Everything started for us back in January 2018, we decided in the December we’d start trying & found ourselves pregnant after the first month.

I remember being upset but I’d heard miscarriage was common, 1 in 4 & thought that was just our 1.

It was only about a week after finding out that we were pregnant that I started cramping & within 24 hours was miscarrying.It was a bit of a blur at the time, we hadn’t really gotten our heads around being pregnant & what that meant before it was over. I remember being upset but I’d heard miscarriage was common, 1 in 4 & thought that was just our 1.

We got pregnant again a few months later & happily brought our little boy, Theo into the world following a relatively straightforward pregnancy. Just over a year later we decided to try for number 2, we fell pregnant within a couple of months in the first Covid lockdown. I was sick, all the usual first trimester symptoms, we got past that 6-week mark & naively the prior miscarriage was a forgotten blip.

I was just over 10 weeks pregnant & despite not being far from our 12-week scan, I decided to buy my husband a private scan for his birthday, it was the middle of Covid so it seemed like something that would make the day memorable. I lay on the table wondering if I’d managed to fill my bladder enough as I felt so sick I wasn’t drinking much, we were just chatting away as the sonographer put the scan up. I don’t remember exactly how things went after that but I do remember almost feeling like I was being told off, why had I not realised something was wrong, I must have got my dates wrong because the foetus was only 8ish weeks in size. A total lack of compassion & sign posting to an EPU. We were devastated.

We opted for a medical procedure following that. It took a lot longer for me to pass the baby than expected, a few days after the medicine I had these intense cramps and ran to the bathroom, before I could get to the toilet, what I now realised was the baby literally fell out of me on to the floor, the size of a big tampon there on the floor. I stared at it not knowing what to do, then picked it up and flushed it down the loo. No one prepares you for that.

Now we were 1 in 20-100 having a missed miscarriage. Following that we had 2 further early losses at 6-7 weeks. It was the darkest time in my life, we withdrew, it wasn’t hard, we were still in Covid so we could avoid people. We struggled to get any help with the NHS because we already had a child. I just had some blood tests & an ultrasound, when they didn’t find anything (after a possible cancer scare that turned out to be a highly incompetent doctor) we were discharged. I remember asking can I access any mental health support given what we’ve been through & was told there are long waiting lists you should just try going private.

The one thing that has remained true throughout our story is the complete lack of support available to families in these situations. I’ve got to the stage where I think I’m crazy for expecting more. After 4 miscarriages we were now 1 in 100, ticking the recurrent miscarriage box too. We ended up seeing a private doctor who was so brilliant, we are very fortunate that we were able to afford her support & I truly believe we have our 2nd son, William, because of her brilliance. She prescribed us with progesterone pessaries that I have taken in all my subsequent pregnancies and I’ve not miscarried again. I have a feeling that so many women would benefit from this intervention & not have to go through all this pain but it’s not always accessible on the NHS which is devastating. With William, again our pregnancy was relatively straight forwards, we were blessed.

That brings us to last year, it took us a long time to decide whether to try for a 3rd but in March 2024 we made the decision & got pregnant that first month of trying. It all felt too easy, how could this be? I was 38 now, we had so much loss before, surely, we weren’t just going to have another baby because we wanted it. I don’t know why I had that underlying feeling but we had scans at 7 weeks, 10 weeks, 12 weeks, my cervix was checked at 16 weeks & I saw our baby moving around, we were in the safe zone we thought as all our other losses had been before 11 weeks. At 18 weeks I expected to start to feel movement, I knew I had around that point with the boys. It didn’t come, I tried not to freak out, I knew I could have an anterior placenta or maybe my memory was a bit off but by 19 weeks I was preoccupied with the thought that I had a dead baby inside me. We were on holiday in Portugal at the time but the minute we got home I went to pregnancy unit & they listened in. To my disbelief they found a heartbeat & told me “That sounds like a happy healthy baby, you probably have got an anterior placenta, don’t worry, your 20-week scan is only a week away”. My husband wanted to see the baby regardless so we booked a private scan the next day to find out the baby’s sex with the boys as they wouldn’t be able to come to the NHS scan. It was a little girl!

