The grief of miscarriage: Sharing the story of the babies she lost

Hearing only silence where there used to be a heartbeat can be devastating to the expecting couple. — Freepik

It started, as many beautiful stories do, with a simple test and two pink lines.

A decade of marriage, a wonderful son and a family that felt complete.

My husband and I weren’t actively trying for a second child; our belief was that if it was meant to be, it would happen in its own time.

And so, we were surprised, but cautiously excited, to find out we were expecting.

This time, after a difficult history with miscarriage, we allowed ourselves to feel a glimmer of hope.

We passed the 12-week mark, shared the news with our ecstatic families and saw the pure joy on our son’s face at the thought of a sibling.

Third time hopeful

My first two miscarriages were a world away from this experience.

The first, in 2018, four years after our first child, was a chemical or ectopic pregnancy – a brief and silent loss that left me feeling more confused than anything.

The second, three years later, ended at nine weeks.

We had heard the heartbeat; we had seen the tiny life on the screen.

The grief was real, but it was a private pain, known only by my husband and me.

We picked up the pieces and moved on, as so many people do, because that’s what we are taught to do: to be strong.

But the miscarriage I endured last year was different.

This one had a name, a little heartbeat we had seen just weeks earlier at our 15-week scan.

We had been so careful, so hopeful.

I ate well, took every supplement that was recommended and prayed every day for a miracle.

Yes, I was a little over 40, but there were many women having children later in life and I could be one of them, if we were careful.

We had shared our news, a sign of our hope and newfound confidence.

We had finally allowed ourselves to dream.

A heartbeat gone

The dreams shattered at the 19-week scan.

One look at the doctor’s face and I knew. 

The room went silent.

The tiny heartbeat was gone. 

Our baby had passed away two weeks earlier.

What followed was a reality I was completely unprepared for.

Unlike a D&C (dilation and curettage) procedure that had been an option with my earlier losses, a natural delivery was my only choice this time.

The irony was devastating.

To endure the physical pain of labour without the ultimate reward – a baby to hold – felt like a cruel twist of fate.

It was a day of unimaginable pain, both physical and emotional, followed by the silent emptiness of a hospital room.

The weeks that followed were a blur of grief.

I was physically okay, but emotionally, I was a wreck.

Crying spells, a pervasive sense of emptiness and the heavy burden of holding it together for my son.

This time, the sadness was deeper, more tangible.

It was no longer a secret. Friends and family knew, and their love and support became my lifeline.

Breaking the silence

In Malaysia, and in many parts of the world, we don’t talk about miscarriage enough.

In some instances, it is even passed off as “something that just happens”.

It’s a silent struggle; a lonely journey often endured behind closed doors.

We women are told to be strong, to “just move on”.

But grief doesn’t work like that. It’s not something you get over; it’s something you learn to carry.

I am sharing my story not for pity, but for purpose.

I want to tell every woman who has experienced a loss, no matter how early, that your grief is valid.

You are not alone.

And to the wider community, I hope this piece encourages more compassion and understanding.

A miscarriage is not just a medical event; it is the loss of a future, the end of a dream.

It is okay to not be okay.

I still carry the weight of my experiences and loss.

The pain, while duller, is a permanent part of me.

They say everything you endure makes you stronger, but truth be told, I never asked for this kind of strength.

I have learned to live with the pieces of my broken heart, forever grateful for the son I have and trusting in a higher Plan I don’t always understand.

My hope is that by talking about our stories, we can lift the veil of silence and create a space where healing can truly begin.

*Initials used to preserve the writer’s privacy.

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