Mango is my fur baby. She is almost two years old. She is the most beautiful and sensitive wee soul and, as is typical of cocker spaniels, an adorable level of bonkers.

But then suddenly Mango’s vibes changed. She went off her food and started avoiding me

Shortly after my husband and I returned from holiday she was glued to me. She has always been uber cuddly, but this was a level above. Stuck to me like Velcro. A few weeks later I had a positive pregnancy test. Mango had known we had brought back more than just souvenirs from our holiday!

We had only been trying for a month, so we were excited but a little taken aback at how quickly things had moved. Everything seemed fine for the next six weeks. Sore boobs? Check. Almost constant nausea? Check. Craving for unusual food? Check (for me, it was Marmite!) We were all very much immersed in the pregnancy vibes.

But then suddenly Mango’s vibes changed. She went off her food and started avoiding me. If I sat down on the sofa, she jumped off. If my husband went out the room, she went too. She almost seemed relieved when he came home.

Shortly after, my vibes changed too. My nausea eased and something just felt different in myself. But I reassured myself that pregnancy is a period of perpetual change, and that I was moving toward the second trimester.

By this point, we had only told a handful of people on a need-to-know basis. We decided to go for a private scan at around 11 weeks, so we could make the big announcement to families. We had bought Mango a bandana which said ‘I’m going to be a big Sister June 2025’ so she could join in the announcement.

I went in ready and expecting to hear my baby’s heartbeat and see them wiggling… in hindsight I feel like such a naive idiot! Sadly, too many TWGGE members know what happens next and how it feels. The silence. The wavy indistinct image. The baby smaller than expected (9 weeks). “Sorry I can’t detect a heartbeat”. I hope it’s ok, but that’s a tale for another time. This is Mango’s story.

Absolutely distraught. we made our way home to Mango. As all dog owners know, coming through the front door is the best moment of their dog’s day and she was thrilled to see us… but she just couldn’t read the room. She proceeded to entertain us with the world’s most zoomiest zoomies, throwing her toys around and begging for attention, yapping at us to play with her, while I sobbed on the sofa.

She wasn’t aggressive, but she would follow my husband around. He was the focus of her attention and cuddles now

Over the next few days, she continued to avoid me. She wasn’t aggressive, but she would follow my husband around. He was the focus of her attention and cuddles now. Finally, we all knew what she already knew. There was something wrong. The baby she had sensed growing inside me had reached the end of its journey and she had sensed that too, and this change in my smell or hormones unsettled her. I had to accept her behaviour, even though I craved her puppy love more than ever.

Once in bed, she tucked her nose under the duvet near my tummy, but immediately pulled away like she couldn’t bear to be near my belly. My husband noticed this, and he could also see how distraught I was having no cuddles from my little therapy dog. So, when he wasn’t cuddling me, he spent the next few days sitting alone in the armchair, meaning that I was Mango’s only option for sofa cuddles.
Eventually, she relented and settled for my strokes and could obviously tell I was sad. Tentatively, she started to give me attention, sitting by my side while I made crafts, letting me hold her in my arms, licking my tears… mmmm tasty.

…while sobbing and being cradled by my husband I felt a little nose under my elbow. It was Mango.

The day came for my surgical management. Before we set off to the hospital, I sat on the sofa and decided to look at my baby’s scan photos for the first time. I wanted to look at them while I knew that they were still with me. It was so very hard, but while sobbing and being cradled by my husband I felt a little nose under my elbow. It was Mango. She wiggled herself in and placed her head right on my belly. We sat there for 15 minutes, the three of us saying goodbye to Papaya – the nickname for my baby in-utero, which has now stuck as their forever name. Mango knew this was the time to say goodbye to the wee playmate she never knew, but had sensed all along.

As I said, this is Mango’s story not mine, so I will save my journey through the NHS for another day, with a key highlight being serenading my anaesthetist as I was high on drugs, fear, and adrenaline. Anyway, once home it took Mango a while to trust me again. Even now, three months later, I still think she prefers my husband – maybe that’s just my self-loathing brain.

I will also remember my first solo dog walk with Mango after the procedure, when I let her off lead and she pegged it through a field… I sat in the path and cried until she came back looking quizzically at me! I no longer had the confidence with her I had before. Even the slightest set back or wrong behaviour and I freaked. We are getting there though, walk-by-walk, cuddle by cuddle. She is currently wrapped up in a blanket with me on the sofa while I type this, occasionally popping her snout on my keyboard in the hope of a piece of kibble.

I shall always treasure the image of Mango saying goodbye to Papaya.

Maybe she will be glued to me again soon, sensing a wee life inside me. Hopefully, this time, that little puppy sense will lead to a real-life best buddy for her to play with. Although that’s how I picture the future, I shall always treasure the image of Mango saying goodbye to Papaya.
————————————————————————–

Ps. I wanted to share Mango’s story, rather than my own, because it’s easier. It lets me keep my emotions slightly at bay. It’s how I deal with the awkward conversations… ‘How are you?’ ‘Oh well I’m not really ok, but let me tell you how Mango is…’ Also, she is so cute I can’t get mad, angry or overwhelmed with her like I do with myself. I hope her story might bring you some healing, a small smile, or even validation if you experienced similar things with your pets. Lots of love to whoever is reading this. You are not alone; Mango sends puppy licks.

My grief felt different to theirs, I felt like I was too ‘ok’ and to some extent still do.

Eight weeks. That is how long it has been since I gave birth to my baby boy Charlie who was stillborn at 35 weeks. In this time, I have scoured the internet and social media for other people who are going through what I am. One part of me hoped that there wasn’t anybody as it meant nobody else had been through this horrific experience, but the other part hoped there would be someone who somewhat understood me.

It was very bittersweet when I found so many online communities for baby loss. There was a lot of women who had come together to share their journeys and grief. But after reading through, I still felt like I didn’t fit in. My grief felt different to theirs, I felt like I was too ‘ok’ and to some extent still do. I found a lot of people were still struggling with their loss or losses months or years later, whilst others were on a focused journey to get pregnant again as quick as possible. I was neither of these, and I’m hoping by sharing my story I can give a different perspective and help someone else feel less alone. Losing a baby is the most lonely and isolating experience I have ever been through, so when I then felt I didn’t fit into the group that I should, everything stung just that little bit more.

