Rainbows: A Story of Secondary Infertility

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.