here and there, but I wanted to put the whole experience somewhere a little more intentionally.

Because I've been navigating a world where I still have to show up.

As a mother, at work, for my family, for the day-to-day mundane things that don't stop just because your world has quietly shifted underneath you.

All while simultaneously mentally processing a miscarriage, and physically, veryyyyy slowly, experiencing one too.

And honestly, what a fucking experience.

There is this weird unwritten rule when you get pregnant that it's best not to tell too many people until you're in the "safe zone".

Because a lot of pregnancies don't make it past the first 12 weeks.

And I understand why this has become the norm. I really do.

Some people want those first precious weeks to themselves. Some people don't want to have to share their news if things don't work out. Some people simply aren't ready for the world to know yet.

And I think that's completely okay.

But I've found myself questioning why we have come to feel like we need to keep pregnancy quiet until we know it's going to be okay.

Because if it isn't okay, then what?

I personally wish we'd talk about it more.

Not because I think everyone should share their pregnancy early, but because I think there should be just as much space for the loss if it happens.

For me, having people know has meant I've had support around me when I've needed it most.

Is it awkward when someone runs up to you with an excited, "OMG congratulations!" when you've just lost your baby, and you then have to tell them, Well... actually, this part isn't great...

But I have also been so deeply heard and held by the women I've had to break that news to.

And something I wasn't expecting was just how many people would quietly say, "I've been through this too."

I've genuinely been surprised by the number of people I know who are in this club that nobody wants to be in.

And it has made me think about how important it is that we speak about pregnancy loss more openly.

Not because everyone needs to share their experience.

But because when we do speak about it, we realise just how many of us are carrying these stories.

The bond begins long before you meet them

I think it's important that people understand that even if we only carried this life for a few weeks, a deep bond and connection had already been formed.

The way a mother, and father, can love a child they haven't even met yet is something that happens so deeply and so quickly.

You start imagining who they are.

What they'll look like.

Who they'll become.

How they'll fit into your family.

You imagine your other children meeting them.

You imagine the future.

You make plans.

You begin creating space for someone you've never held in your arms.

And then suddenly, you're grieving a whole future that you had already started to imagine.

I had no idea what miscarriage actually looked like

I think this has been one of the biggest things I've taken away from this experience.

I knew people who had miscarried, I knew miscarriage was common.

But I was so naive to what the actual experience could look and feel like.

I had no idea how drawn out a miscarriage could be when it is a "silent" or "missed" miscarriage.

There were no sharp pains.

No bleeding.

No obvious sign that anything was wrong.

My body continued to act pregnant.

I still had pregnancy symptoms.

And it did this for weeks.

At our first scan, I should have been almost nine weeks pregnant.

Instead, they measured the pregnancy at 5 weeks and 4 days and told us there was no heartbeat yet.

They asked us to come back in two weeks.

I left completely puzzled.

I was calculating everything in my head because I had known I was pregnant for 21 days.

How could I only be 5 weeks and 4 days?

That would have meant I'd somehow known I was pregnant before implantation had even happened.

We sat in the car and I let it sink in.

I looked at Cody and told him that the baby had stopped growing.

There was no possible way I'd known I was pregnant for as long as I had and that the scan was correct.

The grief and numbness that hit me sitting in that car was overwhelming.

I fell apart.

And somewhere inside me, I knew our baby had quietly slipped away.

The worst part was knowing we had to wait another two weeks for confirmation.

So we grieved.

We rode the wave of all the emotions that followed.

And then, about a week later, the blood and some cramps came.

Except the process would start...

and stop.

Then start...

and stop again.

So for a week, I slowly tried to miscarry while still showing up to work and acting like everything was okay.

Eventually we moved the scan forward.

They confirmed there was no growth and that the baby was smaller.

The hospital then called and told me they couldn't legally help me progress the physical miscarriage because my scan hadn't reached the two-week mark.

Arrrrgh.

So a few days later, I was booked in for a third scan to tell me what we already knew.

I spent half my day at the hospital and then went into the weekend knowing that a painful miscarriage was coming.

I had no idea.

No idea that this could be the process.

No idea how long it could take.

No idea how much waiting there could be.

No idea that you could be grieving a baby who had already died while your body was still carrying on as though everything was completely normal.

And then I got frustrated and fell into a bit of a dark space

I've battled with feeling unheard throughout this experience.

I knew something wasn't right, but I was being told that what I was experiencing was "normal".

I felt gaslit by the experts when my own intuition was telling me something different.

Eventually I reached out to my GP.

He listened, he took me seriously and he sent me for further tests.

And sure enough, I hadn't miscarried everything.

I had an infection.

I'm sharing this part because I think it's important.

Advocate for yourself or tell someone who will!

Ask questions.

Speak up when something doesn't feel right.

You know your own body.

You might not always know exactly what is happening, but you know when something feels off.

And I wish I'd known before all of this just how important that could be.

I'm grateful to my big sister for stepping in and getting me an urgent GP appointment when I felt too broken to keep trying.

So why am I sharing this?

Because I don't want miscarriage to be something we only whisper about.

I don't want women to feel like they have to disappear for a few weeks and quietly put themselves back together before they're allowed to talk about it.

I don't want people to feel like they need to protect everyone else from their grief.

And I don't want someone sitting in a hospital waiting room, completely unaware of what is about to happen, thinking they are the only person who has ever felt this way.

Maybe talking about it doesn't change what happened.

It doesn't bring our baby back.

It doesn't make the physical experience any easier.

But it can make the experience feel a little less lonely.

I've been held by women who shared their stories with me.

Women I never knew had been through this.

Women who understood without me needing to explain every feeling.

And maybe that's the gift of speaking about the things we have been taught to keep quiet.

Someone else hears your story and thinks:

Oh. Me too.

So this is me adding my story to the pile.

Not because I've figured it all out.

Not because I've found some beautiful lesson in it yet.

I'm still in it.

Still grieving.

Still processing.

Still healing.

But maybe someone who is going through this right now will read it and feel a little less alone.

And if that's all this post does, then I think it's worth sharing.

xx Rach