The Unspoken Truth of Postnatal Depression After Miscarriage

When I went through my second miscarriage, I thought I knew what to expect. I’d been here before , the heartbreak, the grief, the crushing sadness. But what followed this time was something different. Heavier. Quieter.

Maybe it sounds naive, but I always thought postnatal depression was something that could happen after a baby arrived, not after loss.

It wasn’t just the loss of a pregnancy; it was the loss of a part of myself.

I didn’t realise then that what I was experiencing was postnatal depression. I didn’t even know that could happen after miscarriage. At first, I was defensive when the Doctor mentioned it, how could it be that? I didn’t carry to full term. I didn’t bring a baby home. Maybe it sounds naive, but I always thought postnatal depression was something that could happen after a baby arrived, not after loss.

Even now, I still feel guilty talking about it and I think that guilt applies to miscarriage in general. I know other people have been through worse. I know some have had more losses, or different ones. And yet I struggled so much, still am, really and I keep asking myself, why?

There was a time I didn’t leave the house for two weeks. Not because I was physically unwell, but because I was terrified. Terrified I’d bump into someone pregnant. Or hear a baby crying. Or see something that would completely break me.

At home, I could control everything: what I saw, what I avoided, who I spoke to. But the outside? It was full of landmines. Prams. Babies. And then there were the casual comments, like “when are you having kids?” (especially after turning 30 a few months ago). People mean well, but they don’t realise what those words can do.

Your mind still holds the trauma.

We don’t talk about depression after pregnancy loss, but we should. Because your hormones don’t just stop because the baby isn’t there. Your body still thinks you’ve had a baby. Your mind still holds the trauma.

You’re grieving, not just the baby, but the future you imagined. The version of you who was once excited, hopeful, maybe even planning names.

For me, it felt like losing myself. The old me felt so far away. I missed the person who used to daydream about baby clothes and imagine what Christmas might look like with a little one. I couldn’t relate to her anymore. I didn’t know how to be around people who hadn’t been through it. I didn’t even know how to answer “How are you?” without bursting into tears.

And the triggers… they were everywhere. Tiny things no one else would notice. A baby crying in a café. An ad on TV. Socials posts. They’d come out of nowhere and knock me sideways.

That’s the thing about grief and depression; it doesn’t always look how you expect. Sometimes it’s crying all the time. Other times it’s feeling absolutely nothing. Sometimes it’s being on holiday, finally laughing again and then being hit with overwhelming guilt for feeling happy. It’s snapping at people, withdrawing, feeling exhausted, being constantly on edge.

One of the hardest parts was trying to explain any of this. I couldn’t even make sense of my own feelings, so how was I meant to explain them to anyone else? Half the time, I didn’t have the words. The other half, I was scared to say them out loud.

It meant I wasn’t just “not coping”; or being dramatic. I wasn’t weak.

Getting diagnosed with postnatal depression felt like a strange sort of relief. It gave what I was feeling a name. It meant I wasn’t just “not coping”; or being dramatic. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t broken beyond repair. I was going through something real, painful, yes, but real.

Counselling helped. So did the support groups: a huge thank you to The Worst Girl Gang Ever Foundation, for being exactly what I didn’t know I needed. But the thing that helped most? Hearing someone else say: “I went through that too”.

I’m still very much in it, still figuring it all out, still having hard days. But there are little glimmers now. Little flickers of hope.

It’s a journey (I hate that word, but it’s the only one that fits!). And I’m learning to take it one day at a time.

If you’re in the thick of it too — if any of this feels even a little bit familiar — please know this: You’re not alone and you don’t have to keep it all in.

You deserve support and you don’t have to do it alone.