Disclaimer: This story includes images and descriptions of miscarriage that may be triggering to some readers.
It feels almost surreal to be sitting here, typing these words. I don’t think any woman ever imagines she’ll be the 1 in 4. We all quietly hope it never happens. From the moment that test reads positive, a flood of emotions takes over. Among them, perhaps the one we feel most but refuse to acknowledge is fear. So, we choose hope. We choose joy. We choose to believe that everything will be okay…until it isn’t.
I want to start by acknowledging every woman who has experienced this, in whatever form. Some have endured worse, some perhaps similar, some even with quicker or calmer journeys. I see you. I honor your pain. This is my story, and the way I’ve chosen to honor my Little One, no matter what they were called medically.
Mama prayed for you day and night. From the moment I learned I was pregnant, you were mine. That will always be what matters. On July 2nd, my prayers were answered. I sat in the immediate care room with my baby boy and oldest niece, Sofia, feeling sick for over three weeks with migraines, fevers, and constant nausea. Even in the discomfort, the realization that my period was late brought a spark of joy.
After providing a urine sample—an anxious feat in itself—the doctor came in. Seeing her brought calm. She had treated my son before, a “strong, sweet” woman who exuded reassurance.
“Based on your symptoms,” she said, “it’s best to head to the hospital for more in-depth tests.” As I nodded, a nurse quietly mentioned a test result: positive. “Oh! And you’re pregnant! That’s why you’ve been feeling so lousy!” I will never forget that moment. Tears streamed down my face, much to Sofia’s surprise, and the doctor smiled warmly.
“Happy tears?” she asked. “Yes,” I whispered, “I’ve been trying for so long.” She laughed. “Well, congratulations, Mama!” That day, multiple confirmations later, I floated on cloud nine.
Though I had planned to wait until three months to share the news, my happiness couldn’t be contained. That evening, I told my husband. Shock, joy, and tears followed. The next person I shared it with was my sister, Val. Her reaction—genuine delight—added to my excitement. One by one, I shared the news, saving my mom for a surprise when she returned from traveling. But fate had other plans.
Three weeks later, after what now seems like a trivial argument with my husband, my body betrayed me. Around an hour after our disagreement, sharp pelvic pain struck. I panicked. Two days later, an ultrasound revealed nothing. The nurse’s words—cold and brief—confirmed what my heart feared: nothing there. My symptoms persisted, yet my baby wasn’t visible. Anger and heartbreak collided within me. I told my husband and sister not to speak of this pregnancy again.
That day, I tried to immerse myself in my son’s world: breakfast, play, laughter. I called my mom, sobbing, longing for her presence. Then, a glimmer of hope: test results confirmed growth. My baby wasn’t gone. I put on my “spiritual armor,” praying and fasting with a faith I’d never known I could summon. I fought with everything I had, protecting my baby in every way I could.
The weeks that followed were filled with battles—within my church, within my family—but I clung to faith and positivity. Then, two weeks later, red appeared. Another ultrasound confirmed what I had dreaded: miscarriage. I held my husband close as tears streamed from both of us. Pain and silence enveloped us.
In the weeks that followed, grief took many forms. There were moments when I screamed in anguish, my heart breaking in ways I could never have imagined. Yet, even in that darkness, family became my anchor. My sister and her family, my mom and dad, showed up in ways that reminded me that love endures. My husband held me, never faltering, through moments I never thought I could survive.
Finally, my body fully released the pregnancy while I sat at a nail salon—a moment both raw and intense. Tears and blood, yet an incredible strength surged through me. I cleaned myself up, returned to the manicure chair, and carried on with my life, holding my grief and faith side by side.
It has been over two months since then. Some days, I still imagine the life my little one would have had, the ways she might look, the laughter and love we would have shared. But I have also grown softer, gentler, and more resilient. My faith has deepened. I understand now that God is still good. My baby, my Little One, is in His embrace, where she knows Mama’s love beyond measure.
To every woman who has walked this path: feel what you need to feel. Cry. Rage. Heal. Surround yourself with goodness. You are a warrior, and your journey—your pain and your triumph—is part of a testimony the world needs to witness.
