At 9 weeks, I started bleeding and went to A&E.

I showed all the reassuring signs: high HCG levels, only light bleeding, and a closed cervix. I was sent home with an early scan scheduled in 10 days.

Over the next week, the bleeding worsened. At 10 weeks, I had heavy bleeding and cramps. I woke up around 3 a.m. in intense pain. Everything I’d read said miscarriage felt like a heavy period and you wouldn’t pass anything noticeable. But I was alone—my husband works away—and terrified.

My mam arrived just in time. The pain became unbearable, I was vomiting and nearly passed out on several occasions.

My body went into labour; I was having contractions.

When it was over, I saw my baby on the floor, still in their gestational sac, with a visible head and spine.

I rushed to hospital and was met with a dismissive doctor. She questioned if I’d even been pregnant, and when I mentioned passing my baby she said she “wasn’t convinced”. She returned an hour later with, “Yeah, it looks like you actually have had a miscarriage,” followed by a shrug. No guidance, no follow-up plan, just sent on my way. Thankfully, I already had an early pregnancy unit (EPAU) appointment where they finally checked me properly.

When we were ready to try again, I fell pregnant immediately. This time I pushed for progesterone and low-dose aspirin, which can help support early pregnancy. We booked a private scan at just over 8 weeks.

I cried in the waiting room while my husband reassured me everything would be fine. It wasn’t.

Our baby was measuring 3 weeks behind. The sonographer suggested I might have miscalculated, but I knew I hadn’t. Our baby had died weeks ago, and I had no idea.

A week later, they confirmed a missed miscarriage. I had to decide how to remove my baby from my body. I chose surgical management—I couldn’t face the physical pain again.

I began researching and suspected my autoimmune condition was affecting my pregnancies. After being dismissed by one GP, I begged another for a referral to a gynaecologist. But my hospital only accepts referrals after three consecutive miscarriages. They agreed to test my thyroid and screen for lupus—both came back normal.

I was told we’d just have to wait for a third miscarriage. I felt like I was screaming for help and no one was listening.

Again, I fell pregnant right away. A day later I spotted, so I began monitoring my HCG levels. They continued to rise for a week, and I let myself hope. I had a scan booked for 6 weeks—two days before what should have been my original due date. The sonographer couldn’t see any sign of a pregnancy. Blood tests showed my HCG had dropped drastically. The next day, I began bleeding. On the day I should’ve met my baby, I was miscarrying my third.

This time, I was finally referred to a gynaecologist and added to the NHS waiting list. But I knew it would be months.

Just before my third miscarriage, I met Louise, a traditional Chinese medicine and acupuncture practitioner who specialised in fertility. The herbs and treatments were helpful, but more importantly, she offered something I hadn’t received from medical professionals: care.

It was the first time I felt someone truly listened and cared about what I was going through.

I checked the NHS list—I was looking at a 9-month wait, only to repeat tests I’d already had and be prescribed what I was already taking. I felt completely let down. Louise referred me to a private gynaecologist who specialised in reproductive immunology.

They retested my thyroid—properly this time—and discovered my TSH was too high, something that should have been caught months earlier. A uterine microbiome test showed harmful bacteria in my uterus. While these levels might not affect a typical pregnancy, given my history, I was prescribed antibiotics.

The final test was a full immunology panel. It confirmed my autoimmune condition was behind my losses. My immune system was on high alert with too many overactive NK cells. Without intervention, it would be surprising if I didn’t miscarry again.

In one sense, I was relieved—I’d known something was wrong. But knowing it was my body causing our losses brought overwhelming guilt, even though it wasn’t my fault.

I now take a cocktail of supplements and medications to hopefully help me carry to full term.

I suffered immensely, especially after the first miscarriage. I had daily flashbacks, was constantly on the verge of tears, and struggled with basic decisions. Even now, I get intrusive thoughts that leave me snappy and irritable.

People try to comfort you, but often it hurts more. Well-meaning comments like “There was probably something wrong with it,” or “At least you can get pregnant,” minimized what I’d gone through and made it feel like my babies weren’t real. These statements implied I should just move on—be grateful, even.

We’d never talk about other types of death this way, so why miscarriage?

You’re encouraged to try again before the HCG has even left your system, like that will fix everything. But I feel robbed. Robbed of a carefree pregnancy. I’ll never get to experience that.

I tried to shield myself from pregnancy announcements and bump photos. But after my first miscarriage, I wanted to tell my best friend in person. She kept apologising—and I knew. She was pregnant. It added another layer to my grief. People assumed I hated her or that she’d hurt me intentionally. But I wasn’t upset she had a baby. I was heartbroken that I had one—and they died. Seeing her reminded me of what I’d lost, where I should’ve been. We should’ve gone through it together. She deserved a joyful reaction and got my grief instead.

Society still minimises miscarriage, both physically and emotionally.

You’re too quickly labelled “unexplained,” when really it’s just “unexplored.”

After loss, even the language changes. You’re no longer pregnant with a baby—you’ve got “pregnancy tissue” or even worse “retained products of conception.” Even the term miscarriage can feel like it places blame on the mother.

There’s so much more that can be investigated—but we’re not told. Miscarriage is still wrapped in silence and shame. I always had sympathy for women who’d lost babies, but until you’ve experienced it, you can’t fully understand.

I understand now. But I really wish I didn’t.