Every October, when the leaves start to change and the world feels softer, there are women whose hearts ache quietly. It’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, a time that pulls open wounds many try to hide. One of those women was Emmie, who had her first miscarriage at only eighteen. It was supposed to be the start of something beautiful. She had dreamed of being a mother her entire life, picturing the small hands she would hold and the laughter filling her home. Instead, she was left with silence. When she lost her pregnancy, she was heartbroken, but what hurt even more was what someone said to her afterward. They told her the miscarriage must have happened because she wasn’t married. The words were cruel, thoughtless, and unforgettable.
At an age when she should have been worrying about her future, Emmie was mourning a child she never got to meet. The pain stayed with her, shaping the woman she would become. By the time she turned twenty-two, life handed her another blow: a diagnosis of PCOS, a condition that can make pregnancy feel like an impossible dream. She met her husband, who brought light back into her life. He had twin daughters from a previous marriage, and she loved them dearly. Still, her heart longed to carry a child of her own. At twenty-three, she became pregnant again. Five weeks later, it was gone. Another miscarriage. Another round of condolences that didn’t feel like comfort. Someone told her that maybe God didn’t think she was ready. Those words, meant to soothe, only deepened her sadness. She didn’t need meaning; she required compassion.
Now twenty-six, Emmie’s story had turned into a long, exhausting fight against infertility. There were endless doctor visits, surgeries, and medications that took a toll on both her body and her mind. She learned she also had endometriosis. She battled depression, anxiety, and a growing feeling of isolation. Every failed test and empty ultrasound was another reminder of what she couldn’t control.
Her doctors said IVF was her best chance. But the twelve to fifteen thousand dollars cost made it seem unreachable. So she and her husband waited, praying and hoping, even when hope felt fragile. Meanwhile, the world kept moving. Friends and family members announced pregnancies. Teenagers and people struggling with addiction brought new life into the world without even trying. Emmie smiled through baby showers, handed out gifts, and said “I’m happy for you,” even when her voice cracked. The truth was, every new birth around her reminded her of what she had lost.
Miscarriage and infertility are silent battles. People don’t always know what to say, so they say “just relax” or “it’ll happen in God’s time.” They mean well, but the words sting. What women like Emmie need most is understanding, not advice. A hug. A text. A simple, “I’m thinking of you.” Emmie often thought back to her first miscarriage at eighteen, when people’s judgments made her feel small and undeserving. She wished more people knew that pregnancy loss isn’t about worthiness or timing or morality. It’s about grief, a kind of grief that lives in both the body and the soul. It’s the pain of missing someone you never got to meet.
She found comfort in connecting with other women who had walked the same road. They understood the heartbreak, the frustration, the hope that keeps flickering no matter how dark things get. They were the “one in four,” part of a sisterhood no one asks to join but many find strength within. Even now, when she sees pregnancy announcements or hears the laughter of little ones, her heart aches. But she doesn’t turn away. She believes that one day, her rainbow baby will come, and when it does, it will be the brightest part of her story. Not a replacement for what she lost, but a symbol of the love and resilience that carried her through.
Emmie’s journey through miscarriage and infertility is not just about pain. It’s about the quiet courage that lives in so many women. It’s about how loss can coexist with hope, and how healing doesn’t mean forgetting. For every woman who has faced miscarriage or infant loss, her story is a reminder that they are not alone. Their grief is valid, their love is real, and their strength is immeasurable.
