Miscarriage is not the quiet, polished version whispered in hospital rooms, but the raw, messy, confusing kind that lingers long after the doctors have said it’s over. The belly still looks pregnant, even when it isn’t. The body refuses to accept the loss, holding on to hormones that haven’t yet gotten the memo. It’s the bloated stomach reflected in the mirror, the faint pregnancy line slowly fading, and the heavy ache in the chest that no amount of sleep can touch.
It’s the small rituals that feel cruel now, the prenatal vitamins still sitting on the counter, the tea bought in excitement but never drunk once the warning about hibiscus came. It’s the bottle of wine that was supposed to celebrate good news but instead dulls the ache for just a moment. For her, miscarriage has never been a single event. It has been six of them. Six moments of hope rising like a tide, and six times watching that hope wash away. Each one has left its own quiet scar. Each one has reshaped how she sees joy, love, and faith.
She remembers the first time clearly, the way she walked through the waiting room with red eyes, trying not to meet the gaze of the blissfully pregnant women around her. That walk has become familiar, a painful ritual. The kind where mascara streaks don’t even surprise her anymore. Behind those tears is a woman who once glowed with anticipation, who now braces herself whenever she hears the words, “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat.”
She has learned that miscarriage is not just physical. It’s emotional, spiritual, and isolating. It’s the strange guilt of feeling joy for others expecting, while mourning the life that didn’t make it. It’s the ache of seeing a due date pass that will never arrive. It’s the space in the closet where a baby’s outfit still hangs, tags untouched.
But miscarriage is not only a loss. It is also love. It’s the list of names written in her mirror, the women she prays for, and those who have known the same ache. Some of those names are now crossed off, replaced by stories of babies finally born. That brings her hope. Miscarriage has taught her that motherhood doesn’t start with birth. It begins with love, with the beating heart that grows inside and the one that keeps breaking afterward. It has shown her that grief and gratitude can live in the same breath. Because while her arms may not be full, her faith and strength are.
She has learned to find purpose in pain and turn loss into light. Every story she shares reaches someone who thought they were alone, someone scrolling late at night with the same ache in their chest. It’s not easy to open those wounds to the world, but she does it anyway, believing pain doesn’t have to be wasted.
There was a moment, on a plane ride home from Texas, after her fourth miscarriage, when tears refused to stop. Somewhere between exhaustion and surrender, she felt something like peace, a whisper in her heart telling her this was part of her story. That moment changed everything. She decided to let her grief have meaning. In time, that surrender led her somewhere unexpected. She and her husband opened their home as foster parents, welcoming two little boys who filled it with laughter again. They became living reminders that love can find its way through any door, even the one grief tried to close. Now, after six miscarriages, she still doesn’t have all the answers. The ache is still there. But so is faith. So is hope. She believes purpose grows out of pain when we refuse to let it end in silence.
This is a miscarriage, in all its heartbreak and honesty. It is loss that shapes, love that endures, and faith that insists light will find its way through the cracks. Because even in the shadow of loss, a story is still being written, one of strength, compassion, and the quiet, stubborn beauty of hope.
