What not to expect when you’re expecting

I had a miscarriage last week. This essay is an attempt to understand it, to navigate the aftermath, and figure out my motivation for sharing it with you.

I know this is an uncomfortable conversation to have, and I fully appreciate that it might not be a subject you want to hear about. If that’s the case, I want you to quickly take advantage of the fact that the internet is a HUGE place and you can hop anywhere else if you need to – no hard feelings 😘 Quick, do it now.

I don’t have that option. I have to power through this mess, much to my own disappointment. In hindsight, disappointment might be the first way I’d describe the whole thing.

Pregnancy, I’ve learned, is a binary state. It doesn’t matter how early-days it is. There’s no such thing as being “sorta pregnant.” Once those two pink lines appear on the test, you’re it. Wholly, completely. You’re pregnant, and you continue to be pregnant until, suddenly and sometimes cruelly, you aren’t.

I found out I was expecting a little over a month ago and it was such an exciting time. We began imagining our daughter as a big sister. We were so ready for her to have a sibling, to expand our little family and fill our home with more chaos and more love.

Girl math or whatever.

But every doctor tells you to keep your expectations realistic. 12 percent of all pregnancies don’t make it. 25 percent of all pregnancies don’t make it. 33 percent of all pregnancies don’t make it. One in four pregnancies end in a miscarriage. ONE IN FOUR. Everyone has their own stats. Miscarriage rates vary. But the message is clear: It’s more common than we like to think.

Even as I was told those numbers, I thought – 12 percent? Not bad.

That means you’re more likely to make it than not. You’re more likely to be in the majority. 12 percent? I’ve rarely ever been in the top or bottom 12 percent for anything. I should be fine. We should be fine. 

It’s a curious thing, how we process information when our hopes and dreams are on the line. CS Lewis captured this phenomenon perfectly:

“You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you. It is easy to say you believe a rope to be strong and sound as long as you are merely using it to tie a box. But suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn’t you then first discover how much you really trusted it?”

In that moment, faced with all the numbers, I chose to trust.

And I did what anyone who’s holding onto a dream does: I threw myself headfirst into the joy of it. I thought about all the wonderful ways in which my life was going to change. I began spending a crazy amount of time thinking about February 2025, and how that date would become a part of my life. I prepared myself to be a mum of two – and of course, I told people.

I carefully-ish selected those I could trust with this precious news. Each time I shared it, it was a relief. As if by speaking it aloud, I was making it more real

Still, I felt a responsibility to prepare those I told for the worst, so I warned them that in the unlikely (but not impossible) event that bad news was coming, I’d have to share that with them too.

To share in my joy meant potentially sharing in my sadness. Ofc they were fine with that because I surround myself with only the best quality organic free-range kind of humans.

And I tried to remain hopeful through it. 

When you’re pregnant, you want to be in the majority for everything. You want to be textbook, average, typical. Not special in any way at all.

This was the second time I had zero morning sickness or unpleasant symptoms. The last time around, the doctor had congratulated me – “Most women have some kind of nausea,” she told me, her tone implying I should feel lucky. But all I could think was, “Please let me be like most women. I don’t want to be the exception. For anything.”

As I entered this pregnancy with no nausea, I hoped that this would be the only way in which I was the exception. I imagined myself as just another pregnant woman, unremarkable in the best possible way.

GRWM for the worst doctor’s appointment everrr ✨

I knew I wasn’t in the clear yet, and I was anxious. Those early weeks of pregnancy are a peculiar kind of limbo – you know you’re pregnant, but there’s no tangible proof beyond that little home test.

I hadn’t heard the heartbeat yet, that rapid whoosh-whoosh that makes it feel real. I hadn’t seen the flickering little fetus on a scan. My first scan had only involved making sure the embryo landed in the right place – and it did – one hurdle cleared.

We scheduled a second scan a few weeks later to finally confirm that the pregnancy was going to develop and progress. Weeks pass by so slowly when you’re expecting – expecting anything, really. 

I was ready to live from one scan to the next, always waiting for the next reassuring piece of news that things were going smoothly.

As the day of the second scan arrived, I switched between excitement and nerves. I was 9 weeks pregnant – still early, but long enough for me to believe this might really be happening.

I walked into the doctor’s office and those heavy moments of silence when the ultrasound device is placed on your lower abdomen and they move it around to find what they’re looking for, the most literal pregnant pause, when you and your doctor are silent and hopeful and where it feels like your entire heart lays bare and vulnerable and all that exists is the silent communion between patient and machine, I heard the words that shattered the fragile world I’d built.

“I’m not happy with what I’m seeing.”

It landed like a physical blow. There are so many places your mind wanders to once you hear the news you’re dreading. Should I not have traveled? Was it the drink I had before I found out? Did I jump too much on that trampoline? Was I too stressed out?

