“We were told we’d miscarried and to try again.”

In April 2021 I excitedly told my husband I was pregnant. At six weeks I started bleeding, and two days later we were told we’d miscarried and to try again.

I was pregnant in September 2021 and thought everything was fine until I started spotting at 11 weeks. It was a Sunday, EPU was closed, and I couldn’t get through to anyone at the hospital. When the hospital got back to me later that day, they said it was probably nothing but booked me in for a scan that Thursday. Two days later we went for a private scan and were told that the baby was measuring six weeks and there was no heartbeat.

The hospital told us the same, but we had to wait two weeks to confirm if the pregnancy was ‘viable’. Those weeks were torture, but it was my husband’s birthday, so we went away – in the photos I looked happy, but I was heartbroken. At the next scan we were told we’d had a missed miscarriage. Due to Covid, I was told I needed medical management to end the pregnancy and that it would be like a heavy period. It wasn’t.

“My mum phoned to see how I was and immediately phoned my husband to say he needed to take me to hospital…”

I was having contractions, was in so much pain, and I’d never seen so much blood in my life. The pain subsided after 7 hours but I spent most of the next week in bed with what I thought was flu. My mum phoned to see how I was and immediately phoned my husband to say he needed to take me to hospital. An hour later three doctors were poking around to remove a blood clot that was stuck in the neck of my womb, and I was sent off with antibiotics. I had a huge bleed about a week later, the hospital scanned me and said to expect more bleeding, but it was nothing to worry about.

After two weeks, I was bleeding heavily again. I drove home for Christmas and soaked through my clothes later that night. The bleeding carried on for 7.5 weeks – I was completely broken by this point.

I went to my GP and asked for tests which she agreed to. Everything came back normal.
In May 2022, I was pregnant again. At six weeks, there was no heartbeat, and we were told two weeks later that we’d had another missed miscarriage. This time I refused medical management and was booked in for an MVA. I started to miscarry the day before and went to the hospital hoping I wouldn’t need the procedure – I did. I remember apologising to the nurse for leaking blood everywhere. After this I was referred to the recurrent miscarriage clinic.

I was pregnant in September 2022 but started bleeding from the moment I took the test. A scan at six weeks showed an empty pregnancy sack, with a missed miscarriage confirmed two weeks later. I had another MVA.
Private tests came back in January 2023 showing that everything was normal asides my AMH. That doctor said I needed IVF immediately, but I sought a second opinion, and we were told we didn’t need IVF. I spoke to my GP who referred me on the NHS anyway and she also agreed to give me a prescription for progesterone to take from the point of a positive pregnancy test instead of waiting until after our first scan.

“The first thing he said was “I don’t know why you’re here”. I wanted to cry.”

After 11 months, we finally got an appointment at the recurrent miscarriage clinic. The first thing he said was “I don’t know why you’re here”. I wanted to cry.

In June 2023 we saw a baby with a heartbeat – I had some hope. Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be. Baby likely died a day after that scan and had another MVA. That loss hit me particularly hard.

That Christmas, despite days of spotting, I did a pregnancy test and was shocked when it was positive. We saw a heartbeat at 7 weeks, but baby died later that day. I had another MVA.

I went to Coventry to have private tests with Tommy’s just prior to starting IVF. They came back as normal asides my natural killer cells. I was told to go onto high dose steroids from a positive pregnancy test. Unfortunately, after a brutal IVF round, we had nothing to transfer and as they were only able to get two eggs from me, we were ruled out of future rounds as I wasn’t seen as viable.

“I won’t believe it is real until baby is here, but we’re hoping we get to meet this little one.

We kept trying and in September 2024, I was pregnant for the seventh time. I started taking progesterone and steroids straight away. The hospital gave me bi-weekly scans up until 16 weeks, and all being well our miracle baby should be born in May 2025. I won’t believe it is real until baby is here, but we’re hoping we get to meet this little one.

“Six IUIs, three-and-a-half rounds of IVF, two miscarriages, over £55,000 spent, one frozen embryo and a frozen vial of sperm, and countless needles later, I’m still trying.”

Four years. That’s how long I’ve been on this journey. Four years of hoping, trying, grieving, and starting over. I’m on what the world has so naffly coined a solo-mother-by-choice path, though the “mother” part feels as elusive as it is certain in my head. It’s a journey riddled with sharp corners and pit stops. If only I could wear a badge, a bold round emblem of my stats, so the world could see how much I’ve tried. A badge that says, “Six IUIs, three-and-a-half rounds of IVF, two miscarriages, over £55,000 spent, one frozen embryo and a frozen vial of sperm, and countless needles later, I’m still trying.”
I wish I could nod at others wearing their own badges—acknowledging their triumphs, heartbreaks, and perseverance. Like bus drivers do.

