“My husband and I had been trying to start a family for a while. In 2015, we lost a baby, and the heartbreak stayed with us for years. After taking some time to heal, we finally decided to try again. Every negative test felt like another wave of defeat—but then, one day, the two pink lines appeared. We were overjoyed, filled with hope, and couldn’t wait to share the news with our family and friends. Just a couple of weeks after sharing our excitement, I discovered I was miscarrying. That devastating loss came on May 4th, 2018, the day before my 25th birthday.
We grieved, but we refused to give up. As soon as I was able, we began trying again, tracking everything meticulously. A few months later, we discovered we were expecting our rainbow baby. I remember holding the test in my trembling hands, tears of joy streaming down my face. I immediately scheduled an appointment to confirm the pregnancy. It was confirmed—but then came the first of many challenges. My doctor wanted to monitor my HCG levels, and when the results came back, they were not rising as expected. My heart sank. They said my pregnancy was not viable.
I collapsed, crying, and soon after began spotting. The bleeding worsened, and I called my doctor, desperate for answers. I begged to have my hormone levels tested, hoping to understand why I kept losing pregnancies, but my request was initially refused. I grieved at home, both emotionally and physically, the pain almost unbearable. The next day, I insisted again, and finally, my progesterone levels were checked—extremely low, and still nothing could be done.
When my bleeding escalated to the point I could barely walk, I went to the emergency room, clutching a sticky note for comfort that read, ‘Exodus 23:26 – no one shall suffer miscarriage or be barren in your land.’ At the ER, the ultrasound showed a completed miscarriage. Confused by conflicting test results, I left the hospital feeling numb and devastated.
Determined to seek better care, I scheduled an appointment with a new OB-GYN. From the moment I met him, I broke down in tears, and he reassured me, promising to help figure out my past losses and guide me through this pregnancy. The next ultrasound, with my husband holding my hand, was terrifying. I braced myself for the worst. The technician moved the Doppler in silence, and I stared at the ceiling, trying not to look at the screen. Then she smiled and pointed to a tiny flicker. “That little flicker,” she said, “is your baby’s heartbeat.” I couldn’t believe it. Was it real? Could it be true? My husband squeezed my hand, smiling through his own disbelief, and for the first time in weeks, hope sparked in my heart.
My doctor confirmed the baby was healthy, though he couldn’t explain why I had been bleeding. “Trust in the man upstairs,” he told me. Still, the fear lingered. The next days were a rollercoaster: heavy bleeding, passing large clots, and yet, somehow, my baby held on. We prayed together every night, and every morning my husband would kneel beside me before leaving for work, praying for me and our child. The sticky note traveled with me everywhere, a small anchor of faith and comfort.
Weeks went by with no clear explanation for the bleeding, but each ultrasound revealed the same miracle: our baby was a fighter. Slowly, the bleeding stopped, and the rest of the pregnancy unfolded beautifully. At 37 weeks, I was induced due to ICP—Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy, a condition that can endanger the baby and often requires early delivery.
Finally, on March 23rd, our miracle arrived: Emerson Joshua Carr, healthy, happy, and perfect in every way. He is the embodiment of hope, a rainbow after heartbreak, and a daily reminder that miracles happen when least expected. Every tear, every fear, every moment of uncertainty was worth it for him. He is our misdiagnosed miscarriage, our little fighter, and our whole world.
All of the pain and fear now feels distant, and I would go through it all a million times over for him.”
