I’ll never forget the day we finally left the hospital, the emptiness I felt; my body no longer a home.

I had no choice but to put back on my maternity leggings due to still having a bump and sadly, I went home wearing the smallest pad I’d had to wear for weeks. You see 2 days postpartum and the bleeding was nothing like how it was 2 weeks previous when I was 19.5 weeks pregnant and had been admitted for heavy bleeding and clots.

Hours before this admission, I’d been to the women’s health unit for what was my 3rd early scan due to various scares since 8 weeks. As per they said “we can’t see any reason for the bleeding” and said baby boy looked healthy. They suggested low lying placenta with a shrug and sent me on my way.

As I walked down the halls of the hospital, I felt the blood trickle out of me and into the pad. By the time I got home, it was evident that this wasn’t stopping and that this wasn’t normal and I immediately went straight to A&E, which lead me to being taken to the birth centre at just 19.5 weeks pregnant.

As scared as I was, I felt relieved that my condition was finally being taken seriously but I had no idea that this would be the beginning of such an emotional rollercoaster. My body showed no signs of wanting to let Eli go yet; cervix closed, plenty of amniotic fluid, no pain just blood – and a lot of it. He was ‘happy as Larry’, strong heartbeat, no abnormalities, tests all clear. I felt his little fluttery kicks every morning. Maybe this wasn’t a miscarriage.

I stayed in the birth centre for 2 days, listening to the emotional cries of new mothers and their newborns come into this world. A bed designed for birth not comfort. Patiently waiting to be told if this was the end or if it was just a bump in the road. I even managed to laugh and try and reassure everyone around me that I was OK and that I’d get through this. And then I remember Dave squeezing onto the birthing bed with me and I fell apart as he held me. And in that moment we had to open our hearts to the possibility we may be saying goodbye to our boy and I already knew in that moment I’d have to see him and hold him. I had to meet the small person I’d created and who had been with me for the past 5 months.

And I sat there feeling such an imposter. Half a bump, miles away from being in their position

Another morning came and my bleeding had slowed down, cervix still closed, so they sent me up to the birth ward – a mixture of fresh mums, mums waiting to be induced, mums post-caesarean etc. And I sat there feeling such an imposter. Half a bump, miles away from being in their position, in fact not even knowing if that would be me at all. But it was a good sign to be out of immediate signs of miscarriage.

Now imagine my dread, when they tell me Dave can’t stay overnight in this bit. My heart dropped. As much as I knew he needed a bed for the night and not a chair or the floor, he’d been my rock and I felt like something bad could happen at any moment and he wouldn’t be here.

We both said goodbye through tears and apprehension and I remember feeling so bewildered that this was happening. I felt physically drained, my iron was rapidly dropping and I was struggling to eat much. In this time frame I’d had more scans and we listened to Elis heartbeat twice a day. He was doing amazing considering what my body was going through.

After a few more days, it was evident the bleeding wasn’t stopping but it was lighter so they let me go home after an iron infusion and a prescription for iron tablets. A moment of hope.

I think I managed to be home around 5 days? And then I lost a huge clot again so I called the hospital and unsurprisingly, got admitted to the birth centre again.

In this next stint before Eli’s arrival, we took many journeys back and forth back to the ward, back to a birthing room, back to the ward, back to a birthing room etc. All dependent on my level of bleeding and clots. We laughed that we’d seen nearly every room at this point, even happy when I was in one with fairy lights. I’d had the same discussion with each doctor that had been on shift about the possibility of losing Eli and the fact that at some point, due to slowly getting more and more poorly, still bleeding, I may have had no choice but to put my life before his. Eventually, a doctor came to tell me again and I said I physically cannot hear this anymore, I know what may happen and I don’t need a different doctor every day to tell me it in a different way. They decided that it was time to get him out if I had to keep having blood transfusions, so we kept on doing what we were doing until that point.