I’ll start my story at the beginning of my journey to motherhood. In August 2022 my daughter was born after what I would call a simple and easy pregnancy. It had taken us almost a year to fall pregnant, which felt like forever at the time. Like most people, I thought you got pregnant, passed the 12-week mark and came home with your baby. This experience just solidified these thoughts. So, when I fell pregnant again in May 2024, I was ecstatic, and once we passed the 12-week mark I was excited to share the news with all of our family and friends. Again, I had what I would call an easy pregnancy. We found out we were having a boy and were overjoyed that we would have one of each. We couldn’t agree on any names but other than this everything was great. Until it wasn’t.

I heard the words nobody wants to hear “I’m sorry but I can’t find your babies heartbeat.”

On the 1st of January I went to bed, slightly concerned that I hadn’t felt my baby boy move that evening. But as I got into bed, I felt his body move and his bum stick out, a usual position for him so I wrongly assumed everything was ok. I now know it was just his body moving as I moved. The following morning, when I was bang on 35 weeks I awoke after having a very vivid dream. In this dream I had been wording out text messages to family, friend and work colleagues telling them we had lost our baby. I still hadn’t felt any actual kicks at this point, and in my gut I just knew. I knew our boy was gone but I didn’t want to believe it. I told my husband I needed to go get checked out so off I went to the hospital alone. In a strange way I thought if I went alone, what I was feeling wouldn’t be true and my baby would be fine. But when I got there, I heard the words nobody wants to hear “I’m sorry but I can’t find your babies heartbeat.” In this moment my whole world came crashing down. I was ushered into a side room where a scan confirmed our baby had died, and the midwife called my husband to come and be with me. After being given a lot of information and booklets to read we went home for two days before I went back into the hospital to be induced.

Being in the hospital and going through labour was the most surreal experience. I can’t accurately put into words how I feel about it. I wanted to feel everything, and did most of it without pain relief, only really using it for the last couple of hours. It was the most horrendous yet amazing experience, and it was a privilege to be able to bring my boy into the world that way.
He was born on the 5th of January at 08.48am and weighed 5lb 7oz. We swiftly decided on the name Charlie for him, one of the only names we’d both liked.

These first few hours I held him like any new mum would hold their newborn…

I look back on it now as a time we shared together, another memory to hold on to. I don’t want to dwell too much on my labour, for as I say it was an amazing experience, however there were a few complications that tar it a bit. I had a nasty infection and had to have my placenta removed in theatre almost 6 hours after he was born. Everybody apologised that it took so long for me to go down to theatre, but I am thankful that it did. I got to spend the most precious time with Charlie after he was born whilst he was soft, warm and looked like he was sleeping. I’d have missed out on some of this time had there not been that wait. These first few hours I held him like any new mum would hold their newborn and showed him off to my mum and mother-in-law. We were all in awe of how perfect he was.

Before I move on to afterwards, I just want to touch on the care I received during my pregnancy and birth. I have nothing but positive words for everyone involved. I have found in my journey since having Charlie the majority of people feel they have been failed by the health care system and the people involved in their care. My community midwife has seen me through both pregnancies and has been nothing short of amazing. I was booked in on time for all my antenatal appointments, and was always told if I had any worries or wanted to be seen more often to just let her know and she’d fit me in. If I ever had any concerns my texts were answered promptly, and I was seen within the next day or two when needed. I always felt she truly cared about the care she gave and has continued to give since Charlie was born. I will always be grateful for the care she has shown and it gives me faith should we go on to have any more children that me and my baby will be well looked after. The midwives in the hospital also all treated me with care and respect. I was treated like any other new mum, and they all greeted my baby like any other newborn, commenting on how beautiful he was. I will forever be indebted to everyone involved in my care for making the worst time in my life slightly more bearable. People say thank you, but I often wonder if midwives truly understand the positive impact they have on the lives of people like me.

It made me wonder; did I love my baby enough? I now know I did and still do. I love him with everything I have.

I mentioned at the start that I felt like I didn’t fit into the baby loss community due to how I was in the days and weeks after Charlie died. Everyone I spoke to seemed consumed with grief or focused on another baby. I was neither of these. In the first few days after Charlie was born I was incredibly sad and lost, I didn’t want to do anything or get out of bed, but I did. I managed to function, get out of the house and make myself eat. I went for a walk every day and still do. The fact that I was doing this made me feel guilty that I wasn’t ‘sad’ enough. Not like the other mums I had spoken to and read about who spend days holed up inside their house avoiding everyone. It made me wonder; did I love my baby enough? I now know I did and still do. I love him with everything I have.

Whilst I might not be dealing with it the same as other people, that my way isn’t wrong either. I’m not broken.

After the first few days had passed from him being born, the crying lessened, and after about 2 weeks I was able to have happy moments and laugh again. I’d feel happy then guilty that I’d been able to smile when my baby was dead. Other people were telling me months down the line they were still overcome with sadness every day. I felt like I was broken. I wasn’t acting like I should be. I was able to openly speak about Charlie, his life and death from the off without shedding a tear. Again, others were telling me they couldn’t even speak their babies name for months without welling up.

I have only recently come to accept that we all grieve differently, and whilst I might not be dealing with it the same as other people, that my way isn’t wrong either. I’m not broken. I love my baby. I know Charlie wouldn’t want me to be locked in the house, overwhelmed with sadness every day. He would want me to be positive, enjoying nature and treasuring the short time we had together.

I’m not a medical professional but I knew something wasn’t right

The saying mother knows best has always been something I’ve attached myself to, as my own mother always knows best. In my situation I knew something was wrong but was made to feel like I was just an anxious first-time mum. I had a very turbulent pregnancy and visited the EPU a couple of times due to bleeding, and was found to have a subchorionic hematoma

On Tuesday 23rd January I had pain in my lower bump, and was being violently sick, struggling to keep down any fluids. At around 11pm I noticed I was bleeding. We went straight to emergency gynaecology and I explained my symptoms and they asked me to do a urine sample. I explained the pain and that I was bleeding and the sickness was different to the sickness I had previously. Due to the serve dehydration, I was unable to provide much of a sample. The Dr came back and explained I had signs of a potential infection and that they would give me antibiotics to treat it. I again explained about the bleeding and how the pain was different from a UTI. The Drs response “I’m 99.9% sure that your baby is ok and the blood isn’t coming from the baby and it’s because of the infection”. I was sent home to rest and take the antibiotics. I’m not a medical professional but I knew something wasn’t right but I felt I was wasting their time, especially being told by another member of staff that most first-time mums are anxious. My mum wanted me to stay in and be monitored but she didn’t want to undermine the staff on the ward.

