After the heartbreak of recurrent miscarriages, a diagnosis of Antiphospholipid Syndrome brought long-sought answers—and hope—for a future rainbow baby. This blog explores the pain of loss, the struggle to be heard, and the hope that comes with having answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Written by Laura Anderson.