I’d naively assumed that the road to parenthood would be straightforward for us. That’s what society prepares you for, and I’d seen that play out with friends and family. Three years down the line I feel like a different person. I have a lot more knowledge about women’s health, a whole new dictionary’s worth of jargon and acronyms, and a feeling of desperation rather than hope.

Our first pregnancy came quickly – 3 months of trying and we got the positive test. We felt so lucky. A little bit cautious, but nothing gave us a reason to suspect anything would go wrong, so we shared the news at Christmas time. This would be my parents’ first grandchild, a cousin for our little niece on my husband’s side. Everyone was so excited.

I desperately tried to understand what was happening to me as I writhed in pain in my bed

Blood tests came back normal; my first midwife appointment went well. So, when we went for our first scan, I wasn’t really prepared to hear the words ‘it’s bad news’. At that appointment I learned about anembryonic pregnancy – where the foetus doesn’t develop properly but the gestational sac keeps growing. Your body thinks that you are pregnant, but there is no embryo. I had to have vaginal pessaries to remove ‘the remains of the pregnancy’ and was told to go home and rest. I was not told about the debilitating pain, the contractions I would feel and the quantity of blood there would be. I read about those things on online forums as I desperately tried to understand what was happening to me as I writhed in pain in my bed. The lack of knowledge around miscarriage is incredible when you learn how common it is.

After 12 weeks of bleeding, several follow up appointments, a lot of tears and confusion, we got the all clear from the doctor that everything was ‘normal’. They told us it was bad luck, a very common occurrence and that we should just try again. We told ourselves the same thing, just bad luck, and tried to move on.

A few months later we were back at hospital. What I had thought was my period, was actually another miscarriage. It started around the same time as my period, lasted a few days, then the bleeding stopped, only to start again a couple of days later. By then I felt extreme exhaustion, just a tiredness like nothing else, and developed pain when I peed – I thought I had a UTI. At the hospital we found out it was an ectopic pregnancy, not viable, in my left fallopian tube. It seemed like my body was miscarrying itself this time, but there was a risk the tube could rupture. I had to go back to the hospital every 48 hours for 10 days for a blood test to ensure that my HCG level was going down. If it went up, I’d need medical intervention, and potentially surgery. Luckily that didn’t happen for us, but the bleeding again lasted a couple of months, and the feeling of loss hit even harder the second time.

There were posters on the walls about the benefits of breastfeeding and what vaccines to get your baby.

At the hospital where I was treated, there was no specific area for pregnancy loss patients. Every time I had to sit in triage, then go to the maternity ward and sit in a waiting room surrounded by women with big baby bumps. I saw newborn babies in their mothers’ arms getting wheeled down the corridor as I waited. There were posters on the walls about the benefits of breastfeeding and what vaccines to get your baby. Even as the doctors there told me that 1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss, there seemed to be not a thought for the feelings of the mothers who are going through such terrible pain and loss.

A couple of months later, I started to feel really desperate. Before discovering TWGGEF I think I was trying really hard to avoid my feelings. I latched on to the words I’d heard so many times: ‘at least it was early’ … ‘there was no embryo’ … ‘it’s just bad luck. Next time it will happen’. But now, after connecting with so many of the warriors in TWGGEF I can see how damaging those words are. What was meant to serve as a comfort for me, actually just delayed the suffering. By trying to minimize the pain, I felt like I didn’t deserve to be so sad. And with no outlet for my grief, I was really struggling. It’s only when I sought out support that I realised how much suffering I’d been through. Hearing other women’s stories, and connecting with people who’d been through similar heartbreak was so validating. I understood finally that I had to let those feelings in, and grieve what we had lost.

Fast forward a year or so, and the feeling of ‘it will happen’ was really starting to dwindle. I was finding it really tough to live in this constant monthly cycle of hoping, wondering and waiting. I’d tried everything we could think of: a cocktail of supplements, speaking to specialists, changing my diet, doing more sports, doing less sports, acupuncture. I went through a hysterosalpingography and a hysteroscopy, I had so many blood tests and internal scans I’ve lost count and still we had no answers for why we weren’t getting pregnant or staying pregnant.

People seem to think IVF = baby, and give little thought to how gruelling the process can be.

Out of desperation, we turned to IVF. It felt frustrating when we didn’t have a reason why we weren’t conceiving naturally, but our doctor said it was a way of reducing some risk factors and having a bit more control. I was pleased to be doing something different, but dreading the toll it would take on my body and on my mind. Strangely, family and friends seemed to be really pleased for us. There are still a lot of misconceptions around IVF and its success rates, but people seem to think IVF = baby, and give little thought to how gruelling the process can be.