In my case, none of it mattered. The pregnancy had ceased to exist weeks ago, which means a couple of days after I began ‘expecting’, it was over. It felt like I was carrying a ghost.

I wanted to unhear those words. I wanted to go back in time to when I wasn’t pregnant at all because after all this time, I was exactly in the same place – not having a baby – except now I had the burden of all this disappointment.

I felt so removed from it all, like I was watching a sad movie about someone else’s life. And all I could think was, “I don’t have the time for this right now.”

What not to expect when you’re expecting

I had what’s called a missed miscarriage. It’s a term that feels like a cruel joke. It means you’ve had a miscarriage, but you weren’t supposed to find out. You have no symptoms of it, only the continuing signs of pregnancy. Your body, in its infinite wisdom, doesn’t know you’ve miscarried, and so you don’t either.

The only way you discover something is wrong is when someone else tells you.

There’s nothing quite as lame as audibly sobbing in a doctor’s office as this reality hits you. You feel like an absolute idiot, a fool who dared to hope. You knew the odds, didn’t you? You KNEW you had to prepare yourself for any outcome. But knowing and feeling are two entirely different things. 

“You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you.”

I discovered just how much I had trusted this to work out, and that part definitely made the disappointment so much worse.

You don’t want to wonder, “WHY ME?” but the question enters your mind anyway. And then those damn numbers come flooding back. One in four? It quickly morphs from “why me” to “why us?”

I didn’t sign up to be part of the worst girl group ever. No one does. Statistics offer little comfort when you find yourself on the wrong side of probability. Someone has to make up those numbers, and this time, it’s you.

I couldn’t even start the process of dealing with it right away because I had to travel the next day. So I carried on in this liminal state, of having miscarried but still carrying. Waiting for the unpleasant process of forcing my body to catch up with reality.

I walked around feeling like a fraud. I did everything I knew how to do to cope. I counted my blessings. I threw myself into work. I talked to my family and friends. I complained to God. I drank some wine.

And because I have a toddler at home, I knew that finding the time to fully process what happened would be nearly impossible. The demands of parenting left no room for prolonged introspection. You simply don’t have that luxury when you have to spend your days going here an oink, there an oink, everywhere an oink oink, but then came the pain.

I wasn’t prepared for the pain – the actual physical pain of a miscarriage – it feels like death passing through your body. The tablets you take force your uterus to contract, which I was told would be like a bad period. It was not. It was so, so much worse. I was huddled on the bed with a towel below me. Me, my strip of Dolo 650, and so much blood.

And the weird thing is this: As quickly as it began, it ended. The pain and process was over in days. It was a relief. I was surprised at how suddenly it was all over, and how quickly life seemed to snap back to its routine. I sometimes feel like I’m done being sad about it too. A week later, the disappointment feels a lot less jagged.

I really haven’t been sure of how to process all of it, and I get the feeling it’ll take me some time. There are moments when I’ve felt so, so normal, like all of it really was just a sad movie about someone else’s life.

I’ve also spent most of my scarce free time planning a holiday, which seems entirely unnecessary at this point, but it isn’t. Logistics, places to visit, flights, hotel bookings.

A component of heartbreak, I think, is having had all of your carefully made plans shattered. And just having to live with that. That’s why I want to make plans. To take back a tiny piece of control that was taken away from me. I want to plan something I can look forward to.

Okay – why is she telling us all this? Worst seven minutes ever.

I’ve been really stressed about sharing this deeply personal experience online. I didn’t have to do it. This experience isn’t something that necessarily needs to be out there for public consumption. I can’t even say I’ve spent weeks deliberating over this decision – everything happened just last week.

I kept my first pregnancy quite private, and except for a few essays here and there, I tend not to write about the details of motherhood that much either. I could allow time to dull the edges of this pain until it feels safer to share with others. But I didn’t.

So why am I publishing this gross and gory essay? Honestly, I’m not so sure. I’m still trying to understand my own motivations.

I’m not sharing this with others to seem brave or noble. I’m not trying to “normalize” miscarriage or educate the masses about a misunderstood issue. I’m not doing this so that others know they aren’t alone. Unfortunately, miscarriage is all too common for anyone to feel like they’re the only ones dealing with it.

Your mum, aunt, cousins, siblings, colleagues, I can guarantee some of them, if not all, have been through it. We’re FAR from alone in that sense. Paradoxically, miscarriage is also an intensely solitary experience. Even with the most supportive network of family and friends, at the end of the day, it’s just you.

I don’t know what I will accomplish by publishing this. All I know is that for someone who says they don’t need to talk about it, I’ve been talking about it a LOT. I’ve been talking to husband, my family, my friends. To random people that happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve been talking about it. 

I’m not one for suffering in silence. But still – I could stick to talking to people close to me and leave it at that. Unpacking it a public, open forum like this one, where anyone can make anything out of it, why?