When we left, I looked at the papers, she was <1st percentile on some measurements. That’s when our world started to fall apart.

After the scan the sonographer pulled me aside & asked if the boys had been very small babies. I said not abnormally small; Theo had been 5th percentile but William bigger. She said she wanted to share the results with the midwife as she was concerned. When we left, I looked at the papers, she was <1st percentile on some measurements. That’s when our world started to fall apart.

The NHS would not see us before our scheduled 20-week scan 5 days later. We sat in that waiting room with these happy round bellied women for what felt like forever. I was shaking & crying on the bed as she took the scan, and she said “I agree with the private scan but also the baby’s thorax is the wrong shape. You need to go to foetal medicine.”

We were taken to a private waiting room & ushered out the back door. It took a couple of days to get in to foetal medicine, during this time we had no idea what was going on, what range of outcomes we were looking at from survival & everything is ok to losing the baby. It was a total head f***. Meanwhile trying to pretend to the boys like we were ok & not knowing what to tell them as they grew more excited about having a baby sister. I was so scared to tell the boys, but surprisingly that was one of the easier parts about the whole ordeal.

The foetal medicine appointment was horrendous, we were scanned for over an hour, we didn’t look at the screen, we couldn’t. Eventually they took us into a room & told us what they thought was wrong with our little girl. I can so vividly see the doctor saying to me, “many people would choose to terminate based on these results”. I can see her face, the room, hear those words. The worst moment of my life.

We decided we wanted more certainty so had the amniocentesis the same day & went home. To say that we then felt abandoned at this point is the only way I can describe the next 3 and a bit weeks. I trapped myself inside not wanting anyone to see me & work out I was pregnant, for me to have to tell them I was but things weren’t looking good. We had next to no correspondence from the NHS with the exception of the geneticist calling to explain the tests, then to say she didn’t have Downs’ Syndrome or any of the other more common disorders. We were basically told to contact the midwives when we decided what we were doing- i.e. terminating or looking for palliative care at birth. After 3 weeks & no results we asked for another scan, who knew, perhaps there had been a miracle. The evening before the scan we did get a call from the genetics lab to tell us that the gene they had suspected was fine but they would keep looking for something else. As much as I wanted to suppress it, I had a shred of hope. That was all shattered the next day when the scan revealed she was still tracking very small & it was clear to the doctor she had a form of skeletal issue they just hadn’t pinpointed it yet. Sure enough, we got the call later that day to say they had found the gene & that alongside the scan suggested that the severity of the issue was not compatible with life. I didn’t know it was possible to cry that much.

I had to sign to say, yes you can kill my baby. No one should ever have to do that.

We made the decision that it was in her best interest not to put her through the birth for her to die during or shortly after and that we would go ahead with the termination. A few days later we were booked in. By this point I was over 24 weeks so we would have to have a foeticide, I had to sign to say, yes you can kill my baby. No one should ever have to do that.

2 days later we gave birth to our tiny Georgie. I was so thankful to TWGGEF for the podcasts from others that had been through TFMR. It meant that we did a few personal things such as buying her a little Teddy & taking her a book that we’d read to the boys to read to her etc. and accessed guidance I wasn’t able to find anywhere else nor did the bereavement midwife suggest.

We were a bit scared; how would she look? She was so beautiful & just fit in my hands. The midwife that helped us that day was the most incredible, compassionate woman, thank you Jane for making that day as easy as possible & for really caring for our little girl. I’m crying as I write this.

I’ve had so much anger in my grief, primarily at the lack of emotional or mental health support that has been on offer to us. Apparently, I have been coping too well to access maternal mental health support & numerous charities have either not replied to me or been inaccessible due to the post code of the hospital where Georgie was delivered.