The process for the egg collection went relatively smoothly, though I had 4 different injections to do each day. After all we had been through to this point, it felt like no big deal to be honest. We were lucky in that we got multiple embryos, though I wasn’t able to do a fresh transfer because of a risk of OHSS. We froze what we had and waited to do the transfers. Fast forward another six months, more injections, more medications, more money to the clinic and we’ve sadly used up all our embryos and have no pregnancy to show for it. With every loss, a part of me felt like it was being chipped away. I had to take some time off work as I wasn’t coping. People were loving and supportive and caring and sorry and none of it mattered. None of it took away the sadness. Frustratingly we still are no closer to getting any answers either. It’s hard to think about next steps but I am determined to not stop yet.

The fundraiser gave me an outlet to share my story and I’m so pleased I did

I joined the TWGGEF Run 10k to raise 10k fundraiser in January, mostly because of the mind-blowing fact that in 2025, the topic of baby loss is still a taboo. It breaks my heart that women today feel isolated and ashamed when they experience loss, because they haven’t ever heard anyone openly speak about it. That was my experience for sure. I felt a sense of duty to open up about what I’d been through – if I wasn’t prepared to speak honestly about it, how would anything ever change?

The fundraiser gave me an outlet to share my story and I’m so pleased I did. The conversations that came from it, and the messages of support and the donations I received were incredible. I shared the JustGiving page at work and my company matched a portion of my total. Colleagues and friends joined me to complete the 10k despite the TERRIBLE weather we had that weekend. The WhatsApp community was a beacon of positivity and encouragement. Only good things came from my decision to be honest.

I wish I could finish this post with my happy ending, but I’m not there yet. I’m sure a lot of you reading this can relate. So instead, I’ll leave you with wise TWGGEF words that always make me feel a tiny bit better on the darkest days. You are not alone. Your grief is valid. You can do hard things.

Sending love and strength to you all.

Caroline x

I didn’t think when I first started trying to get pregnant in 2018 that it would take so much effort. I had an understanding from the excruciating awkward occasional sex ed lessons at school that conception was as simple as a male and a female get it on and after some time a baby will pop out, such false advertising!

But when I decided I wanted to start trying for a family months turned into years and there was still no baby. I finally plucked up the courage to ask my GP, knowing that it was probably my Polycystic ovaries hampering our efforts and they quickly had me in for blood tests that started us on the path for fertility support. Thanks to Covid my husband had to hand over his part of the testing to a lab tech in a car park nearly an hour’s drive away. We still laugh about whether that was one of the weirdest things we’ll ever experience, they said to keep the specimen at body temp so he drove along a near empty motorway whilst I smuggled a specimen sample pot in my cleavage. We then handed over the sample to someone so cloaked in PPE in the car park outside we weren’t even sure they were a member of staff. They obviously were though, and we received the results that everything was on track for us to start discussing our options with the fertility team when they got in touch. We joked that there wasn’t much to do during lock down and when Christmas was cancelled for us due to the pandemic, we managed to finally make a baby all on our own.

We had faced our adversity and overcome our issues… we thought.

We tearfully told our families and select friends before even the first scan because we were just so excited it had finally happened to us; we had faced our adversity and overcome our issues… we thought. I could hear the relief in my best friend’s voice who had told me just the week before that she was expecting, getting pregnant as soon as she had looked at her new husband.

Fast forward 9 months and I am sat waiting for an appointment by myself whilst my other half Tom waits outside because…. still Covid… and then we finally get called in. We were there to discuss early induction, because he was measuring big and I was anxious to get him out. I’d been having nightmares, like I knew that it needed to be sooner. I hadn’t had a particularly difficult pregnancy apart from a bleed at 10 weeks that they described as a threatened miscarriage, and after a check over and a scan we were reassured, everything was ok, it was “just one of those things”, but perhaps I shouldn’t do any high impact exercise for the remainder of my pregnancy. Oh, and also being called and given the wrong results after our 12-week scan. We had an increased chance of our baby having trisomy 21 so we technically broke covid rules leaving the city to have an unnecessary NIPT test at the private clinic that could see us soonest. It wasn’t cheap either but I said that’s what my annual bonus bought us, information about our baby. When I called to tell them, we’d had the test the woman on the phone was very confused as to why, checking my details again and then going silent. I asked what my results were and she read off completely different figures than the ones I had received the week before. “So was I given the wrong person’s results” I surmised. She stayed silent, I don’t know if she was scared or loyal, but eventually I made her confirm which results were correct. Our baby didn’t have any additional chance for anything the 12-week scan checks for. A fact that was solidified by the results of the NIPT test a few weeks after and the news he was a he!