A year on I can’t stop seeing that image and feeling so scared and helpless. I was on my own

The next evening the pain became a lot worse, my partner was working away in Italy so I was on my own. I didn’t want to bother anyone after being told everything was ok and it was normal to be anxious. That night after trying to soothe the pain with a bath at 12.30 I felt a pop and I thought I had wet myself, within minutes my little baby was born on my bathroom floor. Our baby was alive when born but due to how early it was, stopped moving and breathing within minutes.

A year on I can’t stop seeing that image and feeling so scared and helpless. I was on my own, unable to get to my phone. I just screamed for help hoping a neighbour would hear me. I finally managed to crawl to my phone holding my baby who was still attached by the cord. I was able to call my parents and then 999. My mum with the guidance of the call handler helped me deliver the after birth, there was a lot of blood. I continued to lose blood and felt very weak. An ambulance couldn’t get to us as there was a wait, so my dad had to drive us to the hospital 30 minutes away. I walked into A&E with my baby in a towel still losing blood.

We have had 6 months grieving our little boy, we were told by professionals our baby was a boy.

We were told that I had given birth to a baby boy. We called him Archie, had a funeral for him, his memorial is in the name of Archie and we have grieved a little boy. Having waited 6 months already I had to chase information on the post mortem as I was told it would be around 12 weeks (I fully understand the strain on the NHS and knew it might be a little longer). It wasn’t until I had the courage to go to my first group support session with the bereavement midwife that she managed to push this. She informed me the results were returned a number of weeks prior and I should have been contacted. On top of that, the results show that Archie was in fact a little girl. We have had 6 months grieving our little boy, we were told by professionals our baby was a boy. We had named him Archie you can’t just flip a switch to change that.

I’m almost a year on and despite counselling through the amazing charity Petals (NHS wait was too long) and going back to work and putting on that brave face for everyone, I still sob every day. I relive that moment on my own every day. The outcome may not have been different but if they had listened to me and my mother’s instinct something was wrong, maybe I would not have been alone. I, like many other women have been let down because not enough is done to support women’s health. More needs to be done. 1 in 4 is too high of a statistic and realistically it’s probably higher.

It is a word that cannot be understood without experiencing its cruelty.

Whilst I had heard the term miscarriage, I never really understood the true significance of the devastating physical and emotional pain it has on an individual. Now having gone through my experience, I understand why people do not talk about it. It is painful. It is lonely. It is frightening to navigate. It is a word that cannot be understood without experiencing its cruelty.

On Saturday 29th April 2023, not long after our dating scan, I was awoken in the early hours by what I can only describe as waves of pain that intensified minute by minute. As the pain increased, blood followed. Not truly understanding what was happening, I called 111. They advised me to visit A&E due to a potential miscarriage.

I stood, but could not move. I knew my baby was being held from the ground by my clothes.

Upon arrival, I was directed to remain in the waiting area. As time passed, my condition significantly deteriorated and I was in a tremendous amount of pain and very distressed. I was also heavily bleeding which was obvious and becoming uncomfortable to all those around. I wailed in pain, pleading for help, as I felt like I needed to push. My partner visited the front desk 3 times to discuss possible pain relief and after 70minutes I miscarried which coincided with my name being called by triage. Shock hit me like a wave. Though it was chaotic around me, I heard nothing. I stood, but could not move. I knew my baby was being held from the ground by my clothes.

A nurse asked me to sit down, but knowing something large and warm was in my underwear, I trembled I couldn’t. The nurse then walked me through A&E to the nearest toilet. Whilst being in the toilet, I held the sac with the fetus inside, in its complete entirety, not knowing what to do. I looked outside for the nurse but she had gone. I waited, holding the warm sac in my hands, knowing I had lost our baby. When the nurse turned up, I asked her what to do and she came back with a container.

I then returned to triage, still soaked in blood. I waited for a consultant who examined me with my partner’s phone torch as she didn’t have the appropriate equipment. She was short and abrupt and told me my cervix was still closed and hopefully the baby would be ok, despite already passing the full sac. After I explained I had passed the sac in its entirety, she said ‘no baby, you will need to do a pregnancy test in three weeks and if it’s positive ring this number’ and she handed me the early pregnancy unit contact details and left. Soon after, a nurse asked to take my bloods. These were done and I was moved to a small area. My phone rang around 20 minutes later – my partner answered and it was the gynaecologist saying my bloods were fine and we could go home. As I was walking out, I saw the nurse who I had handed over the sac/foetus to. I asked her what we should do with the foetus. She said we could send it for testing but … and then she shrugged her shoulders. I never saw our baby after that. To this day, I regret not walking out with our baby. That haunts me.

The EPU were extremely empathetic and could see how affected I was by this traumatic experience.

Days later, I was still experiencing pain, so I rang the early pregnancy unit for advice. They examined me, and told me the placenta had not been passed and spoke through my options. Having shown the nurse a photograph of the sac/baby, the nurse explained that I had a labour like experience as my cervix would have had to dilate for my body to have passed the sac in its entirety, which is why I was in a huge amount of pain. The EPU were extremely empathetic and could see how affected I was by this traumatic experience.

I wouldn’t wish for anyone else to experience what I experienced. It has taken time for me to be able to talk about this, and I believe that whilst we never completely get over our grief, brighter days come when we can talk about our experiences together. We should never feel alone.

Related podcast episode

S8 E32 : First Trimester Loss, Finding your Tribe, and Supporting the Miscarriage and Baby Loss Community

Resources

*Tommy’s miscarriage statistics

How Acupuncture Supports TTC After Loss

Acupuncture is a holistic practice that aims to bring harmony to the body by stimulating specific points along energy pathways called meridians. It does so through the use of tiny, carefully placed needles, which help release blockages, boost circulation, and support the body’s natural ability to heal itself. The mighty acupuncture needles can also be supercharged with the use of an electric current, within an electroacupuncture treatment setting. When applied with a focus on fertility, this ancient practice is shown to have significant impacts on reproductive health of both partners, and emotional well-being.