And there we are, one of the 5,000 couples that have a TFMR each year in the UK. There are no statistics for the likelihood of a baby having the gene defect that Georgie had, we’ve finally broken the stats!

I could say so much more but I think I’ve run out of room. Thank you Bex & Laura for all that you are doing to help have our stories heard & improve the care and compassion that women & their families so desperately need. You are incredible. With lots of love x

Nothing quite prepares you for that quiet ultrasound— the one with no rhythmic beating. The silence speaks volumes, and it pierces the heart with profound pain. My ears felt like they were ringing with silence. It was too quiet, and my heart began to sink with anticipation—I knew, before anyone said a word.

“I didn’t feel like a ‘1 in 4’ statistic. I felt like my hopes and dreams didn’t have a heartbeat.”

When the tech finally said: “It looks like it’s too early for a heartbeat.” My heart sank even further–I was almost nine weeks pregnant, but my baby was only 6 weeks. I whispered to my husband “It’s okay,” again and again. But really, I was trying to convince myself. At that moment, I didn’t feel like a “1 in 4” statistic. I felt like my hopes and dreams didn’t have a heartbeat. Speaking with the medical team, I assured them I’d gotten a positive test over a month ago. They called it “suspicious” that my baby had no heartbeat, and was measuring behind, but suggested I may have miscalculated my ovulation date.

I thought, Are they not hearing me? I had a positive test over a month ago. I’ve had this appointment scheduled for over a month. Even if I had miscalculated, a three-week difference is far too much. This wasn’t just “suspicious”—my baby was gone,

I asked what it would be like to miscarry at this stage. Their response was “Call us if you start bleeding.” I felt very unheard and underprepared.  They told me to come back for another ultrasound in 10 days.  I felt like I was losing my mind. Why wasn’t anyone truly talking to me? I just wanted someone to tell me what was going to happen, but the only phrases offered were, “It’s suspicious,” and “we can’t call it a miscarriage yet.”

Those ten days were filled with some of the most intense physical pain I’ve ever experienced. I spent nights hunched over in agony. My husband did everything he could to help, but he felt helpless. I assumed I had passed the baby–there were clear signs of miscarriage.

Ten days later, when I returned for the ultrasound, my baby was still there. A tiny, motionless presence. The baby had grown by just one day, and there was still no heartbeat. A different doctor confirmed the miscarriage was imminent. It felt like a cruel roller coaster—I thought the worst part was over, but it wasn’t.

They asked if I wanted to wait another week. I responded with, “I’m in so much pain. I know the baby is gone. Please help me move this along.” We chose to move forward with medication to help complete the miscarriage. I passed my baby peacefully at home after carrying that pregnancy for ten weeks. We named that pregnancy “Our Little Spark.” Because that’s what it was—a beautiful spark of life.

Two months passed. We were still grieving, but something inside me felt ready to try again. To our surprise, we got pregnant on the first try. The joy of expecting our rainbow baby so soon was indescribable!

But just days later—on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day—I began to notice signs of another miscarriage. It felt like a cruel twist of fate. A few days later, our fears were confirmed—I was miscarrying again, and I couldn’t believe it.

I had experienced a chemical pregnancy five years earlier, and I thought I understood this pain. But this loss, so soon after the last one, cut even deeper. I was incredibly sad. And the postpartum hormone drop magnified that sadness.

My sister was a great source of comfort during this time and she encouraged me to call the doctor’s office and request a blood panel–and I’m so glad she did.

She didn’t dismiss me. She listened and had compassion for my story and that changed everything.

I made the call to the doctor’s office and included symptoms I had been experiencing on and off since the birth of my son. I had been disregarded by other doctors before when I had brought up these symptoms, so I was concerned they were going to be brushed off again. I’ll never forget the nurse who believed me. I told her everything—about my symptoms, and how I believed they were connected to my losses. She didn’t dismiss me. She listened and had compassion for my story and that changed everything.

She spoke to a doctor, and a few hours later, a blood panel was ordered.