My last words to her, after she insisted, I go to 39 weeks were, “is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind”

Nearly 6 months after that, and nearing the last hurdle, I waddled into the windowless room to be confronted by the consultant or registrar. Who explained she was a locum, but made no small talk whilst bad-temperedly clicking through computer screens then left the room then came back complaining about the system… the other staff… the everything! She couldn’t access the right records so she then made decisions about him coming into the world based on limited information, a decision based only on what we could tell her of the growth scan appointment that we remembered, from weeks before, as first-time parents, with no medical backgrounds. My last words to her, after she insisted, I go to 39 weeks were, “is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind”. “No, no” she shook her head gesturing for us to leave the room. I don’t think she ever made eye contact with me, the whole appointment. A few weeks later on the day she scheduled me to be induced Holden Cosmo Moore was pronounced dead. “I’m sorry, there’s no heart beat”.

Her round belly bulging with life whilst my cold swollen stomach had become a tomb for my son.

I called my best friend later that day, in a blur, just wanting to hear her voice saying all the right things to comfort me, we were closer than sisters, but as I told her I could hear the panic and self-conscious tone creep in as she internalised the worry, being pregnant herself, due 2 weeks after me. She was so strong for me, and put all of that fear aside to come to my house the following day, just before I went back to the hospital for him to be born. Her round belly bulging with life whilst my cold swollen stomach had become a tomb for my son. I said goodbye knowing I wouldn’t be able to meet up with her again for some time, maybe ever.

I can talk of hope and the future and all of the things that came after, but even several years on, a part of my soul is trapped in that room with the consultant forever, still screaming and begging the universe to change. We found out at the medical review that he was “genetically, internally and externally perfect.” My son was perfect in every way, and yet he died and I have to live the rest of my life without him, furious at a flawed person and a broken system.

On the 31st January 2024, exactly 2 weeks after my mum’s funeral who passed suddenly, my husband and I found out we were expecting. We were beyond excited.

We were blessed with two heartbeats. DCDA twins, meaning they have their own sacs and placentas.

Quite quickly, I kept saying to my husband ‘I think it could be twins’. On our way to our 12-week scan, I said to my husband once more ‘if it’s twins, we’ve totally got this’. Sure enough, mother’s instinct was right. We were blessed with two heartbeats. DCDA twins, meaning they have their own sacs and placentas.

At our 20-week scan everything was still moving forward nicely.  We never found out the genders, they were just known as Twin 1 (who I had a sneaky suspicion was a girl) and Twin 2 (who I thought was a boy).

After 20 weeks, I had scan weekly, there was some concern around Twin 1’s growth, so each fortnight we had growth scans, and in between those they check the flow from placenta to babies.

I also had Intrahepatic cholestasis of pregnancy, which I had with my first born also. My bloods were regularly monitored.

On the 10th September 2024, I’d had a growth scan and due to Twin 1s growth, they were going to induce me later that week. This would mean the babies would be born at 36weeks and it was recommended to have steroid inject to help the babies’ lungs. I had my first injection that day.

The next morning, I woke up and hadn’t felt the babies move very much. I had thought to much of it, but always been an advocate for babies’ movements and using kicks count bracelet, I got childcare for my toddler and took myself to triage. I was also due to have my 2nd steroid injection that afternoon, so had a a good few hours to myself and was busy planning where to go treat myself for dinner after a quick check on the babies before the next appointment.

I was so sure as soon as the monitors were on, all would be fine.

On my way there, my consultant actually called to say they would be inducing me the following day. I never mentioned I was on my way for reduced movements; I was so sure as soon as the monitors were on, all would be fine.

The popped the monitors on, and although the midwife thought she had two heart beats, the monitor wasn’t happy. After a couple more reshuffles, she eventually went to get a scanning machine. She scanned my tummy, and then said, we’d move to another room. My heart sank. I knew.

I never thought I wouldn’t be bringing them both home.

We went to a room and she called for a doctor. The doctor before she scanned, asked me if I was alone, I was. She scanned and informed me there was no heartbeat on twin 2, but twin 1 was still going strong. Complete shock, shock that we’d lost twin 2, when all concern had only been for twin 1. Heartbroken we’d lost a baby, that I had to phone my husband to come to the hospital while I figure out how to tell him when he arrives, we’ve lost a baby. Thankful that twin 1 was still alive. It was quickly decided the babies would be born via c section that day. We don’t know why we lost twin 2. At exactly 36weeks they were born.