1.Hormonal Regulation Whilst your body readjusts after a loss, you may experience fluctuations in hormone levels that disrupt ovulation and menstruation. Acupuncture can help regulate the hypothalamic-pituitaryovarian axis (HPO axis), which is crucial for healthy hormonal cycles. Studies have demonstrated that acupuncture can improve ovulation in women with irregular and/or anovulatory cycles and enhance overall hormonal balance.
(Sources: PMID: 10716298; PMID: 2348244)

2.Improving Blood Flow to Reproductive Organs Good circulation is vital for a healthy uterine lining and optimal ovarian function. Acupuncture enhances blood flow to the uterus and ovaries. This supports the delivery of essential nutrients and nitric oxide to the reproductive organs, helping with the healing and repair of tissue following a miscarriage, as well as creating an optimal environment for optimal follicle growth, egg maturation and embryo implantation.
(Sources PMC8158119; PMC6795274; Fertility and Sterility)

3.Stress Reduction The emotional toll of TTC after loss is profound, and chronic stress can interfere with fertility by disrupting hormone production and ovulation. Acupuncture is known to reduce stress hormones such as cortisol, and promote the switch to a parasympathetic – your “rest and digest”
(Sources: Journal of Alternative and Complementary Medicine; PMID: 22499825)

4.Managing Inflammation Inflammation can be an often-overlooked barrier to fertility, particularly following a miscarriage. For some individuals, recurrent miscarriage may stem from immune system imbalances or inflammation, which can hinder implantation and disrupt pregnancy progression. Acupuncture, with its well-documented anti-inflammatory properties, can help regulate immune responses and reduce inflammation. By promoting a more balanced and stable environment within the body, acupuncture supports overall reproductive health and enhances the likelihood of a successful pregnancy.
(Sources: PMID: 34992414; PMID: 35832528)

5.Providing Emotional Support Beyond the physical benefits, acupuncture sessions provide a space for emotional release and connection. For many, each session becomes a safe and nurturing space to process emotions, rebuild resilience, and regain a sense of control during what can feel like an uncertain and chaotic time.

Acupuncture Is a Journey, Not a One-Time Fix

It’s essential to approach acupuncture with patience and an understanding of the body’s natural rhythms. Egg development, or folliculogenesis, takes approximately 90–120 days. To optimise fertility potential, a minimum of three to four months of consistent acupuncture is often recommended. It is also essential to highlight that fertility is a shared journey, and the health of both partners plays a crucial role. Acupuncture supports reproductive health for both women and men, offering a well-rounded approach to improving outcomes.

The Importance of a Holistic Approach

While acupuncture in itself is incredibly powerful, fertility challenges often require a combination of strategies. Integrating functional medicine, nutrition, lifestyle adjustments, and counselling with acupuncture forms a comprehensive plan that addresses every aspect of your reproductive health. Key Components of a Holistic Fertility Plan:

• Functional Medicine: Advanced testing can identify potential obstacles like hormonal imbalances or nutritional deficiencies.
• Nutrition: Personalised dietary recommendations support overall reproductive health.
• Lifestyle Modifications: Reducing stress, improving sleep, and incorporating gentle exercise can enhance fertility outcomes.

Why Choose Fertility Support Trained Acupuncturists?

Fertility Support Trained acupuncturists stand out for their specialised knowledge and integrative approach. Trained by Naava Carman and part of a global network, these practitioners blend Eastern and Western medicine, combining evidence-based treatments with the wisdom of traditional acupuncture. What Sets Them Apart?

1. Expertise in Fertility: Fertility Support Trained practitioners are equipped to handle complex cases such as recurrent miscarriage, secondary infertility, and conditions like endometriosis.
2. Evidence-Based Approach: Every treatment is grounded in research, ensuring that the most effective techniques are applied.
3. Educational Focus: These practitioners empower patients by explaining functional test results and offering insights to help them advocate for themselves with healthcare providers.
4. Collaborative Care: They often work in integrated clinics, ensuring a multidisciplinary approach to fertility care. To find a Fertility Support Trained practitioner near you, visit Fertility Support Training.

To find a Fertility Support Trained practitioner near you, visit Fertility Support Training.

Empowering Yourself on the Journey

Acupuncture is not a magical fix, but it’s a meaningful step forward in understanding and supporting your body. By combining acupuncture with functional medicine and an integrated care approach, you can feel more empowered and in control of your fertility journey. If you’re ready to explore acupuncture as part of your TTC plan, start by finding a Fertility Support Trained practitioner or an integrated clinic that aligns with your needs. Remember, you are not alone, and with the right support, you can navigate this path with strength and hope.

About Life + Lemons Acupuncture + Integrative Health Clinic

At Life + Lemons, we specialise in women’s health and fertility, providing compassionate, personalised care for individuals and couples. When you come to Life + Lemons, you’re not just booking an acupuncture session—you’re stepping into a compassionate space where we understand the unique challenges of miscarriage and recurrent loss. Our team is here to support your healing journey, offering care and hope as you navigate this deeply personal experience and look towards the future with renewed strength.

After struggling with body image issues, recurrent miscarriages, and years of self-doubt, Emma, one of our brave warriors, shares her transformative journey of running as a way to embrace self-care and self-love. Battling with her body’s perceived failures, she found strength through the running community and the power of perseverance. Emma is currently taking part in our Run 10K to Raise 10K fundraising campaign and discusses just how amazing the campaigns WhatsApp community has been at keeping her going. Read on to learn about her path from self-doubt to self-love and the power of community.

Never saw it as a form of self-care until after I started trying to conceive and subsequently experienced miscarriages.

I can pinpoint the moment I started hating my body and the way I looked. I was ten years old in a Tammy Girl changing room trying on a strappy vest top with a sequin girl power slogan; I came out beaming ready to convince my nan that this was the top I needed for the upcoming school disco. I had already picked the jeans and was hoping I could talk her into new shoes as well. She looked me up and down and said, “Emma your arms are too fat for that top, try this instead”.

It may have been 25 years since that comment but it has stuck with me ever since. I’ve tried every diet going to make myself smaller over the years and have always stuck to them for a while and then hit a wall falling off the wagon for the cycle to continue repeating itself. In my twenties exercise was a form of punishment for overeating and I never saw it as a form of self-care until after I started trying to conceive and subsequently experienced miscarriages.