In the midst of all this, they discovered I had a subchorionic haemorrhage, also known as a subchorionic hematoma, which is bleeding that occurs between the uterine wall and the chorion membrane. It didn’t change the outcome or the treatment but I guess now we knew why I was bleeding so much. All we could do now was try and wait for a ‘safer’ week to get Eli out early and consider a hospital that had better neonatal care. We were given information on what to expect from 22 weeks onwards (the stage I was at by this point) and the statistics for survival and what care would be given. 4 days before Eli came into the world, we were told an ambulance was coming to take us from the hospital we were to one that could better manage such a premature baby, and right until we were about to leave, the consultants changed their mind and felt I was better to stay put for now.

Around 2 days before I went into natural labour, my mood dropped and I just felt like I had nothing left to give. I didn’t want visitors; I didn’t want positivity. I just wanted to know what the hell my future looked like.

Then it began.

I was back up on the ward at this point in a private room, and I began with back pain and cramps…and I knew my body had had enough.

I held the consultant’s hand and he said “it’s time”, but I knew. I knew that this story wasn’t having a happy ending and I knew my body had failed my baby boy, yet at the same time succeeded by wanting to save me.

I was terrified I’d be in pain with no reward, but thankfully I had an epidural and 30 minutes later I’d dilated enough for Eli to come, a few pushes still necessary however. Because he was so small, I gave birth to him inside his sack and the midwifes warned me that he was unlikely to survive the birth for such a premature stage but there was a possibility he would make it and I’d have to say goodbye with him in my arms.

Miscarriage just didn’t feel right for this experience. It was birth. I gave birth.

At 1am exactly, he was born sleeping.

At this stage, things become a blur, Eli had acted like a plug and with him now out, the blood began to flow and I just kept seeing midwives carry soaked up bedding to weigh.

My legs numb, cannulas in both arms, Dave by my side for every moment holding my hand. Miscarriage just didn’t feel right for this experience. It was birth. I gave birth.

It didn’t actually take long for the bleeding to settle, I was informed the blood that soaked the bed was old that had been ‘plugged’ by Eli…and it made sense why I had begun to feel so poorly, now being treated for sepsis.

A few hours passed by and I’d still not been able to face seeing Eli. I didn’t want my legs to be numb, I wanted to greet my son feeling more human, how that was possible I don’t know.

I slowly managed to walk to the bathroom once my legs had woken up to shower but fainted on the way, the midwife and Dave holding me up while I’m none the wiser this had happened.

I have never felt so vulnerable, yet so held in my whole life sat in that shower naked, with this angel of a midwife helping me use a flannel to wash my empty, and lifeless body. But now I was clean and all evidence of birth was rinsed down the plughole with my dignity.

At this stage, we were taken to the bereavement room which was a blessing. A normal double bed so we could finally lay beside one another and here, we would meet our boy.

To this day, I can’t even tell you how surprised I was at how beautiful Eli was. I prepared for the worst I’ll be honest…I had no idea what to expect.

How was it possible that a 22.5-week-old baby can already look like his dad?

But instead, I’m passed a tiny baby, in a tiny blue hat, wrapped in a blanket. With his tiny hands and his tiny toes. How was it possible that a 22.5-week-old baby can already look like his dad. We all cried. And I kissed his little hands and stroked his cheek and knew this moment didn’t need a camera to be captured. It would forever be imprinted in my mind.

We asked if we could keep his hat and we had his hand and feet prints done. We also had 2 small identical heart pillows; one was given to him with our perfume/aftershave on and we kept the other. So, he had our heart and we had his ❤️

We cried most of the day in bed together in that room and just wanted to get home and begin our grieving process without me needing medical attention…but then that moment came, the maternity leggings, the 5000 bags of stuff we’d accumulated and the depressing walk down the hall of the birth centre without a baby in a car seat. (You know the photo).

I feel like my grieving process is a story of its own. And the above story is a lot to process as it if. So, I may be called to write about that too.

But I would like to take this opportunity to thank every single person who has supported me through this experience.

Especially Dave. He will never understand how deeply grateful I am for the man he is and I know what he had to go through alongside me. And what makes this worse is the way he handled it all, just showed me even more what an amazing dad he would have been (or is).

I’ve been the most broken version of myself I have ever been. With constant triggers to navigate. Body changes to accept. Memories that can’t be erased.

Yet I still see light and hope and all the other good things this world still has for me – and maybe this is Eli, the light and hope still running through my blood, still part of me.