Twin 1 – Lucinda 5lb

Twin 2 – Walter 5lb 13oz

Mothers’ instinct was right, I knew it was twins, I knew it was a boy and a girl, I never thought I wouldn’t be bringing them both home.

We were so well cared for throughout our pregnancy, I don’t think any more could have been done. DCDA twins, the safest twins to have. Overall, a healthy pregnancy, until it wasn’t.

Navigating baby loss while caring for a toddler and a newborn is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

For the last few years, I have thought about writing my secondary infertility story for Baby Loss Awareness week. I never got round to it, and in truth what’s stopped me is that I always hoped I would be writing it following our happy ending, a rainbow baby to make the losses worthwhile. Sadly, 5 years have passed now and here I am, finally putting the words down because it feels right, but for a different reason.

Does that mean the storm never ends? Does that mean we never get our rainbow?

I’ve always struggled with the term “rainbow baby”—this idea that the child who comes after loss is the calm after the storm. Because what if no baby comes? Does that mean the storm never ends? Does that mean we never get our rainbow? Is success only defined as the arrival of the much-wanted baby? How about the success that comes with a couple still standing, still trying, still choosing to live a joyful life anyway… is that not worth a rainbow?

I have been pregnant 11 times. The first time resulted in my beautiful daughter, now 8, conceived on the first try. I miss the person I was during that first pregnancy. So carefree, so naïve. I bought most of our baby items at a second-hand sale when I was 14 weeks pregnant with not a care in the world. I had a beautiful pregnancy and loved every minute. Motherhood hit hard, in the best way. I loved (almost) every moment, but I was tired and anxious, possibly due to a thyroid issue at least in part. We didn’t think about trying for our second child until my daughter was 3.

I suffered 2 chemical pregnancies back-to-back which were devastating, completely unexpected. My 3^rd was a first trimester loss, painful in a different way because I had begun to hope. Having had 3 losses, I then qualified for NHS investigations, but we were in the middle of the covid pandemic, the country was in lockdown and waiting lists were growing.

All this time we were in our bubble (literally) of three. As I explored the online fertility space, I found support groups which became a lifeline at times. But having my daughter, particularly when I was sharing space with women who did not have any children, made me feel that I didn’t deserve to grieve our losses. That I should be grateful (I am!), keep it to myself, not feel any pain. How could I be sad when I could kiss my daughter goodnight, or skip with her in the garden, when these other women were so desperate to have even one child. Also, my losses had been early. At least. So, we battled on. 3 more losses within the space of another year and no answers from the recurrent miscarriage clinic when the appointment finally came.

For the first time, I gave myself permission to feel it all, the heartbreak, the anger (oh the anger!), the confusion, the unfairness.

My 7^th loss was different. It was an ectopic pregnancy that ended in emergency surgery to remove both the pregnancy and my right fallopian tube. For the first time, I couldn’t hide what was happening. I needed two weeks off work, help with childcare, to tell people. And when it all finally came tumbling out it was like a weight had been lifted. That experience forced a mental shift. I stopped pretending we could just power through. I accepted I might need some kind of therapy to deal with the trauma of losses we had suffered. I stopped forcing the gratitude and began to realise that I needed to look my grief directly in the face. For the first time, I gave myself permission to feel it all, the heartbreak, the anger (oh the anger!), the confusion, the unfairness.

I thought that telling people would bring pity (gads!) or judgement, but it mostly brought connection and compassion. Of course, some people didn’t get it, and I’ve lost a few friends along the way. I couldn’t be there for them, and they couldn’t be there for me, no one’s fault. But generally, when I shared our story with a friend, colleague, family member, the grief lifted a little.

For me, that loss marked the beginning of something. We couldn’t keep going the way we had been. We stopped trying to force our way through the pain or frantically push for answers that would never come. I let go of my obsession with timelines and the ticking of the clock, mostly. I started advocating for myself with doctors (I was an expert by then anyway) and listening to what my body needed, was trying to tell me.

I write this as if it all changed at that point, it didn’t. Rebuilding myself has been a gradual, continual process. My ectopic pregnancy was two and a half years ago now and we are still working on things, ourselves, still trying. But I feel lighter now than I have in years. We’re trying to live alongside hope instead of being consumed by it, while seeking out joy in the small things.