In 2020 at the height of lockdown, I like many, downloaded C25K for probably the millionth time. But this time with the mindset of completing it as a form of looking after my mental health rather than my physical health. All was going well until 3 weeks in when I fell over and slipped a disc in my back. I was convinced this was the universe’s way of telling me to hang up the trainers and stick to the chocolate.

If my body wasn’t going to look after a baby then I wasn’t going to look after it anymore.

During lockdown my partner and I were in the thick of trying to conceive and were overjoyed when in January 2021 we finally saw the two pink lines we had been so desperate to see. It was finally our time. I vowed I would do everything right and would make sure I provided the safest home for our baby. We saw their heartbeat at a 7-week scan and had already picked out the colours for their nursery. A few days after that scan our world fell apart when I miscarried them at home.

Coming out of lockdown I started to look after myself again, rejoined a gym and started learning that movement wasn’t just punishment for my body.

We threw ourselves back into trying to conceive. We had a fertility consultation where they kept discussing my BMI. It felt like my body letting me down again despite the progress I was making in the gym and getting stronger. My body hadn’t looked after my baby, and now it was stopping us from conceiving again. After my second miscarriage in February 2023, I knew I couldn’t fall back into the pattern that I did after my first miscarriage. I made the conscious effort to not turn to alcohol and fuel my efforts into healthier coping methods. I joined a local bootcamp which was great for my mind as well as my strength but I struggled with the sprinting activities again convinced that my body was setting me up to fail.

February 2024 saw us lose our 3rd baby. How many more times was my body going to continue to let us down? I was doing everything right, taking a multitude of supplements, regularly exercising, eating fertility friendly foods and yet my body still couldn’t do the one thing I needed from it.

Running? No way – I can’t even run for the bus, why would I do it intentionally?

A friend of mine had decided to enter a half marathon and kept suggesting I tried running as she found it cleared her mind. Running? No way – I can’t even run for the bus, why would I do it intentionally? I don’t have a runner’s body I told her. The other runners would laugh at me – I wouldn’t be able to do it. She turned to me and said everyone had to start somewhere and the running community only want other runners to succeed. I didn’t believe her but I redownloaded the C25K app on my phone assuming it would just sit there taking up precious storage until I got round to deleting it again.

A few months went by and I started feeling myself struggling the way I had after my first miscarriage. My brain wasn’t being kind and it was getting harder to tune out. So, in August last year I finally put my trainers on and on the hottest day of the year I completed the first run of the programme and I didn’t die. My body was doing it and my brain was starting to quieten. At the end of the 30 minutes, I felt amazing but I had tried this before and my brain kept reminding me of when I fell over. So, after that first run, I sent my friend a voice note telling her I had done it knowing that her encouragement would drown out my brain and keep me accountable.

She was right when she said the running community was the most supportive and she became my biggest cheerleader. I sent her a picture after each run and when I fell over, this time in week 4 she just told me I was a real runner now not allowing my brain the time to tell my body it wasn’t good enough. She even came out with me on her ‘Bride to Be’ trip to Magaluf at 7 a.m. so that I wouldn’t fall behind with the plan. As the weeks went on it got easier and the longer intervals didn’t feel so intimidating – my body was doing it and for once I was proud of what it (I) was achieving. I cried when I ran my first 5K as it’s something I never thought I would ever be able to do.

Runners and TWGEEF warriors are the ultimate hype women, and I am so grateful to this challenge for bringing us together.

When TWGEEF announced the Run 10k to Raise 10k Challenge I thought about taking part but I was still only running 5K. Surely my body couldn’t make it to 10? Surely the rest of those running would be proper athletes who could run that distance without thinking about it?   Again, that friend’s words came back to me – other runners only want you to succeed and all these runners are warriors – I could do this. Finally, I was starting to champion my body for what it was doing rather than hating it for what it wasn’t. Since starting the training, I have been amazed at what I have achieved running further and longer than I ever thought possible all while having the lovely warriors support in my phone. The community we have through our WhatsApp group is so inspiring. When you don’t want to run, someone is there to cheer you on, when you get back from the run to share selfies, everyone is there to congratulate you, and when you just want to rant about some insensitive comment, someone has made everyone has your back. Runners and TWGEEF warriors are the ultimate hype women, and I am so grateful to this challenge for bringing us together.

When we started trying 5 years ago, after going back and forth over the decision for a number of years, we assumed it would be easy.

Nobody tells you when you’re younger how difficult having a family can be. You get filled with stories of women who weren’t careful and got caught, young girls who weren’t ready, and warnings about how easily you can fall pregnant if not paying attention to contraception.

So, when we started trying 5 years ago, after going back and forth over the decision for a number of years, we assumed it would be easy.

Over the last 5 years, I’ve lost 5 babies through 4 unsuccessful pregnancies. 2 early miscarriages, 1 missed miscarriage, 1 11-week twin loss, and then the heartbreaking decision to end my pregnancy with the 2nd twin due to medical issues at almost 20 weeks.
After 1 loss you hear ‘oh it’s so common’, ‘I know someone who’s had 1 and they’ve gone on to have other children’, and my personal favourite ‘at least you know you can get pregnant’. And to be fair I wasn’t too concerned, so when it happened a 2nd time it was a shock.

…as I was over 35, I couldn’t access fertility support…

Myself and my husband differed on opinions for whether tests should be an option, but after a lot of discussion we went ahead. I was able to access some tests through my GP but as I was over 35, I couldn’t access fertility support so money started beginning to be spent on private specialist tests for both me and him.

This highlighted a higher than ideal thyroid level for me, and queried PCOS which had always been questioned over the years but GPs always differed on giving a diagnosis. After beginning medications, which became another monthly expense, I fell pregnant with twins. By this time, I was under Tommy’s but as I’d since fallen pregnant, they just offered more scans. The 10-week scan was lovely, it was the furthest I’d ever gotten and I remember being so happy after. However, at the 12-week scan 1 twin no longer had a heartbeat. We were heartbroken, but there was part of me that thought ‘we still have one baby’. We couldn’t have the combined test due to the impact the lost twin might have had, but all measurements looked ok.

It’s hard to put into words how I felt, I’m still not sure I can describe it.

When I heard the heartbeat at 16 weeks I was amazed! However it was at this point the combined test was done, and the results came back high risk for Down’s syndrome. 2 weeks and further tests (that I had to pay for) later, I was having an amniocentesis. The consultant at the time discussed concerns over brain development, and 5 days later we were told the Down’s syndrome had led to the brain being not quite in the right place, and not developing. The following days were horrendous as we agonised over the decision before choosing to end the pregnancy based on the information we were given about the lack of quality of life our baby would have.
When our daughter was born asleep when I was 4 days away from being 20 weeks, it’s hard to put into words how I felt, I’m still not sure I can describe it.

