Healing Out Loud

Writing this has taken me years.

I carried these stories quietly, hidden under smiles and small talk, because I didn’t know how to share them — or if I even should.

But silence never heals.

It just buries the pain deeper.

If you’ve been through miscarriage or pregnancy loss — whether once or many times — please know this:

You are not alone.

You are not broken.

And you did nothing wrong.

This post is part of my Healing Out Loud series — my journey of rebuilding myself, one truth at a time.

If you’d like to read more of my story, visit healingoutloud.uk 

My story

Today, I feel ready — or at least ready enough to tell you…

I’ve had five miscarriages.

The first one happened when I was very young, and I’m not ready to talk about that one yet.

I found it hard to conceive all three of my children, but thankfully, they are all perfectly healthy.

The Second Loss — My Early Thirties

As far as I know, my next miscarriage happened in my early thirties, when we were trying for our third child. I desperately wanted a third. Deep down I knew she would be a girl, and I even had a name ready for her.

I didn’t even know I was pregnant until I knew I was miscarrying.

The doctor sent me straight to the hospital, but the scans showed it was already over. It was early. My blood levels were monitored for a few weeks until the hormones returned to normal.

It was sad, but I told myself it wasn’t meant to be.

I still had hope.

The Third — The One That Broke Me

A year later, still trying. Still hoping.

When I finally saw that positive test, I could barely breathe with excitement.

It had taken almost two years to get here.

I was six weeks pregnant when the doctor confirmed it. Two days before I hit eight weeks, I noticed some spotting. It was a Saturday night in late November, just after we’d watched the Christmas lights switch on in town.

By Sunday, the spotting turned to blood. I spent the day in anxious terror, trying to convince myself it was nothing. But by that night, I knew.

The next morning, I called the doctor. He booked me in for a scan on Wednesday — two days away. But later that same morning, I began to cramp so badly that I could barely move. As I sat on the toilet, I passed the tiny fetus. I caught it in a tissue and kept it, not knowing what to do.

I lay on the sofa the rest of the day, crying silently. My eldest was at school, my youngest at preschool. When they came home, I cuddled them on the sofa and held on tight. They helped me through that day more than they will ever know.

The hospital confirmed the miscarriage. My pregnancy hormones stayed high for weeks, which meant blood tests and repeat scans all through Christmas. My body wouldn’t let go. It took nearly two months before everything returned to normal.

No one knew. Because no one had known I was pregnant.

I carried it alone.

The Fourth — The One I Faced Numb

Six months later, I was pregnant again.

I was 33, terrified, and cautious. I tested obsessively, watching the weeks tick up.

But once again, at almost eight weeks, it happened — the same way, the same time.

This time I didn’t cry. I sat on the toilet one sunny summer afternoon, passed the fetus, flushed it, and ten minutes later went to pick up the kids from school.

I refused to break this time.

I numbed myself instead — went out, partied, pretended I was fine.

No one knew. Again.

The One That Stuck

By the time I turned 34, we decided to give it one last try. Just before our self-imposed deadline, I fell pregnant again. This time, I got full NHS support — weekly scans because of my history.

At six weeks, we saw a fetus.

At seven, we saw a heart beat.

At eight, still strong.

Week by week, I dared to believe.

And finally, that baby stuck.

At 35, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl.

She was my miracle.

But life wasn’t done testing me yet.

When she was two, I got pregnant again — by accident.

I’d refused to go back on the pill; I wanted my body to balance naturally after breastfeeding. We weren’t trying. We didn’t want more children. We had no room, no plans for a fourth.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

It had taken years of heartbreak to get pregnant when I wanted to… and now, when I didn’t, it happened easily.

We talked about abortion, but I couldn’t go through with it.

Even though I didn’t want this baby, I couldn’t help but love it.

A few weeks later, the decision was made for me.

The Fifth – The One That Nearly Killed Me

It started as a dull pain one Sunday afternoon — I thought it was trapped wind.

By 4am, I was in agony. Still, I wasn’t bleeding, so I convinced myself it was nothing serious.

By late Monday morning, I could barely move. My stomach was swelling, but when my husband called the doctor, they said to wait for my afternoon appointment. I couldn’t wait. He drove me to A&E before picking up our daughter from preschool.

I walked into A&E alone, hunched over, barely seeing straight.

I told them I thought it was ectopic.

They told me to take a seat.

Hours passed. When a nurse finally saw me, she told me to drink water — said I was probably dehydrated. I managed a urine sample and noticed it was dark brown. Later, I’d find out that was blood.

As I walked back from the toilet, my vision went black. I collapsed on the floor.

Finally, they realised how serious it was.

I was scanned immediately.

The room went silent.

It was ectopic — my left fallopian tube had ruptured. I was bleeding internally.

By the time they operated, I had lost so much blood that I needed three transfusions.

They told me afterwards I was only hours from death.

I woke up in shock, with scars across my stomach and one fallopian tube gone.

I had been in pain for sixteen hours without pain relief, waiting alone, nearly dying in a hospital corridor.

When I finally came home, I made my husband get the snip. He didn’t want to, but I insisted. I had nearly died. Enough was enough.

Aftermath

It took months to recover physically, and much longer to recover mentally.

Miscarriage changes you. Each one chips away at your innocence, your belief in safety, your trust in your own body.

For years, I carried all of this silently.

I thought because I had children I didn’t deserve to grieve my miscarriages.

Now, I’m ready to say it out loud.

Because silence might protect us in the moment, but truth — even painful truth — is what sets us free.

To Anyone Who’s Been Here

You’re not alone.

You’re not broken.

You’re still here — and that’s strength.

For years, I thought strength meant staying silent.

Now I know strength is telling the truth, even when your voice shakes.

If you’ve been through this too, I see you.

If this is you, please know you don’t have to carry it in silence. There is no shame in your story. You have survived more than most will ever understand.