If there was one thing that helped it was building connections, both inside the fertility space and beyond it. While I struggled with sharing our story in person – during lockdown we moved outside of the city to a small town where everyone seemed to have at least 3 kids! – I started studying nutrition in 2022 and my classmates were brilliant and hilarious, a perfect distraction. I started the course to gain some control, find some answers, but mostly distract my brain from the sadness. I’ve always been a geek, I love to study, and it was escapism. My classmates helped me more than they will ever know. I’ve only recently shared my losses with the group and again have been met with nothing but compassion.

In terms of the fertility world, The Worst Girl Gang Ever was formed nearly 5 years ago (at the time of writing this) when this journey was just starting for me. Those two incredible women pulled me out of the depths when I didn’t know what I needed was to laugh, to rant, to swear. Up to that point baby loss had been filled with hushed voices, pale pinks and blues, angel wings. You do need that sometimes, but other times you need to be angry. TWGGE gave me permission to let that anger out, and once it was out, its hold was gone.

More recently I have been part of Alice Rose’s “Happen” group. Alice is a Transformational Mindset Coach and to say that my mindset has been transformed by Alice and the amazing women in the Happen group would be putting it mildly. I would never have written this if it wasn’t for their gentle, yet brutal, shove in the right direction!

Our losses didn’t make me a better person in some neat, redemptive way, but they did make me live more.

I can’t ever say that my losses have a silver lining, to think of them as some kind of gift feels like minimising something that broke my soul completely. They weren’t blessings in disguise. They were devastating. They were real. But I also can’t deny the way they’ve shaped in me. I am more compassionate. I love more fiercely. I notice joy where I used to rush past it. I speak with more honesty. I’m more confident. I have found my voice. I am grateful, not because of what I’ve lost, but because of how deeply I’ve learned to hold what I have. Our losses didn’t make me a better person in some neat, redemptive way, but they did make me live more. And I’ll carry that with me every day.

The sadness doesn’t leave, but it hasn’t all been for nothing. There are rainbows.

I had a MMC measuring 8 weeks back in March. We went from being the happiest we have ever been to the saddest we have ever been in such a short space of time. I had a gut feeling something was wrong when my strong symptoms began to slowly dwindle. We booked a private scan and I remember my partner saying “I know we will be leaving here with a big smile on our face” but I just knew something was wrong. We sat in the waiting room surrounded by balloons and families excited for their gender reveal. When we left after hearing there was a very slow heartbeat, we had to leave via the fire escape. I couldn’t hide my sadness and didn’t want to ruin their experiences with my terrified face.

Things moved quickly after that. A week later we were in the early pregnancy clinic, and the heartbeat had gone altogether. We waited another week to then have another scan to reconfirm. 1 week later, still no sign of miscarriage and a D&C was booked.

Things went seemingly well initially, but the bleeding just wouldn’t stop. When it got to the 4 weeks mark, I called back in and had another scan. They seemed in shock at how much retained product (horrible term for your baby, isn’t it) that had been left. 2 weeks later I had another D&C that was ultrasound guided. I felt resentful and frustrated, but understood it was “rare” but could happen. They scanned me before this D&C again to ensure it was still there and it most definitely was.

I broke down into hysterical crying at that point. How? How the eff could they have missed it?

Fast forward 3 more weeks, I was still bleeding. I called up again, booked another scan, and went alone this time. I was quietly confident my body was just flushing and getting back to normal, how could they have missed it again if it was ultrasound guided? I even told my partner to go watch the Tottenham final (his one true love!) as I was so sure it would be okay.

I had a scan and they just went silent. And then she said I’m sorry…. they have still missed a big part. I just broke down into hysterical crying at that point. How? How the eff could they have missed it? I waited, alone, for 3 hours in the waiting room after that until I saw a consultant. It felt like the longest, loneliest wait of my life.

I’ve had 6 trips to the hospital, 8 internal scans, 3 general anaesthetics and 3 surgeries in 3 months…

I was then booked in for a Hysteroscopy and something else that sounded like a “total clear out”. I sat on my sofa watching Suits for the 18th time because my brain hasn’t been capable of watching anything new right now.

I’ve had 6 trips to the hospital, 8 internal scans, 3 general anaesthetics and 3 surgeries in 3 months. To top it off nicely, I am on antibiotics also because the site where my IV line went in got infected and my arm blew up, but that’s just the cherry on a really shit cake.

I feel physically and emotionally battered, and all the trauma sometimes makes me oversee the true sadness here – our little miracle has gone.

On one hand I want to share my story so people like me – the 1% or whatever percentage it was – don’t feel so alone. On the other hand, I also don’t want to scare all these lovely women who are already scared enough. There have been many, many dark days but also many days filled with love and gratitude for my incredible partner, family, friends and colleagues whom all helped me through continuously. I think they are the real heroes in my story.