I know my body now better than I ever wanted to. It’s mapped out in my mind like an Excel spreadsheet—every hormone level, follicle count, and procedural detail logged. And I love spreadsheets. But this isn’t a hobby. Somewhere in a freezer is my last embryo, a tiny cluster of cells that represents my deepest hopes. It feels both like a lifeline and a ticking clock. It’s accompanied by a lone round of sperm I’ve banked—insurance, though the policy feels less than promising. This is a story about trying, but also of time slipping away. I’m 41 now, and that knowledge—the sense of a rope unraveling—sits with me every day.
The highs and lows have been surreal. The first time I got pregnant coincided with the first time I tested positive for COVID—a bizarrely 2020 milestone. My clinic’s staff—my nurse and doctor, who know my name, quirks, and stats—were as thrilled as I was. That’s the thing: they’ve been there through it all, every heart-wrenching result and cautiously optimistic embryo transfer. I know they care more than they’re supposed to, and I’m grateful for their kindness in a system that can otherwise feel like a production line.

“I see their joy as a flag of hope, even when it catches in the short breath just before I start crying”

Not everyone understands this journey. People try, in their own way. Some are curious, some are proud of me, and some shrink back, unsure how to meet my grief head-on. And then there are my comrades—fellow travellers on this painful path—who, despite their own hard-won successes, hesitate to share their good news with me. They worry it will sting too much. But I see their joy as a flag of hope, even when it catches in the short breath just before I start crying—not in front of them, of course! They get it, the layers of pain and longing, and their concern touches me deeply. I’ve learned that I can cry and feel happy for them at the same time, but that wasn’t obvious when it first happened.

Some pockets of people, on the other hand, don’t get it at all. It’s hard to explain what it’s like to feel the idea of being a mother slip further and further out of reach. Or to navigate the quips—like the advice from my drunken cousin that I should just sack it all off and head to a pub for a one-night stand.

Then there’s the well-meaning flippancy that I’m sometimes guilty of. To a stranger, I can perform my story with humour and lightness, basking in the pride and relief of an audience that listens kindly. But the sadness always catches up with me, and I’ll wobble out of the conversation, overwhelmed by the reality I momentarily held somewhere else. That’s not on them, though. That’s me, juggling my pride and grief in the same breath.
Even between treatments, I’m still on this journey. I’m either saving up money, mourning a loss, or coaxing my body back to some semblance of normalcy after weeks of needles, hormones, and emotional whiplash. There’s no off switch, no pause button. And yet, it’s during these in-between times that people sometimes assume I’m “done.” As if the absence of immediate action means the end of the road. If only my badge could clear up that misunderstanding too.

Some of the hardest moments feel almost bureaucratic in their cruelty. Like when a nurse at the NHS EPU told me, after a miscarriage, that “for all she knew, I might not have even been pregnant.” My privately funded treatment, a prerequisite when you’re solo, meant my pregnancy wasn’t on their system.

I have also found myself laughing at the weirdest and darkest moments. Like the time I regaled my pregnant best friend, who had supported me through that day’s clinic visit, with a frivolous TikTok about how children shouldn’t outnumber parents if you want a quiet life—all while laughing on the tube after we’d just found out I’d miscarry twins.
And yet, through it all, I have people who hold me up. The family I live with and the family who’ve embraced how different this is to their friends’ grandchildren stories, and the best friends who are on the end of a phone or a train at a moment’s notice. They’ve stood by me every step of the way, their heartbreak for me visible even when they try to hide it. They remind me that I’m not alone, even when the journey feels isolating and the word “solo” sits so proudly at the start of the solo-mother-by-choice title.

I wish I could wear a badge—not unlike the “Baby on Board” badges I’ve longed to earn

For four years, I’ve been in a cycle of trying, grieving, healing, and trying again. My body has rarely had the chance to simply be. And through it all, I’ve held on to the belief that it’s worth it.

That belief is something I wish I could share more openly. I wish I could wear a badge—not unlike the “Baby on Board” badges I’ve longed to earn—that declares my stats and story. It’s not the story I expected to tell, but it’s mine. And if I ever do get to wear that “Baby on Board” badge, it will come with a proud understanding of what it took to get here. Until then, I’ll keep going. Because I know I want to be a mum.