It took 6 months to decide to try again, a decision my husband was not fully on board with, and another 12 before I fell pregnant for what we both knew would be the last time.
I’d had the PCOS diagnosis confirmed by then and a plethora of medications I was sure would help. But 2 weeks after the first positive test, I noticed the others (as I was doing a lot for reassurance) weren’t developing, and I miscarried at 6 weeks.

It’s hard to explain the mix of devastation but also relief that I think we both had. Knowing we would not get the family we wanted was hard to digest, but the relief of knowing we were off the rollercoaster was palpable.

there’s not 1 day that I don’t think either about the babies we’ve lost, or question if we are doing the right thing…

It’s been 6 months since we made that decision, and there’s not 1 day that I don’t think either about the babies we’ve lost, or question if we are doing the right thing. But ultimately, I know that I’d reached my capacity with it. My life had become about proving a point, that I could successfully carry and deliver a baby, and I’d lost sight of if it was something I really wanted.

What I try to focus on now is that my marriage came through it all stronger somehow. And having a source of support through TWGGE and knowing that I am not alone is making such a huge transition just that little bit easier.

We planned our lives as a four, talked about the future constantly, and couldn’t wait to meet our little addition to our family.

My first pregnancy went well; no major problems and I was happy and healthy. The thought of miscarriage didn’t even occur to us and we’d practically skipped into the scan room at 12 weeks and enjoyed every second of the scan. My healthy daughter arrived in September 2020 and, although we struggled at times through covid, we knew we wanted another to complete our family.

In December 2021, we found out that I was pregnant again. We were absolutely thrilled and naturally expected a similar pregnancy to last time, as we had no experience of anything else. We planned our lives as a four, talked about the future constantly, and couldn’t wait to meet our little addition to our family. In February 2022, at 11 weeks, I noticed a tiny bit of spotting. I wasn’t concerned as I still had morning sickness and a small bump and felt very pregnant. However, I rang the midwife and asked if I could pull my scan forward by a few days just to ease my mind. Plus, I couldn’t wait to see our baby for the first time! My husband had a meeting in Scotland on the day of the scan and I assured him that he didn’t need to cancel it as all would be fine. I genuinely believed that it would be; after all, why would it not?!

I went into the scan room and got ready and stared at the screen in front of me, excited to see the tiny life form that we had created. After a few moments, the midwife calmly told me that sadly the baby had died at 6 weeks. She explained that my body had continued believing it was pregnant and not miscarried the foetus or sac. I can pinpoint the exact moment that my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. I screamed and collapsed off the bed into the sonographer’s arms.

How could this have happened?

What even was a missed miscarriage?

How could my body not have known and let me down so badly?

How could I have been so naive? The moments after were a blur; I collapsed again in the corridor, had a panic attack, eventually finding the courage to call my husband and parents to tell them that the baby did not survive.

That moment changed my entire mindset of the fragility of life and death. After conversations with the consultant that became one big blur, I found myself on a bed being induced. I was advised of what was to come. I eventually left the ward to finish the ordeal in the comforts of my own home. 6 weeks later, after bleeding for several weeks, and becoming anaemic, I went back in to the hospital to have another scan as the consultant was concerned. To my horror, a miscarriage hadn’t taken place and the induction drugs had not worked. I was now facing surgery. I’ll never forget the fear in the lift on the way to surgery, the face of the anaesthetist, his idle chit chat and the theatre ring light shining brightly above me as I drifted off to sleep.

…you are never ready to go again after losing a baby, but we were brave enough to give it another go.

Fast forward a few months and we decided that we were ready to try again. I say ‘ready’- you are never ready to go again after losing a baby, but we were brave enough to give it another go. In July 2022, I found out that I was pregnant once again. We were absolutely thrilled and kept telling each other that everything WOULD be okay this time and it wouldn’t happen to us again; the chances are too slim.

We had a scan at 7 weeks and it revealed a tiny little life form with a strong beating heart. We were overjoyed and were so positive about the future of this little one. At 9 weeks and 4 days, we had another scan and once again, there they were; wriggling with a strong heartbeat. This is it we thought, all will be well and we can put our loss behind us. At 11 weeks and 5 days, I noticed a spot of blood and I knew. I knew it in my heart that it had happened again but I still hoped. All I had was hope.

We arranged a scan for the next day. Lying on the bed, gripping my husband’s hand, I stared at the sonographer’s face and waited in silence for what seemed like a lifetime. After the longest 30 seconds of my life, I heard the words “I’m so sorry, there’s no heartbeat” and my world collapsed around me once again. I screamed and screamed and sobbed uncontrollably into my husband’s chest. How could this have happened again? WHY us?

The next few hours were a catalogue of consultants and nurses moving us to different rooms and talking to us about what would come next. I just felt numb. The pain, heartbreak and loneliness I felt was indescribable and I wondered if I’d ever feel well again. I begged the consultant for surgery instead of induction and he eventually saw my anxiety and agreed. The last thing I remember was the theatre ring light shining above me once more.

I was so grateful to be pregnant again and to be given another chance, yet so terrified of what was to come; 8 months of waiting, hoping and never-ending anxiety.

\In June 2023, I found myself pregnant again. I remember sitting on our bed holding the positive test in my hand and sobbing. I was so grateful to be pregnant again and to be given another chance, yet so terrified of what was to come; 8 months of waiting, hoping and never-ending anxiety. We were booked in for an early scan at 7 weeks because of our history, and our bereavement midwife was to meet us there. I silently cried in the waiting room out of pure fear, as I sat with, what seemed like, a collection of peacefully naive pregnant women. Eventually I was taken to the rainbow suite while I waited for my scan. As I lay on the bed in the scan room, I watched the sonographer’s face and I knew in that moment that it had happened again.

The words hit me like a sledgehammer; “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat” and I screamed and sobbed into my husband’s arms once more. This time my overwhelming feeling was anger. How could this be happening to us again? What have we done to deserve this?! I went to the bathroom and I punched a wall. I’ve never hated my body as much as I did in that moment. I made my way back to the scan room, where they had to take measurements of my deceased foetus and I just lay there, in silence, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but rage.