Never underestimate how powerful and how special it is to create, grow and hold life within you. Because despite all I’ve said, I still feel grateful that I got to grow life for 22 weeks…and that’s a miracle in itself.

The month of June will mark the first anniversary of losing our baby boy, Joseph.

Even being in the middle of it, it’s hard to know what language to use…first birthday, first anniversary? Because my baby boy died before he was born. The first year has gone so quickly, it all still feels so new to me.

Our battle with infertility had spanned over 9 years, experiencing a missed miscarriage in 2018, and having a full-term pregnancy in 2021 when my baby girl was born.

This time last year I was on cloud 9, after our long battle with infertility and subsequently secondary infertility. I was pregnant after a frozen embryo transfer. I had a scan at around 17 weeks and was told I had a very active baby. No problems detected.

Our baby was below 1st percentile.

I continued to feel movements, my bump was growing.

We attended our 20-week scan on the 14th June and received a bolt out of the blue. Our baby was below 1st percentile. We would need referral to fetal medicine. And just like that I felt as though a trap door had opened and my heart fell to the ground.

We saw fetal medicine the following week, and although our baby wasn’t growing, and amniotic fluid was low, we somehow remained hopeful that we would find a cause and turn it around. But a week later, at 22 weeks we returned for a monitoring scan and found out our baby had no heartbeat.

I was given medication to start induction process and was sent home, to return the next day for admission.

Leaving the hospital without him is the worst pain I have ever endured.

What followed was a relatively straightforward labour and Joseph was born at 1.30am 30/06/2024. It’s hard to put into words, but I was grateful for this. It felt like an opportunity to be able to physically mother my son. We were able to spend the day with him, cuddling, dressing him and making memories. We were offered the opportunity to stay for longer but I knew this would only make things harder.

Leaving the hospital without him is the worst pain I have ever endured.

We planned his funeral and celebrated the day with our nearest and dearest.

The months that have followed have felt like a haze.

Life has returned to “normal”…but how can it possibly ever be normal again?

What has made it harder to process, is that our loss has barely been spoken of since. I’m not sure if this is because people feel uncomfortable or they assume I won’t want to talk about it, but how else can I keep Joseph’s memory alive? This is the only way I get to mother him now, by telling his story and by showing him my love from afar.

I am still very much learning to navigate how to move forwards and how to be the best mother to Joseph. I have taken opportunities to fundraise for charities that have supported us, and have signed up to support with research where I can.

Thank you to The Worst Girl Gang Ever Foundation for giving us the opportunity to share our stories and to speak our babies’ names. This enables us to honour their lives, and to know that we are not alone.

I never thought I’d use those words in the same sentence: motherhood and mother-fucking. But here we are. Because honestly? There’s no other way to describe it. There’s no other way to describe this path. It’s raw, it’s unfair, it’s painful, and it’s relentless. It’s also mine. This is not a story filled with pastel baby showers, ultrasound photos stuck on the fridge, or dreamy Pinterest nursery boards. This is about blood. About grief. About tests and scans and silence. It’s about hope dying in little hospital rooms with paper gowns and sympathetic smiles. It’s about crying in the car, crying in the shower, crying in the loo at work.

I’m not writing from the other side of it – not yet. Maybe never. I’m writing from inside it. From the trenches of it.

This is the path no one wants to walk. The one no one tells you about until you’re already on it, knees scraped, body sore, heart breaking again and again. Recurrent miscarriage. Even the phrase feels clinical – detached. It doesn’t hold the ache, the confusion, the rage, the disbelief. It doesn’t come close to the emptiness you feel every time you go from pregnant to… not.
I’ve lost count now of how many times I’ve started to let myself believe – maybe this time – only to be pulled back into the same black hole. The same waiting room. The same numb scan. The same questions that no one can quite answer. Was it me? My body? My fault? This post isn’t here to wrap it all up with a neat, hopeful bow. I’m not writing from the other side of it – not yet. Maybe never. I’m writing from inside it. From the trenches of it.

