My husband and I had been together for 14 years, and we deeply wanted children. But between 2013 and 2017, my life was shaped by repeated loss – four miscarriages that quietly, yet profoundly, altered the trajectory of both my personal and professional world.
Each loss left its own wound, but I rarely spoke about them. I didn’t feel like I could – there wasn’t time, and I didn’t have the words. Life moved on, and I moved with it, so I tucked the grief away and never fully processed it. But the silence wasn’t just mine – it was mirrored in the medical care I received, which was cold, clinical, and often dismissive – true compassion was rare.
One miscarriage stands out – the fourth. It was incredibly painful. The doctor used a clinical term for it: “spontaneous abortion”. The language felt so detached. It didn’t come close to capturing the pain or the emotional weight I was carrying. One even told me flat out that miscarriages don’t hurt. When the world doesn’t make space for your grief, or worse, gaslights you into believing there’s no grief to feel, you learn to endure quietly, holding it all together on the outside, while unravelling within.
Ironically, though my work sits at the intersection of music and psychology – while helping others find their voice, I couldn’t find space for my own. The experience left me profoundly vulnerable and painfully alone. With each miscarriage, I grieved not just the pregnancy, but the future I had imagined as a mother. Despite years of love and marriage, I found myself childless, with a trail of heartbreak behind me.
The grief was made heavier by quiet shame and the silent assumption by others that I was choosing career over motherhood, when in truth, I was longing for children I couldn’t carry. Beneath it all was a helplessness I couldn’t escape, no amount of hope could make a pregnancy hold. It was beyond my control.
Between two heartbeats
Everything changed after I had my daughter. Thanks to a GP who recognised the uniqueness of my shorter 24-day cycle, which meant a narrower window for implantation, and prescribed a low dose of progesterone at five weeks, my body finally had the extra time it needed and in 2018, I was able to carry my daughter to full term and fulfill my dream of becoming a mother.
When I became pregnant again in 2020, I was overjoyed. Having already embraced motherhood, I felt a deep bond with the baby boy we had begun to imagine and love. But at six weeks, the bleeding began. The physical and emotional toll was immense – I was in and out of hospital, and though there were signs of growth, a heartbeat never came.
For nearly three months, I lived in painful limbo, desperately hoping each scan would bring good news. Eventually, doctors confirmed the baby had passed and required surgical removal. By the time surgery was scheduled, this fifth miscarriage broke something within me.
To grieve and begin healing, I took a difficult but necessary three-day solo retreat, the first time I’d left my daughter and husband. At home, there was no space for my grief; I was expected to be strong for everyone.
In a new environment, I finally allowed myself to stop. To cry. To rest. To feel. To write. To sit in silence and just be, as a woman who had lost something deeply sacred. I met other women carrying their own stories of infant loss, fertility struggles, shame, and silence. I thought, you too? That gave me a kind of permission I didn’t know I needed – to speak my story aloud to people who could simply listen and understand. And as I did, I felt the weight of my own shame start to lift. I realised how common this pain is, and how rarely we give it a voice.
That sacred pause changed everything. It marked the beginning of reclaiming my voice, processing unresolved grief and it prepared me for the arrival of my second daughter.
When I became pregnant again, I was no longer the same woman. I had learned to advocate for myself and sought care that genuinely honoured my experience. I knew I had the right to speak up, to ask questions, and to be taken seriously.
In 2021, I welcomed my second daughter, once again supported by progesterone, which helped me carry to full term. And this time, I entered motherhood with clarity, strength, and the grounding power of finally being truly seen.
When I experienced miscarriages, I kept wondering what was wrong with me. Growing up, I had such a simplistic view of fertility: you get married, you decide to have a baby, you get pregnant, and that’s it. I was unaware of things like luteal phases or how to track ovulation properly. It wasn’t until much later that I understood the complexity of my own body.
No more silence
But through sharing and listening to others, I came to understand there was nothing wrong, miscarriage is a common part of many women’s reproductive journeys, and grief can come in waves, even years later, and that’s okay too.
I now know real healing happens in person. In circles. In safe spaces. When women speak, listen, and hold each other. Storytelling is sacred. When we speak truth, we create freedom. For ourselves. For each other. Yes, I still carry sorrow. That ache never fully leaves. But I feel grateful. Fulfilled.
If we don’t talk about miscarriage, we keep pretending women’s pain is too messy to hold. The system reduces us to numbers. Hormones. Scan results. I’ve been stuck in that cycle. Hiding nausea. Hiding fear. Pretending to be okay. I’ve thrown up on highways. Sat through exams with a bin by my side. Still smiling. Still silent. Because we’re taught: be strong. Be quiet. Don’t make people uncomfortable. But silence isn’t strength. It’s isolation.
In my work women share their stories with me now. Intimate, vulnerable truths. About their bodies. Their losses. Their trauma. We have resources. But still, the care is lacking. Especially in reproductive health. There’s a long way to go. And meanwhile, we’re told to stay quiet during the first 12 weeks. Even though that’s when we need the most support.
I’ve realised how healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means reclaiming truth. Making space for it. If you’re grieving silently, find your voice. Speak to someone. You’re not alone. Healing doesn’t need to be loud. Just real. Just kind. That’s where it starts.