Later, as we sat with the consultant, I heard the words “we can’t get you in for surgery today; you’ll have to ring every day first thing to see if we can fit you in”. I went absolutely ballistic. How could they make this torture continue by sending me home carrying a dead baby? The consultant was heartless and cold and I’ll never forget her.

…immediate escape from the hell that we were living through, and it briefly felt good.

As we got in the car, the sun was shining and I suddenly felt the urge to feel life. To experience something. To feel alive. We stopped at the river bridge, and jumped in the river fully clothed! I know this sounds like madness amongst all the grief and heartache, but we just wanted some immediate escape from the hell that we were living through, and it briefly felt good. The following days were spent going backwards and forwards into the hospital for blood tests, awaiting surgery. I think the stress was just all too much and I sadly lost this baby in the natural way, with no drugs and at home, 4 days after the scan.

Fast forward to June 2024 and, even though we’re still coming to terms with the losses of our precious babies, in many ways, we’re in a much better place. My husband has dealt with his grief in his own way, and I have focussed on my fitness and mental health, while fighting with severe anxiety and post-traumatic stress. We are happy to settle for our family of 3, and we have moved on from the horror of the last few years. Our daughter is an amazing distraction, and a miracle considering the statistics of miscarriage. We realise how lucky we are now and how naive we were when I carried her – blissfully unaware of the precarious nature of pregnancy and protected from the pain of miscarriage.

I truly believe that we CAN be happy again.

Miscarriage is lonely. Isolating. Devastating. There are so many emotions that come with it, that it’s near impossible to describe. I never realised how powerful hope is and sometimes it is all that we have in situations that we can’t control. I have realised that I am not alone, though. As I talk about my miscarriages to people, it suddenly becomes apparent how many women have suffered with baby loss and how important it is that we seek the support that we need.

Although most women who have experienced baby loss feel that we’ll never be the same person again, I truly believe that we CAN be happy again. And that we will learn to carry the grief of our precious losses in our hearts and build our future around them, whatever that future may be.

In a year marred by never-ending tears, I lost my lust for life, my confidence and my sense of self-worth.

On New Year’s Day 2024, my partner and I hiked up an icy Munro in the Scottish Highlands with some friends. With one miscarriage in the not-too-distant past, I was determined to feel optimistic about what lay ahead. I captioned a rare Instagram post from the top of the mountain with ‘Here’s to 2024!’ and I really felt, in my heart of hearts, that this would be our year. The year that the rest of our lives would start.

But it wasn’t. Instead, it was the worst year of our lives by a long mile. The year that we lost two more babies, and I lost hold of the tiny specks of faith and hope for our imagined future that my fingers had been clinging on to. It was the year that I stopped trusting the NHS to care for me in the way that it always had, and realised that this is an institution, so constrained by funding cuts and regressive policies, that it is devoid of the innovation and compassion so badly needed to treat women’s health issues in the 21st century. And it was the year that I became a defeated and desolate shadow of my former self. In a year marred by never-ending tears, I lost my lust for life, my confidence and my sense of self-worth.
I have written in the past about the experience of miscarriage in the purest and most honest words I could find. I have explained what it feels like to begin to grow a baby inside you, to see its tiny heart beating, and to have that baby die inside you, and to leave you, before you ever had the chance to say hello, let alone goodbye. What it feels like to have all your hopes and dreams crushed in an instant, by the look on a sonographer’s face. I have spoken of trying to deal with this experience in a world which continues to view miscarriage as ‘one of those things’ and refuses to engage in meaningful conversation about its earth-shattering repercussions. There are stories I have told to close friends and family about the physicality of this experience, of the surgery and procedures and the pain, which in my view the world is still not ready to hear. Instead let me simply say this. When I lie in bed at night, the thoughts rolling round and round in my head, clutching to my chest the pendants which I hang around my neck in memory of my babies, it is those images which come back to me, and which I will never forget.

Everyone around me is living out my trauma, but for them it is wrapped up in pink and blue ribbon. It is placed in a basket attached to a shiny balloon with the words “HELLO WORLD!” stamped across the front. 

But the emotional effects of this ordeal can and must be spoken about. Last year, through TWGGE, I had the truest pleasure of meeting and listening to the stories of some of the most remarkable women I will ever know, each of them having walked this path and shown the world how strong, resilient and powerful the female body, mind and spirit can be. It is only through the countless conversations I have now had with them and others, each of them having recounted the same thoughts, the same feelings and the same reactions to this experience, that I feel able to share this story. I had felt so alone for so long, but now I know that I am not. I know I am not deranged; I am not hysterical or overreacting or irrational. I am just a woman coping as best I can with my grief, as the fear and uncertainty of my future stretches out in front of me.

Without exaggeration, I estimate that 75% of the women of child-bearing age in my life have fallen pregnant or had a baby since my first miscarriage. Even acknowledging that we are of the approximate age at which this happens, that is a lot of babies in a short time. I have been trying to think of another situation where you might be confronted with a past trauma as forcefully and repetitively in your day-to-day life as this.
Imagine, perhaps, that I am a soldier returned from war. I keep having flashbacks of the battlefield. I become convinced that tragedy awaits me and my family on every corner. I wake at night in cold sweats, breathless, reliving what I have seen and what I have done. I have nightmares in which those experiences are distorted, even more monstrous than I remember. My friends and family were not there with me, but they have made films, productions, plays about this war. They keep asking me out or calling me up to tell me, to invite me to the premiere. I go along and I sit in the front row, and my greatest fears, the horrors from my recent past are played out before me, on repeat. As the credits roll and the curtain falls, the audience rises in rapturous applause.

Everyone around me is living out my trauma, but for them it is wrapped up in pink and blue ribbon. It is placed in a basket attached to a shiny balloon with the words “HELLO WORLD!” stamped across the front.

I rejected a world and a life that I had once found fun and vibrant and stimulating, which now seemed hostile and uncaring.

The topic of this conversation is uncomfortable. It is awkward. It is averting your gaze and shuffling your feet, it is looking away and texting ‘Congratulations!!’ as your eyes well with tears. Because we are not bad people, and admitting this particular type of sadness, whether out loud or in our own heads, makes us feel like we are. We want nothing but happiness for the people in our lives who we love, and, regardless of our own fate, in time we will love their children just as much as we love their mums and dads. But the here and now is really fucking hard; I have been robbed of the joy of pregnancy and childbirth.I will never see a baby bump that does not remind me of my own babies that I lost. I see posts and photos of newborns and I wonder ‘what is wrong with me’ and ‘why did your own body fail?’ Logic and reason and, indeed, the truth, will remind me that it was nothing that I did, that there is no fault or guilt or blame, but it festers. It festers and it grows.