I was diagnosed with a septate uterus early in my relationship with my now-husband, Mike. That day is still so vivid and surreal. I’d gone to the gynaecology ward to have a coil fitted because my periods were horrific, but they couldn’t even get that far. The doctor discovered a womb abnormality and decided to take a biopsy. I pretty much passed out, and as I was coming round, woozy and in pain, they tried to explain what a septate uterus was. I was barely conscious, stuck in one of those scratchy hospital gowns, bleeding into what felt more like a nappy than a pad, and left the ward bewildered. What did this mean for my future? I didn’t know. At the time, I didn’t want to be pregnant – but even in that moment of certainty, something sank inside me. I looked at Mike’s face as he gently ferried me home, and something silent passed between us.

Fast forward to the year we decided to marry. I stopped taking contraception, hoping – if I’m honest – to be a pregnant bride. It didn’t happen quickly. From May to October, nothing. That time was a blur of doom-Googling about septate uteruses, trips to the GP, and returning to gynae with growing worry. Each time, I was told not to worry. “All will be well.” My symptoms? Bleeding, pain, flooding. I was told my painful periods and blood loss would “wash out” once I got pregnant. One male gynaecologist told me off for not taking folic acid and scoffed that I should lose weight while I was at it. I left his office humiliated, furious, and still with no answers.

I was teaching Year 8 at the time, trying to keep it together in front of thirty students, knowing what was happening to my body

And then, our wedding came. It was the most magical, beautiful day – full of love, full of joy, with our dog Paisley trotting down the aisle with us. I felt radiant. We felt unstoppable. We were surrounded by the people we loved most in the world, and we felt that love being thrown at us from every direction. Not long after, I finally got a positive pregnancy test. It felt like magic. We were ecstatic. We told loved ones – close friends and family – and felt that beautiful, hopeful joy blossom.
But then, the bleeding started. I was teaching Year 8 at the time, trying to keep it together in front of thirty students, knowing what was happening to my body. It was a miscarriage. No scan. No heartbeat. No real medical support – just the trauma of passing it all naturally. At the Early Pregnancy Clinic in Bristol, I finally received care I’ll never forget. A nurse held my hand and told me I had a “magic womb” and that this was the shittest thing that could happen. She told me I was allowed to be heartbroken. Her words stuck with me. I still hear them when I start hating my body and my womb for everything that’s happened since.

Since then, my mental health and body haven’t been the same. Neither has my cycle. I’ve had PTSD trauma counselling through the NHS, which I honestly believe saved me. If you feel broken like I did, please ask for help. That first loss shattered me. I’ve had three more pregnancies and losses since then. I haven’t made it to a single scan. The memories are smudged, blotchy. I sometimes can’t remember where I was, what month it was, how far along I might have been. That’s trauma. My brain protecting me. I used to feel ashamed when doctors asked for dates I couldn’t give. Now I know that forgetting is survival.

One detail I do remember all too clearly: at one point, I had passed what I now know was the pregnancy into the toilet. I panicked, and in shock, put it into the bin. Moments later, I broke down and begged Mike to take it out of the house – because I realised I wanted to get it from the bin and hold it. That grief and confusion is a level of pain I don’t think anyone ever prepares you for. But I know now I’m not alone in it.

And yes, I was one of those women told I needed to have four miscarriages before they’d investigate. So I did – more fool them. At one point, I had such excruciating pain I could barely walk. I rang the GP, doubled over, desperate for help, and the doctor said, “What on earth do you want me to do about it?” Turns out I had an infected womb. A biopsy confirmed it. The pain of miscarriage is nothing like period pain. And I realised, as someone who thought they knew blood and pain from years of excruciating periods – I didn’t. Not until miscarriage.

That weight limit looms over me like a gate I may never get through, no matter how hard I try.

Eventually, I had surgery to remove the septum and was left with an arcuate uterus. Then came a diagnosis of PCOS. But again, no real help. Just weighed, measured, and told to lose weight. I’ve tried. I’ve tried to stay body positive, to be kind to myself, but honestly, most medical professionals don’t care how hard you’re trying. They just see numbers. I’ve been weighed more times than I’ve been heard. And I’m a size 18 woman – I know I don’t even face half the judgment and discrimination others do. Still, it hurts. Still, it’s a barrier to IVF. IVF might not ever be an option for us, because even when I shrank myself to meet the criteria, I still don’t “qualify.” That weight limit looms over me like a gate I may never get through, no matter how hard I try.

