About 20 years ago, I suffered a second-trimester loss. At the time, there wasn’t much support or material on miscarriage, loss, or depression.
Any loss is devastating—but especially after you’ve passed the 12-week mark, the so-called “safe zone” when you’re encouraged to share the news. Yet from the start, I instinctively felt something was wrong. Deep in my gut, I just felt it. Still, appointment after appointment brought reassurance—until the second-level ultrasound. That’s when my fears and intuition became reality.
The technician performing the ultrasound tried to maintain her best poker face, but her unease was obvious. She avoided eye contact and barely answered our questions. “Is everything okay?” I asked quietly. Her response: “The doctor will be in shortly to answer all your questions.” Waiting for him felt like watching paint dry in 100-degree heat.
We like to believe pregnancy is an exact science—black and white. But if you’re high risk, it’s more grey. You’re suddenly transported into a kind of Twilight Zone, with no map, no manual, and no way out until some version of normalcy returns.
We were told the baby wasn’t measuring as expected. The term used was Intrauterine Growth Restriction (IUGR). My then-husband and I were faced with two options: terminate the pregnancy or continue. Within the span of an hour, everything had changed. We were forced to make a decision no one is prepared to face. Though agonizing, I’m grateful that it was our decision to make.
As we clung to each other, the specialist rushed to meet us by the elevator. He suggested an amniocentesis to better understand the root cause of the issue. Two days later, I had the procedure. Painful, but yet necessary. I was willing to do anything to save our baby. The Dr put me on bed rest for two weeks and we prayed for improvement. I was 17 weeks, but the baby measured 14.
At 20 weeks, I went in for my routine exam. My doctor used the Doppler to find the heartbeat, but nothing. She reassured me this could be normal and brought in the ultrasound machine. As soon as she placed the probe on my belly, she uttered the words no mother wants to hear:
“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”
I don’t remember much after that—just a sound, an almost primal howling, like a wounded animal. I know the entire office heard me. When I left, it was silent. You could hear a pin drop. Women avoided eye contact, and immediately looked away, afraid to catch whatever had afflicted me.
Pain can feel contagious. We see someone grieving, and our instinct is to look away. We want to protect ourselves. Shield our hearts. But nothing anyone could have said would have helped. I felt exposed. Wounded. Raw. There is no way to prepare for that kind of moment. Absolutely none.
The Aftermath
Despite measuring behind, I was still officially 20 weeks, which meant I had to make another critical decision: deliver or have a D&E (Dilation and Evacuation). No one could pinpoint when the baby had died, and the thought of delivering a baby that was no longer thriving was something I couldn’t bear.
There were only two doctors who performed the procedure. The first Dr. squeezed us in. The waiting room was packed. I remember a teenage girl there with her mother, in a deep conversation and clearly annoyed. I also remember a song playing—“Fallen” by Sarah McLachlan:
Though I’ve tried, I’ve fallen…
I have sunk so low…
I messed upBetter I should know…
So don’t come round here
And tell me I told you so
As the song played I felt in that moment the lyrics were speaking to me. They echoed my guilt, my shame. I had 2 abortions when I was a teen and up till this point I had all but forgotten about them…..till now. Was this my punishment? My penance?
Tears streamed down my face. My head fell into my hands. The room, once full of chatter, fell silent. You could hear a pin drop—again—only this time, with my sobs and Sarah’s haunting voice in the background.
People looked at me, unsure whether to offer sympathy or avert their gaze.
When you’re witness to someone else’s grief it can feel like you’re intruding. Like you’re prying and in violation of a private moment. You dare not speak, not utter a single word for fear of causing disruption.You don’t know whether to lean in or look away. Everyone grieves differently. In my case, grief poured out like a river—uncontrollable, overwhelming.
My husband, frustrated, asked how much longer we had to wait. We were told there was no estimate. And so we left.
The next day, we were able to get an appointment with 2nd Dr and the procedure was scheduled for that night.
On December 10th, I was no longer pregnant. On December 13th, I celebrated my birthday in bed.
Depression
This was my first real experience with depression. I now recognize that I didn’t have the tools to handle it at the time. I wish I had known then what I know now.
Depression feels like being trapped in a locked closet with no light and no way out. Even on sunny days, everything stays dark. I felt like I was outside of myself—dissociated. Detached. Numb.
Finding an Anchor
That sense of dissociation lingered for months. I mentioned briefly feeling outside of myself and my body. I felt stuck in time, again like in The Twilight Zone. I felt like I was sleep walking but living in the past, still mourning my loss. After a couple of months, I realized that living in the past was preventing me from moving forward. Having an anchor, something that will ground you, something that will help you stay in the present, was the first step in my recovery. I wish I did this sooner rather than waiting months.
Here’s what helped:
- Yoga
- Spending time outdoors (walking, running)
- Reconnecting with friends
- Any activity that awakened mindfulness and grounded me in the present
Affirmations & Energy
We often feel stuck because our thoughts keep us stuck. The sadness of losing my baby consumed me—I couldn’t get out of bed, and my mind was flooded with negativity.
But it takes just one positive affirmation to create a spark of change. Like a domino effect.
My affirmations:
- I will be pregnant again.
- I am not responsible for what happened.
- I will find the best doctors to help me.
- I will be a great mom.
- I can do this.
Journaling
Writing helped me release what I couldn’t say aloud. Journaling was my lifeline. Probably the easiest and most cost effective way to release what you feel. Also, if you have access to insurance that covers behavioral health, you may want to take advantage and utilize mental health professional services.
Advocating for Yourself
People say hurtful things without realizing it. Their words can be triggering, and re-traumatizing. I’ve had the most insensitive things said to me during this time. People may mean well but don’t realize what they say. This is an opportunity for you to not only advocate for yourself but to educate others on how their words can be insenstive and sometimes hurtful.
A New Chapter
Months later, I was diagnosed with Lupus and Antiphospholipid Syndrome (APS)—a blood clotting disorder. For my next pregnancy, I would require daily heparin injections. It took five years, a round of IVF, and another miscarriage at 8 weeks to finally conceive Ava.
Ava is not only my mini-me. She is a gift. A victory. And testament to my resilience.
To anyone navigating loss and depression: You are not alone. And you are not broken. Your grief has a voice, and your healing has a path.