In 2024 I lost myself. I ignored phone calls, I stopped replying to texts. I cancelled plans and rejected invitations. I stepped down from work projects and responsibilities. I missed birthdays and hen parties and family occasions. I rejected a world and a life that I had once found fun and vibrant and stimulating, which now seemed hostile and uncaring. It was, and sometimes it still is, easier to be alone.

…he has been my rock and continues to remind me that no matter what is coming next or what our future looks like, we will be together and we will, one day, be happy again.

Pregnancy loss stole who I was, but it has also stolen who I might have been. There is a version of me out there, in a parallel universe, who might have been blessed with an uncomplicated pregnancy. But that woman might also have taken for granted the phenomenon of childbirth, without an understanding of the million and one things that must be behaving and coinciding so perfectly in the male and female body to grow a healthy baby from sperm and egg. That version of me might have struggled through the tough early years of motherhood with little appreciation of how hard it can be to get there, without coming to the unshakeable and unyielding realisation that this is what she wants for her life, in the most painful way. And she might have looked at the man she is going to marry as simply the man she had fallen in love with. Instead, he became the man who picked her up from the shower floor where she lay crying beneath the flowing water, the man who held her close and stroked her hair through the sleepless and breathless nights, who, three times, sat in the adjoining chair as they blinked through the darkness at a motionless black and white screen and still drove them both safely home through the streaming tears. He is the man who squeezed her hand so tightly through the doctors’ appointments and the blood tests and who encouraged her, little by little, to face the world again. In such hard times and despite the challenges we have faced, he has been my rock and continues to remind me that no matter what is coming next or what our future looks like, we will be together and we will, one day, be happy again.

2025 does not start with the strained optimism of 2024. It is hard to see anything as I look into the future, neither joy nor pain, only the void of the great unknown. But I do know that I enter the year as a changed woman, certainly not glad of having lived these experiences, but more rounded and more whole because of them. As Britney would put it, stronger than yesterday.

There was no real consideration that after 41 years I did indeed know my body and when something was going very wrong.

The night I got engaged was the night I started to miscarry. I was 41 and 8 weeks pregnant with our first baby.

There are many things I’ve still got to process from the experience but one that still really stands out is the “one size fits all” guidance that health professionals seem to follow when dealing with loss in the first trimester.

While everyone I met or spoke to during my experience were compassionate and kind to both me and my partner, the initial advice I sought (i.e., what did I do? should I go to A&E?) was very much led by a specific criteria that required me to have bled a certain amount or feel a particular pain. There was no real consideration that after 41 years I did indeed know my body and when something was going very wrong. Instead I felt like my women’s intuition was translated into medical hysteria.

Although I told the 111 operator I knew I was having a miscarriage, because I could not categorically say I had “flooded a pad” or had passed “a mug full of material” (partly because I’d watched it go down the toilet and who’s really measuring that sh*t when your world is falling apart?) I was told to wait; to not panic and that a clinician would call me back.
We waited 3 hours to be told to go to A&E, which we were already doing as by that time the pain had gotten unbearable and the bleeding had not stopped.

At hospital the criteria questions started again, this time by reference to egg cups. Of course, I had no idea. By then I’d been bleeding heavily for 4 hours. I was too scared to look in the loo. I just wanted someone to listen to me, and trust me and my gut when I said I was miscarrying.

…is it naive to assume they would have access to scanning equipment on A&E given half the population can get pregnant?

Thankfully the nurse understood I was broken by what was happening and needed answers. I’ll always appreciate that he put us in a treatment room rather than back in the main waiting room to give us some privacy while waiting for a scan that never came. (Be honest, is it naive or just arrogant to assume they would have access to scanning equipment on A&E given half the population can get pregnant?)

Instead, and despite being told eventually what I knew, I was asked to return to the EPU the next day for a scan (the same day I should have had my first 8 week appointment with the midwife). That experience didn’t just rub salt in the wound, it fully unpicked it. I remember being mortified that I had to go to the same building where I would have had my 12 week scan and eventually given birth to my baby. Consequently, when we finally got to the door of the unit I could not go in. Where was the back door or side entrance? Or where were the clinic hours designated specially for women in my position?

There were pregnant women everywhere and I didn’t (couldn’t) share their happiness or bear to see a future I wouldn’t now get to live out; certainly not the day after I’d watched one I thought I’d nurtured and had loved disappear down the loo.

I also did not want to be the depressing reminder for those women that things could go wrong, the “poor woman” who tainted their otherwise happy experience by not being able to keep her hormone addled body in check for 2 minutes in order to stop crying.

As it turns out I didn’t stop crying. Not through the ultrasound, internal scan, blood tests. Not when the lovely sonographer sought to reassure me that 1 in 4 women experience a miscarriage.

Quite frankly, society needs to get over its issues with vaginas.

I got very little reassurance from that statistic at the time (and even now if I’m honest). Firstly, all my brain kept focusing on was my failure to make the successful “75% team” and my apparent arrogance that I would have been able to have a healthy baby at 41. Secondly, I quickly found out that despite its prevalence there was a shocking lack of conversation surrounding miscarriage that left me feeling isolated but also trapped. As though someone had locked me in a house and switched off all the lights. I ended up feeling completely stranded at a time when we thought we had a clear route forwards for the future.

I blame that initial isolation mainly on the undercurrent of secrecy and stigma surrounding women’s reproductive health. Quite frankly, society needs to get over its issues with vaginas.

For that, I will forever be grateful to TWGGE and its community for helping me realise I was not alone.

I was lucky, I had the personal support and frame of mind to reach out to others, ask the awkward questions and answer my own. It wasn’t easy but it helped me realise I wasn’t alone in this process. I could begin to navigate a way out. For that, I will forever be grateful to TWGGE and its community for helping me realise I was not alone and that I could (actually, was entitled) to talk about my experience.

Miscarriage is an event that affects a huge number of people. Therefore, it deserves a consistent dialogue to help others receive the support and reassurance they need at this time.