The Mother-Fu*king Path to Motherhood
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.
