When I think back to that day, it still feels like my heart cracks all over again. I went into that ultrasound ready to fall in love with my baby’s picture, ready to hear that tiny heartbeat, ready to start planning how we’d tell everyone. I was expecting joy, not heartbreak. Instead, I sat there frozen as the doctor told me there was no heartbeat. Our baby was gone.
We went home, completely shattered. On March 14, 2017, I miscarried naturally. I was exactly ten weeks pregnant. Nothing could have prepared me for that kind of pain, the contractions, the sight of losing the tiny life I had dreamed about for weeks. My husband never left my side. He held me when I cried and didn’t try to fix it, just stayed. Emotionally, it was unbearable. Physically, it was brutal. I leaned on faith, even when it hurt, telling myself that somehow, someday, we would have our baby.
Nine months went by before I could even think about trying again. The pain never completely left, but I found strength in small ways. When I finally got pregnant again, I was thrilled scared, but thrilled. I let myself believe this was our turn. But just six weeks later, I started bleeding. I knew what was happening. I lost another baby. I got sick right after the flu, a fever that kept me in bed for days. Oddly enough, I was thankful for it. It distracted me from the ache in my heart. But when the fever broke, reality hit hard. I’d lost another child. I blamed myself for everything for not noticing sooner, for the wine I’d had, for the things I could’ve done differently. The guilt was suffocating.
Years later, when I took another pregnancy test, I could barely bring myself to look. Then I saw it, a faint pink line. I grabbed another test, the digital one, and waited what felt like an eternity. Then came the word: “PREGNANT.” I dropped to my knees and sobbed. I thanked God out loud. After everything we had been through, this was our third chance. I called my husband right away and told him to FaceTime me from work. When I showed him the test, the smile on his face was everything. I cried all over again.
Of course, after the excitement came the fear. I called the doctor the moment their office opened. They had me come in for blood work and started me on progesterone that night. Each week after that, I went back for more tests, praying that my numbers would rise and they did. Every result gave me a little more hope.
At six weeks, our baby was the size of a chocolate chip, that became our little one’s nickname. At eight weeks, we saw the heartbeat for the first time. 175 beats per minute. Strong and steady. I’ll never forget that sound. I think I held my breath through the whole appointment.
When week ten came, I was terrified. That was when we’d lost our first baby. But this time, everything looked perfect. I was nauseous, exhausted, sore and I loved it. Every symptom was a reminder that our baby was still with me.
By thirteen weeks, the fear started to fade. Morning sickness eased up, and my belly started to round out. We told our family and friends, and for the first time, I felt peace. I was carrying our rainbow baby, the promise God made after the storm.
Losing two babies changed me. It made me softer, more aware of how fragile and sacred this journey is. People don’t talk enough about how hard it can be just to get here, the waiting, the loss, the questions that sting. I’ve learned to be gentle with others because you never know what someone’s been through.
I miss my babies every day, but I also thank God for them. They taught me patience, faith, and strength I didn’t know I had. And when I finally held my rainbow baby, I understood that none of that pain was wasted. God didn’t forget me, He was preparing me.
