The Thing No One Wants to Talk About

I'm 33 and I'm not to afraid to admit that I never thought I'd have a miscarriage

Despite knowing the statistics, I never really thought I’d experience pregnancy loss. I believed that being a healthy, active woman in my early 30s with relatively low-stress meant getting pregnant wouldn’t be an issue. I thought a miscarriage was something you could control. But, like so many things in life, we learn the hard way that control is just an illusion.

I’ll admit—whenever I saw the word miscarriage in an article or Instagram caption, I’d quickly swipe away. I didn’t want to face the fear of becoming part of that statistic. I didn’t want to admit it could happen to me. It felt safer to stay willfully ignorant, to keep that possibility out of my mind. And honestly? I have compassion for that version of me. It’s human to avoid pain and fear. But this experience has shown me that life has a way of confronting us with our deepest fears—and all we can do is face them.

And when we do, we discover a strength we didn’t know we had. We learn how to care for ourselves in ways we never needed to before. We expand our ability to hold both joy and sorrow, and we become more compassionate toward ourselves and others. So while you could look at this as a sad story you’d rather scroll past (which I’d totally understand), know that pain, as much as it costs us, also brings the gifts of wisdom, resilience, and growth.

The Pregnancy

Last fall, the very first month I tracked my cycle with my Oura ring, I noticed something unusual—my BBT levels stayed high when they should have dropped before my period. Not thinking much of it, I took a pregnancy test. Positive. In total disbelief, I took another. Also positive.

For that first month, my overwhelming feeling was shock. We weren’t actively trying, but deep down, I knew I was ready for this next phase of life—maybe more than I had admitted to myself. When it happened so unexpectedly, I thought the universe was answering a prayer I hadn’t yet spoken out loud.

But beneath the excitement, anxiety crept in. My thoughts spiraled: I’m not ready for this. I haven’t prepared. I don’t even have a doctor or a prenatal vitamin. What can I eat? What workouts are safe? The unknown paralyzed me.

I worked with my therapist to manage the fear. I visualized hearing a heartbeat, practiced positive affirmations, and constantly reminded myself that miscarriage was a possibility—telling myself it was to prepare, but really, I was trying to shield myself from disappointment. Looking back, I think a part of me knew something wasn’t right.

The Loss

I went into my 11-week appointment assuming everything was fine. I had normal pregnancy symptoms. People asked me if I “felt pregnant,” and I thought so—but how would I know?

Before the ultrasound, I started to cry. And when the screen showed nothing, and no heartbeat was found, the fear I had been pushing away for weeks became real.

Even though I had prepared myself for the possibility, nothing could have braced me for that moment. I felt shattered and numb all at once. It was emotional whiplash—first the shock of learning I was pregnant, then the devastation of learning I wasn’t going to be.

I had what’s called a blighted ovum—a chromosomal defect where a fertilized egg implants but never develops into a fetus. I had no idea there were different types of miscarriages or what happens after you find out your pregnancy isn’t viable. If you haven’t been through it, you don’t realize how many choices you have to make next.

The Miscarriage

I waited for my body to miscarry naturally. It didn’t. So I had to choose a medical option, something I never thought I’d have to do. The process took a month and ended in a painful, traumatic procedure I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

If you ever find yourself in this position, do your research before choosing a course of action. By the time I had to make a choice, I was so ready for the process to be over so I could move on, I didn’t consider it carefully enough. It honestly makes me angry that some of the options even exist, given what I went through.

Part of what made this experience so difficult was how isolating it was – I didn’t have someone to talk to who had been through it. If I’m honest, I don’t know if I’m ready to share this. But writing helps me to process, and if this post helps even one person feel less alone, I want to raise my hand and say, you can talk to me.

Beyond the medical side of it all, I felt betrayed by my body. Like I had failed at the one thing I was supposed to be able to do. I tried to do everything perfectly, but it didn’t matter. Doctors told me blighted ovum miscarriages are just a “fluke,” but that doesn’t make it less devastating. Not having answers—no way to fix it or guarantee it won’t happen again—left me feeling helpless.

Honestly, the hardest part to hold is the fear I’m left with. That this could happen again. That it could be worse next time. I admire every woman who is brave enough to try again. And I have deep love and understanding for those who choose not to, because reliving this pain feels unbearable.

The Healing

For the month I was actively miscarrying, I lost all hope. I couldn’t imagine a future where I had a healthy pregnancy. Hope felt dangerous. Hope felt unsafe. But when I was able, I let myself find comfort in knowing I had been there before. I survived losing my grandmother. I felt exuberant joy again after that loss, and I knew I would one day feel it after this one, too. I went back to the tools I used then to heal.

Meaning first and foremost, I gave myself as much love and compassion as I could.

• I didn’t judge myself for doing the bare minimum at work.

• I didn’t judge myself for lying on the couch, binging One Tree Hill and Love Island.

• I didn’t judge myself for skipping skincare, makeup, or clothing with buttons for weeks.

• I didn’t judge myself for taking daily walks instead of going to the gym for months.

Then, as I began to come out of my cocoon, I turned to things that felt comforting:

• I started reading When Things Fall Apart.

• Processing my emotions through tarot and a divination reading with Cody at So Damn Divine.

• Getting back to small self-care practices, like red light therapy and face masks.

• Seeking out fanfic books to escape into (Quicksilver and The Lady of Darkness series were my go-tos).

• Journaling through the ruminating thoughts.

• Scheduling walks with friends, a massage, and an appointment with my nutritionist.

• Easing back into the gym

• Taking my prenatals, and starting Ovarian Care, a supplement a friend gifted me.

• I deleted social media for a couple of weeks and muted triggering content.

I confided in the people I knew would support me and hold space for my anger, frustration and pain. And when I slowly started opening up, I felt the weight begin to lift. A friend brought us food that fed us for days. I received daily texts from family just letting me know they loved me. I was sent beautiful flowers to brighten our home. I am so grateful for the love and support I felt. Especially from Keegan, who has been by my side through it all.

Moving Forward

I keep checking in with myself to see what I need, and it’s different every day. It’s hard in the midst of a cross-country move, but that’s life, right? Everything happens at once, and life doesn’t stop because you’re grieving. In the midst of recalibrating from the life I briefly thought I would have, it feels like I’m also letting go of a part of me when I move back to Tennessee this month.

But luckily, I’m also seeing glimpses of what I’m gaining. The next time I’m pregnant, I won’t be so unprepared. I will keep living my life, for the most part, exactly the same – instead of turning my routine upside down. I might be a little more excited than scared, and hopefully more confident that no matter what happens, I’ll get through it.

As a triple-Scorpio, the death and rebirth process is a theme I’ve come to expect in my life. I feel like I’m in another Saturn return-level growth phase. But this time, I know that the depth of grief mirrors the depth of joy waiting on the other side. I wrote in my journal recently, “If I’m going to be miserable, I might as well become wise.” Everything we go through, all the pain and heartbreak, is never for nothing.

We learn, we grow, we expand our capacity to be with our emotions; whether it’s misery or elation. We have more capacity to sit with others in their time of need. We give more compassion towards something we didn’t used to understand. All there is to do is sit with it and move through it at your own pace. I know there’s a version of me in the future looking back at this time, giving me a big hug, saying, it’s all going to be okay.

I guess that means I have hope again.

Sharing something so fresh and vulnerable is not easy. But I also know that healing happens when we meet one another in the mud and accept the mess. If you’ve been through a pregnancy loss, know someone who has, or if you’re in it now—just know, you are not alone. There is nothing wrong with you. Don’t judge yourself for however you need to get through this time. And if you need to talk to someone who gets it, I’m here.