If you’ve ever said “at least” to someone grieving miscarriage, please – don’t. If you’ve ever posted a scan photo in a group chat without a heads up- please think again. If you’ve drifted away from friends without children, whether by choice or not – reflect on that.

I want to thank every person who’s stood solidly for us, who’s held space for us to cry, rant, scream and swear about all this. I want to thank the sea – which has held me like no other element, thank you. There were times when swimming in the waves were the only thing that soothed me. So many times it’s held my weak body, wrapped around me, even brought on long-awaited periods. Swimming has healed parts of me I didn’t even know were broken. In the water, I feel free. I feel light. I feel strong again. It has even brought on long-overdue periods and eased some of the pain. Being held by the ocean when my body felt foreign to me was a kind of therapy I never expected but so deeply needed. That water held me when I couldn’t hold myself. If it isn’t swimming in fucking cold water, find your sea, find something that can support you in this way.

I also want to thank the NHS therapist who met with me every Monday at 4pm and helped me create a new narrative.
I’ve had to open my mind to what life might look like with or without children. I still hope. We’re in our third year of trying. But I’ve found peace in my relationship, in my little family with Mike and our dog Paisley. I now understand and admire all the paths to parenthood — and those who choose not to take any of them. Parents of biological children don’t own love, happiness, or tiredness. We all feel those things.
I want to thank my husband, Mike. My best friend. My constant. He lets me be my authentic, messy, emotional, real self. He’s walked every painful step with me and never let go of my hand. His strength, humour, and loyalty have carried me through. I love him more deeply than I thought possible. And our dog, Paisley — for her unconditional love on my darkest days, when I felt like I didn’t deserve it. Her gentle presence and boundless affection have comforted me more than words can explain.
I’m also endlessly grateful to the women and family who surround me — the fierce, funny, wise, patient, and loyal women who hold me up when I forget how to stand. You know who you are.
Most importantly, I also want to thank the Worst Girl Gang Ever — I listened to your book cover to cover two nights after my first loss. I wept and laughed with you in the dark. And to Laura, your book It Will Happen was a balm. With my so-called “magic womb” and the mess that came after, reading your words felt like a lifeline.

We are the strongest of mothers, even if we never get to hold our babies.

Please let people grieve how they need to. Don’t try to fix infertility. Infertility is not a puzzle to be solved. Don’t offer platitudes. Just hold space. We are the strongest of mothers, even if we never get to hold our babies. From the moment those two lines appear on a test, you become a mother in some way. And honestly, as a teacher, I’ve always mothered. That’s the hardest part of this journey on the bad days — showing up to school and facing other people’s children when I’ve lost my own. But on the good days, it’s also the best part. I get to be a role model. A woman who teaches Religion, Philosophy, and Ethics to 11–18-year-olds. We explore questions like, “Is the role of a woman simply to be a mother?” and I thank every single young person I teach for being so open, so real. My students inspire me. They don’t know what I’ve been through, but their honesty, curiosity and humanity keep me going.

They ask deeply personal questions all day long — and sometimes, I just want to be Sianny, not Mrs Lewis. The woman who has lost babies and just wants to cry. To other teachers on this path: I see you. The fear of bleeding mid-lesson. Of miscarrying in a school toilet. The impossibility of being “Miss” or “Mrs” when you just want to be you — grieving, broken, aching. And yet, stepping back into the classroom has been my salvation too. Hard bloody work. But beautiful.
And finally — I created a Facebook group that I want others to know about. It’s called: Support Group for Women Who Have / Have Had a Septate Uterus TTC
The more general Septate Uterus groups out there are wonderful and informative, but they’re often full of pregnancy announcements and scans – beautiful, yes, but hard to see when you’re still in the depths of trying. So I made a space that felt safer.

This is where I’m at. Still trying. Still hoping. Still loving. Still showing up. Still teaching.

This is the mother-fucking path to motherhood. And I’m still walking it. Limping some days. Dancing others. But always, always moving.

The past four years I have gone from being the most outgoing person and the loudest one in the room to now staying at home and hiding from the world and not wanting to talk to anyone. Never would I have thought that making a family would be one of the hardest things I have to deal with mentally and physically.

