I cannot find the words to properly explain the joy that explodes inside you when you finally see the word “Pregnant” on that little blue test. It’s a joy that feels impossible to contain, the kind that makes your heart beat faster and your stomach flutter in ways no other news ever has. I cannot find the words to capture the gratitude, the awe, and the quiet pride in watching your body change day by day, week by week—transforming into a home, a vessel, a safe space for new life to grow. I cannot find the words to describe the giddiness in having not just one, but two little buddies nestled inside you, moving with you, dancing with you, filling your days with whispered conversations and tiny kicks that feel like love letters.
And yet, I cannot find the words to explain the grief—the staggering, all-encompassing grief—of losing first one, then, in an unimaginable turn, both little lives you carried so fiercely. A grief that reshapes everything: your view of the world, your steps through it, your very heartbeat. Life before our twins and life after our twins are not the same; they are divided by a line that cannot be erased.
This past summer, my husband Luke and I discovered we were pregnant. It was the miracle we had prayed for, longed for, and dreamed of for years. The blue word on that test—small, simple, yet so utterly profound—brought a joy I cannot fully describe. It was an otherworldly feeling, a happiness that made me gasp, laugh, and cry all at once.
I woke that morning at 6:21 a.m., inexplicably filled with urgency. Something inside me demanded that I take the test right then. Moments later, I was sprinting to Luke, nearly shaking with excitement, waking him like a child waking siblings on Christmas morning. There was no chance for a Pinterest-perfect “You’re Going to Be a Daddy” reveal—no hidden camera, no dramatic build-up. I was too giddy to hold back a single second. The Pfleiderer house, for those few short weeks, radiated a joy that is impossible to replicate—every corner infused with anticipation, laughter, and love.
And then, heartbreak.
Yes… that Luke Latte, the famous latte sketch that captures every meaningful moment, once showed a pregnant Kelsey. But no latte, no photograph, no social media post could have prepared us for the storm that followed. Losing Milo and Mila was an experience that left a scar, a permanent reshaping of our lives. The grief was unlike anything we had imagined. It was immediate, unrelenting, and utterly isolating.
There is a line I didn’t think anyone could cross with words during this time. All the phrases in the world—“I’m so sorry,” “It will get better,” “You can try again”—felt small and inadequate. Yet, my dear friend Emily proved me wrong. She reached out, tears streaming, her voice shaking as she said, “Gosh… Kel. I am just so, SO sorry you two are walking through this. But I’m comforted thinking of those babies watching from above… seeing all you and Luke are doing, all you will continue to do. They are proud. They are astonished by the love and strength you have. You make them proud, Kel. And you always will.”
Her words pierced through the fog of my grief, becoming a mantra I cling to every day.
When I was pregnant, I carried a responsibility that sometimes felt heavier than the world itself. I hydrated obsessively, ate carefully, studied every symptom, moved in precisely measured ways, spoke softly to the babies, prayed, and hoped to be everything they needed. And now, after their loss, a new responsibility has emerged: to live in a way that honors Milo and Mila. To carry their memory, their names, their love into every day I have left. To make them proud in ways that extend far beyond the womb.
I will fight to celebrate their lives. I will fight to say their names—despite a world that often urges silence. I will fight for all parents who experience the indescribable combination of immense joy and profound grief, only to find themselves hushed by societal expectations. Society wants you to keep your story private, to hide away, to avoid speaking of babies you loved fiercely for weeks, months, or even years before they were taken. But I say: speak their names. Share your story. Celebrate their lives. Live loudly in their honor.
It has been over a month since we lost Milo and Mila. I think about them constantly. And as I think of them, I think of other mothers, other parents of angel babies. I speak to our babies every single day, sometimes softly, sometimes with the grief so raw I can barely breathe. Today, I want to reach out to you, Momma Who Just Miscarried.
You will grieve this child, this baby you longed for, forever. The world will feel unsteady, tilted on an unfamiliar axis, and that is because your life has truly shifted. You will not “get over it,” and you shouldn’t. Your grief is valid. Your sorrow is sacred. My own grandmother, a woman who rarely allows her emotions to surface, still chokes up when recalling her angel baby—50 years later. One Christmas in Ohio, sitting in a small restaurant, she shared her story with my sister and me through tears, her face illuminated by festive lights, every emotion raw and pronounced. If she can grieve decades later, so can we. So must we.
The babies we carry in our wombs may leave us physically, but their presence remains. We shared every day with them, every heartbeat, every whisper, every tender moment. Now, as we grieve, if we let ourselves, they guide us. They guide us to speak, to celebrate, to be strong, to share, and to live with purpose. They guide us to make them proud in ways that only a parent can.
Grief is strange, wild, unpredictable. Sometimes it feels like a crushing wave, a heavy elephant pressing down on your chest. Sometimes it feels like you are floating on springs, inexplicably buoyed. One second you are fine; the next, you are collapsed on the floor, sobbing in a spiral of loss. It is chaotic, confusing, relentless—and yet, it is love. A love that is as raw as it is eternal. And it is okay to feel it fully, to let it wash over you, to ride those waves. But never ride them alone.
Invite your spouse, your partner, a trusted friend, into these waves. Let them carry you, let them cry with you, let them hold you through the storm. Let yourself be vulnerable. Let them help you find shore.
As you share your story, remember this: almost everyone who comments, who reaches out, who responds to your grief, does so from love. But love is messy. And grief is uncomfortable for them. They may say:
- “At least you know you can get pregnant.”
- “At least you weren’t further along.”
- “Maybe don’t tell anyone.”
- “Just try again.”
- “Maybe your body couldn’t do it.”
Or worse… they may say nothing at all.
Every well-meaning comment that stings is a reflection of love, fear, and helplessness. People want to fix it. They want to take away the pain because they love you. They cannot. So educate them, guide them, and hold your space. Just as your babies are guiding you now, you guide those around you through the truth of your loss.
Nothing anyone says can truly take away the grief. But remember Emily’s words:
“I am so, so, so sorry you are walking through this. But I am comforted thinking of those babies watching from above… getting the best view of all you two are doing and will continue to do. They are astonished by the rock stars their parents are. You make them proud, and you always will.”
So, momma, be diligent with yourself. Care for yourself with the same intensity and devotion you carried them. Eat. Sleep. Cry. Laugh. Speak. Listen. Say their names. Dream of who they would have been. Share your story. Keep their memory alive in every possible way.
I remember sitting on the crinkled white paper in my midwife’s office, utterly hysterical. She looked at me and said, “Kelsey, this isn’t your fault. This is so, so common. You feel alone because so many others have walked this road. You feel alone because nobody allows themselves to talk about it.”
And I realized, right then, that I would change that.
I will honor Milo and Mila by living fully, by speaking freely, by grieving openly, and by loving fiercely. Make them proud, momma—you already have. And you will continue to do so, every day.
With big, warm, I-feel-you-and-I-am-so-so-sorry hugs,
KP