The results showed elevated levels of antiphospholipid antibodies—suggesting a possible autoimmune clotting disorder called Antiphospholipid Syndrome (APS). It’s a condition that can increase risk of pregnancy loss at any gestation, and serious clotting events like strokes and heart attacks in otherwise healthy young people.

To confirm the diagnosis, the test needed to be repeated 12 weeks later. I was stunned. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

Those 12 weeks were filled with anxiety. Every day, I lived in fear of a clotting event. I read story after story of people finding out they had APS—some, like me, through recurrent pregnancy loss. Others didn’t find out until after a late-term loss. And some only learned of it after a major clotting event, like a pulmonary embolism or stroke.

I was terrified. Panic attacks came in waves as I waited for that second round of tests. Anyone who’s been through this process knows—those three months can feel like three years.

When the time came, the second tests showed even higher levels of the antibodies—confirming the APS diagnosis. I was referred to a hematologist and was informed that it was possible to carry a pregnancy to term, but I would need to be on daily Lovenox injections (a blood thinner), aspirin, and undergo close monitoring during pregnancy.

We were relieved to have answers, but the reality of managing a chronic condition and having a higher risk pregnancy was overwhelming. Often, there is no explanation for recurrent loss—just the heartbreaking label of “unexplained.” But in my case, there was an explanation. I am so grateful for that gentle push from my sister and that nurse who believed me. I learned that the right nurse will listen. The right doctor will listen. And there is hope with this condition.

There’s an ache in the quiet spaces where a baby should be, and it weighs on our hearts.

We ended up naming our consecutive loss “Our Little Gift.” Not because we’re grateful to have miscarried again—far from it—but because that pregnancy helped uncover something deeper going on. In that way, it gave us a crucial piece of the puzzle.

Now, we move forward with grief in one hand and hope in the other. Sometimes, I still catch myself staring at the empty chair at our dining table. We have a beautiful little family and a son we absolutely adore, but it still feels like someone is missing. There’s an ache in the quiet spaces where a baby should be, and it weighs on our hearts.

We’re now with a medical team that has experience supporting APS pregnancies, and for the first time in a while, I feel seen. They listen, they don’t dismiss, and they genuinely believe my body can do this. That alone has been a game changer. I’m currently on a daily aspirin while I am waiting for a positive pregnancy test. Once I get a positive test, I will be put on blood thinner injections as well.  I’m so grateful for this fresh start—even knowing no one can promise us a rainbow. All I can do is keep holding on to hope: hope that the protocols will work, and hope that one day, we’ll fill that empty chair.

On 29 January 2025 our first baby would have been due. Instead, I was 22 weeks pregnant with their rainbow brother.

I’ve blinked and I’m now 35 weeks pregnant.

Can we talk about the contradiction of grieving a loss whilst pregnant and the absolute brain-f**k it presents?

I already know so much about our rainbow baby. Their name. Their gender. Features of their tiny face. The fact they are a wriggler and love car journeys.

I know we are unbelievably blessed to be in this position and I wouldn’t change it for the world -but can we talk about the contradiction of grieving a loss whilst pregnant and the absolute brain-f**k it presents?

Let me take you back a bit.

I was completely overwhelmed to find I was pregnant in May 2024. Neither my partner or I wanted to call what we were doing ‘trying to conceive’ as we didn’t want to put pressure on ourselves or create disappointment – so it was incredible to see those two blue lines appear.

I could visualise my life as a mother instantly. I’d always known I wanted to be a mother and it was as if my time had come. Everything had fallen into place – or so I thought.

I had the best few weeks, having a wonderful summer. I went to the British Grand Prix and was a bridesmaid at my best friend’s wedding – thinking they were all memories I’d be able to share with our child.

The day before my 12 week dating scan, I started spotting. I’d had a private scan at seven weeks and they’d identified a SCH. After a call to 111, we were told to attend the scan as normal and I convinced myself everything was okay.

