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.

I’ve sat down to write this many times, always feeling like I can’t find the words. It’s now May 2025, 14 months later, so here goes…

We found out we were expecting our second baby in December 2023.

Over the Easter weekend, at almost 20 week (19+4) I had, what I suddenly learned is known as a ‘late missed miscarriage’. Simply, my body didn’t let me know that our baby’s heart had stopped.

Late afternoon on Good Friday I had a very small dot of brown blood. I went to triage to be checked over. No other signs at all…

By the time I got there I was bleeding. After waiting a couple of hours for a doctor to scan, I was told there was no heartbeat and that baby’s heart had stopped, around 16-18 weeks (based on size) and that my body was now miscarrying my baby.

I was alone in triage as we hoped it was nothing to worry about! My other half, at home with our 3-year-old, had to arrange for my parents to drive an hour or so to ours so that he could come to the hospital to be with me. (I told him a white lie about lack of doctors and tests taking longer than usual.) I sat with the news of our baby for 2 hours, alone, until he arrived and I could tell him in person.

I was suddenly thrown into a world of words and phrases I’d never heard of, let alone understood.

I begged to be sent home that night, and under instructions to return at 8am the following day for another scan and ‘the next steps’, I was given permission to leave.

I was suddenly thrown into a world of words and phrases that I’d never heard of let alone understood. I felt as though everything being said had an abbreviation and more alarmingly, a presumption that I was following and understanding our ‘next steps’. Of course I didn’t understand any of it.

On Saturday morning after another scan, indeed confirming I was miscarrying, I was given medication to induce labour, sent home and returning to the hospital a day later, giving birth to our tiny baby on Easter Sunday. The birth was calm and quiet, all things considered, followed by the same euphoric feeling I had when I’d given birth to our daughter. This only added to the cruel and confusing feelings.

We went home on Easter Monday, just the two of us, after the same jam on toast and tea I’d devoured in 2021, except this time I’d forced it down with no desire to eat or drink, or enjoy anything.

I’d been thrown into these discussions of induced birth, funerals and post-mortems when really my ears were still ringing with ‘I’m so sorry but there’s no heartbeat’.

A scan a few days after birth, showed I needed a surgical management of miscarriage so was booked in the next day. I was supposed to be going to Wembley to watch the Lionesses, instead I was sat in a gown and stockings waiting for my first flirt with a general anaesthetic to remove the small amount of placenta and tissue remaining.

This thankfully went as well as it could and I was let out, late that same day.

All this, in the space of a week.

I’d been in fight mode and couldn’t think straight or clearly about anything. The week had been a whirlwind of information, emotions, procedures and birth. I felt lost, angry, hurt, vulnerable, confused…

I wish I had known more. Before our loss. The lingo, the ‘what happens next’…

We spend so much of our life being instructed on how not to get pregnant but nothing about infertility, difficult pregnancies or loss! To be learning about the next steps – methods and procedures in unimaginably hard circumstances is reckless and leaves lasting damage. It needs to change.

After a few months of waiting, the post-mortem didn’t show anything too concerning apart from a couple of blood clots behind my placenta. With further tests I was diagnosed with ‘Sticky blood syndrome’ (or Antiphospholipid Syndrome/ APS). Another thing I’d never heard of! It’s an autoimmune disorder where the immune system mistakenly produces antibodies that make blood clots more likely to form. It took a series of repeat blood tests, at least 12 weeks apart, for comparison, before diagnosis. It is unknown if I had APS during my first pregnancy or not but the specialists seem to lean towards something triggering it in the time between my first and second pregnancy.

Whilst we will never have any definite answers or causes, I am hugely grateful for the testing I have received. It has led us to a point where we have a plan in place, of twice daily blood thinning injections and aspirin from early pregnancy and throughout. This is by no means a guarantee but it is something.

Journaling gave me a voice, and for a while, I became my own soundboard.

It has taken me a long time and months of talking therapy to get to where I am now. With a little belief, cautiously hopeful even. I’ve found looking for my daily dose of gratitude and journaling crucial. I have TWGGE course to thank for introducing me to these practices. Often a simple ‘thank you’ to myself for showing up that day or sticking to a personal boundary I’ve set, have been invaluable to my healing.

Journaling gave me a voice and for a while I became my own soundboard. The isolation, the pressures, often self-inflicted, were so tiring. My personal timeline of working through our loss became overwhelming in itself. I felt I needed to do better, be better. I couldn’t always see that what I was doing was enough. But reading back over the notes on my phone or written words in my notebook helped show me, remind me, that I was in fact doing enough.

I am a different version of myself since losing our baby. I am calmer, more considered, thorough, hugely protective of my little family – more so than I ever thought possible! I’ve spent the last year getting to know this new me. I felt like a total stranger to myself but like most things, with time, I’ve come to learn, adapt and understand.

I find myself thinking of our tiny baby most days. It’s complex, continuing to parent, nurture, love and walk this path of life whilst grieving and healing.

We are about to begin our journey of trying to conceive and the possibility of navigating a pregnancy after loss. I am nervous but cautiously hopeful and ever so grateful. I don’t know what the future holds for our family but I’m ready to roll the dice and see…

Lastly, to our tiny baby, thank you for choosing us little one, it breaks my heart you couldn’t stay.

I’ll remember you, and what could have been, forever. Love always, Mama.

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.