My journey started in 2021 . My husband wanted to get married then have a family so we got married through COVID with only 15 people there. A week before the wedding I found out I was pregnant. We were so happy, feeling like the COVID nightmare has given us some hope we are were getting married and having a baby are dreams have come true.

My breasts were getting bigger and also I had bad mood swings which we thought were all positive signs.

However,  a few days before the wedding I started to bleed I was very naive and didn’t know what was happening so I called the doctor they said to rest and all is normal but the bleeding got worse and I was still hoping but deep down I knew something was wrong but I was getting married I had to keep my smile on and wait till the scan a few days after the wedding. I went to scan and they confirmed there is no pregnancy which at the time I didn’t feel much because I was in the I just got married mood and happy phase so I moved on. November 21, I found out I was pregnant and we were so excited this time I was being sick. My breasts were getting bigger and also I had bad mood swings which we thought were all positive signs.

On New Year’s Eve I had my husband’s family round and who announced there expecting which I was like thanks for taking that limelight from me but I kept quiet. My husband told his brother quietly that we were having a baby too. Fast forward Feb I started to bleed. I was two weeks away from my 12 week scan and I knew it wasn’t right so I booked a private scan because the NHS was going to make me wait a week I was like I’m not waiting a week. We went to the scan and was told I had a blighted ovum to me at the time I was like what is this I’ve never heard of it before all I thought was you get a positive pregnancy test and that’s it you have a baby but my world come crashing down.

I didn’t want to live anymore. I didn’t want to be married because it’s my body that had failed both of us.

We were both just broken.

We fell into a deep depression. I didn’t want to live anymore. I didn’t want to be married because it’s my body that had failed both of us and why does my husband want to be with me when I can’t give him kids. I also remember his brother making comments like they can’t be happy for us because of what happened that took me further into depression and feeling my feelings were not valid and I should be happy all the time.

However, this changed me and this made me reflect on myself and what I wanted and what was important to me and that was my future and no one else’s and that’s when I stopped socialising because the comments are too much so I isolated myself for my own mental health. I also remember having a D&C done and I wasn’t allowed anyone with me and all I did was cry before I went in because I didn’t want this to be true.

Fast forwarding in the last four years I had another chemical and another missed miscarriage. So, June 24 we started IVF on the NHS everything went well. 11 eggs , 7 fertilised and 2 AA embryos we were happy and actually felt nervous that was going to work and I will have my family soon. So, we had one put back in and I was feeling great then a week and a half later my mum died. I was in shock and I had a panic attack because I couldn’t go back to her house, then all I remember is I bled and that was it the IVF failed. At the time I couldn’t stop crying but was it for my mum or for the failed transfer I didn’t know and still can’t work it out. I remember feeling that I was a failure and kept thinking why is this happening to me what have I done to deserve this.

A month later I had no period so I called the fertility clinic. They told me to take a test and I was pregnant naturally which I thought at the time this is a miracle and maybe after all the hurt over the last month my mum has gifted me but again it was a missed miscarriage. This time it was sent off for testing and all came back as normal and I was told it was a girl which hit me that it was a baby, even if it had no heart beat it hit me it was a living human and I couldn’t protect it.

My house and my heart feels empty, me and my husband feel lost.

I gave my body a break for a few months because I was emotionally drained and my body needed a rest so I went back this march for the 2nd embryo transfer but this one failed which made me feel like what have I done and what more can I do all I want to do is fix the problem but I can’t. My brain went into overdrive. What test can I take? What foods can I eat and what exercise can I do to make it work? I will do anything. After speaking to the fertility clinic we are now paying for the next IVF and will be going through PGT testing on the embryo so it will be another long roller coaster.

My house and my heart feels empty, me and my husband feel lost. We don’t go anywhere but work then home because the constant reminders of not having a family is killing us both inside. We have to go through pregnancy announcements, the invites to baby showers, we turn down, the weddings where we get asked when we are having a family so we keep ourselves to ourselves because we can’t keep this act up. We both have hope and we try to be positive to keep the other one going. We just pray and wish that we can have a happy ending after all the grief we have gone through. All we can do is keep going but it’s not easy and who knows what the future holds but I hope it’s a happy ending.