There are two primary reasons:

First, I want to validate the existence of this pregnancy by carving out a permanent space for it in my corner of the internet. I want it to be as real as I can possibly make it. It happened to me. I want there to be a tangible record of it somewhere other than my mind and my medical history.

I’m aware that people might draw their own conclusions or make judgments about how I’m handling it, but I’m okay with that. There’s no truly ‘safe’ space in this world where we’re immune to others’ opinions. I’d rather open myself up to the possibility of being pleasantly surprised by people’s kindness when I have the opportunity to receive it – even if the opportunity comes with a risk.

Second, and this is perhaps the more complex reason: I’m doing this for attention. Yeah, attention.

For most of my life, I’ve internalized the idea that needing attention is inherently negative. It’s a character flaw, a sign of weakness or immaturity. Needing attention, especially from strangers on the internet, is embarrassing. It’s desperate. It’s low.

But I don’t really care. Out of all the things I could be wanting right now, attention isn’t the worst thing. Maybe that’s desperate, but so what? Out of all the things I could be right now, being desperate isn’t the worst thing. Not by a long shot. In fact, acknowledging this need feels surprisingly liberating.

Being sad, needy, clawing for a scrap of recognition for your pain and disappointment — it’s not a unique affliction. It’s a universal experience. We’ve all sipped from the same bitter cup in different ways. We’re hardwired for connection, for sharing our experiences, for seeking validation and understanding from others. Sometimes, that need manifests as a cry into the void, hoping for even the faintest echo in return.

Really friggin’ expensive hugs

At first, I thought this was my equivalent of holding up a ‘Free Hugs’ sign, but I soon realized, it’s the exact opposite.

I’m not holding up a sign that offers a lighthearted, low-stakes form of connection. No, what I’m doing is holding up a sign that says “Give me REALLY friggin’ expensive hugs.”

Hugs that come with a hefty emotional price tag. Hugs that require the giver to step into the murky waters of my reality. By telling you what I’m dealing with, you’re forced to confront it when you interact with me. It’s difficult and weird and uncomfortable for everyone involved. I’m aware of that. I’m aware of the weight of expectation I place on people as I talk about this stuff.

And this act of sharing is not solitary. It implicates others, including my husband, whose own grief becomes part of the narrative. I’m so grateful that he gives me the space and freedom to use my voice in ways that matter to me, even when his process looks so completely different from mine.

As I fumble my way through coping with this loss, I’m realizing there’s no roadmap for talking about it. There’s no guidebook that tells you how to feel, how to act, or how to respond when someone says, “I had a miscarriage.” And honestly, that lack of a script doesn’t bother me. I don’t expect people to know the right thing to say because I don’t know what I want to hear. I don’t even know what I’m feeling half the time.

Not everyone has to grieve a miscarriage. Some people might feel relieved. I’m pretty sure most feel sad. For some, that sadness passes quite quickly. Others carry it with them forever. My experience and feelings are in no way universal. Also, because it has been such a recent thing for me, I have no wisdom or insight to impart either.

As I write, I’m starting to think that I haven’t even begun to start grieving this because your girl is a grade-A procrastinator.

I don’t know if I’ll have to grieve this. I don’t want to. Grieving sucks. It’s such a serious word. I hate it. I hate the futility of the process. I hate the idea that I might have to put in so much effort just to feel exactly the way I felt before all this happened to me. The thought of putting in all that work only to return to baseline is just so dumb.

It feels like someone coming in and trashing your house. The best outcome, after tons of work, is getting back to where you were to begin with. All the sweat and effort you put into cleaning up doesn’t give you a better house. It’s the same old house, and you’re just more tired. 

After I put in all this emotional labor, the best I can hope for is to reclaim a sense of normalcy? There’s no growth or improvement? What a waste of time. All pain, no gain.

Grief is love’s last offering

I like the idea of that – of grief as a final gift from the love we’ve lost.

I know I’ll have to eventually accept that turning away from grief would mean turning away from the love that came before it. It would mean denying the reality of what was, however fleeting.

This understanding doesn’t make the pain any less, but at least it gives it some purpose. When it makes no sense to me why the loss of this thing – this thing that happened to me for SUCH a short time – hurts more than I expect it to, I feel like this perspective helps. It’s because I loved that much and hoped that much. Even for just a short time.

I’m not glorifying suffering or suggesting that we should wallow in our pain in order to establish just how much love was there. I’m just acknowledging that this feeling, as uncomfortable and unwanted as it is, probably has its roots in something beautiful.

And this won’t have to hurt forever. I’m hoping that soon it won’t feel so thorny to think about the events of last week. With time, I hope I’ll be able to reflect on it and honor this memory in many nice and happy ways.

All that is for later. For now, I’m just accepting this as part of my story.

Okay give me my really friggin expensive hug.