Everything was anything but okay as it would turn out. The sonographer found that our baby had died not long after my seven week scan. It was as though the bottom had fallen out of my world. I couldn’t fathom how I had not realised my baby had died. All my precious memories were now tainted by knowing I wasn’t carrying a healthy, growing baby after all. I was living a lie in which I’d failed our baby.

I hate the term ‘missed miscarriage’ because there was no missing what came next. My local Early Pregnancy Clinic did everything they could to support me, but the spontaneous miscarriage that followed not long after was the most traumatic experience of my life. There’s little point beating around the bush! I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare, knowing the outcome with nothing I could do to stop it.

I know that’s ridiculous now – having left a literal trail of blood in my wake!

A week later, after going back to work ‘for some normality’, I suffered a significant bleed caused by retained product. I never knew it was possible to be admitted to A&E as quickly as I was without arriving in an ambulance! I worried the other people awaiting triage might be annoyed with me for jumping the queue! I know that’s ridiculous now – having left a literal trail of blood in my wake! I was fortunate that no issues were found and I was able to continue – and complete – expectant management.

After going from one trauma to another, my brain eventually shut down to the emotion of it all. I couldn’t handle the mass of thoughts, feelings, and reactions – so I didn’t. I became a stoic monolith, deciding I was fine and that was that.

The feeling I couldn’t shake however was that of failure. I had failed to bring that child safely into the world. I felt like I had failed in the primary purpose of being a woman. I had set myself an unspoken goal of having a baby by 30. I was 29 years and 21 days when I lost our baby and I felt like time was ticking away. I couldn’t fail again.

I was fortunate that my period returned promptly, 5 weeks post M-day, and I told my partner I was ready to try again. He tried to talk about whether that was actually true, but I was adamant. He’d coped with the loss by putting all his attention on protecting me, and he didn’t want to cause me any more stress (he’s my hero and forever will be).

We got pregnant again straight away.

There have been a few bumps in the road – a couple of EPC referrals, a fetal medicine consultation – but we’ve hit 35 weeks and baby boy is doing brilliantly.

Physically I’m doing really well, but mentally this second pregnancy has been a challenge.

In some respect, I only started to grieve our angel baby properly in the second half of this rainbow pregnancy.

Everyone around us – family, friends, colleagues, midwives, sonographers, consultants – have treated us so sensitively and offered us buckets of support and care, yet my mind has been going overtime, especially as we approached angel baby’s due date and now as we reach rainbow baby’s due date. In some respect, I only started to grieve our angel baby properly in the second half of this rainbow pregnancy.

I’ve felt grateful for being blessed with a new pregnancy so soon, but guilt that others haven’t been afforded this gift, too.

I’ve felt confusion and doubt as to why our pregnancy experience has been shaped as it has.

I’ve felt joy at seeing our healthy baby on the ultrasound, but anger that we had to experience heartbreak first.

I’ve felt anxiety from knowing anything could go wrong at any time, and annoyance that some parents never have to experience the pain and tainted perspectives caused by baby loss.

I’ve felt panic that our bumps in the road were real issues, but calm that we’ve already overcome the worse once before.

I’ve felt grief that I didn’t have the wonderful experiences I’m having in this pregnancy with my first baby, and shame that not many people even know our first baby existed.

I’ve felt failure I couldn’t carry our first baby, and pride that I’m carrying our second baby.

Ugly feelings, weird feeling, brain-f**k feelings! Grief! If truth be told, I know the extent of my emotional response this time is due to not fully processing what happened last time. And yet, I have felt like my second pregnancy is giving me a chance to grieve and find some peace as I reflect on my first pregnancy.

As I write this, I’m not sure what purpose I want my words to serve. Perhaps to confirm to someone also experiencing the brain-f**k of grief in pregnancy that they are not alone? Perhaps to confess my ugly feelings out loud? Perhaps to admit in public that I am only human and, as hard as I tried to avoid my feelings, succumbing to the brain-f**k has almost been healing?