What a crazy and upside down world I’ve found myself in.  Until about a month ago, I wasn’t even sure I ever wanted to be a mother.  But on August 27th, I got the news that ripped my soul from my body with one ultrasound picture.  I was having a miscarriage at 11 weeks of pregnancy.

It’s so weird because even after I found out I was pregnant, I wasn’t sure this was the best move for me.  I love my life as it is now.  I mean- I love it just being me and husband and my dogs.  Being able to pick up and travel across the country and world when we see fit.  Being able to take adventures without regard for a babysitter.  Oh, and of course sleeping in on Sunday mornings… 

What a punch in the gut way for me to realize I actually wanted to be a mother.




The midwife said it was a blighted ovum.  This is where the egg was fertilized and implanted, but the embryo never took.  Meaning there was never even a baby there.  I mean, what?  What do I freaking do with that?

Instead of mourning the loss of a child, I’m left to mourn the idea of a child.  Labor Day weekend would have been 12 weeks.  Waking up that Saturday I thought “I would have been 12 weeks today.”  When in all reality, I would not have.

How do you mourn something that wasn’t even there?

My friend Jill put it so eloquently, as she always does.  When we as women see that positive reading on the pregnancy test, our entire life changes in an instant.  We visualize the baby bump, the perfectly planned and executed delivery, the amazing tree house and obstacle course we build for them, the first time they help us cook a meal, their first high school basketball game, dropping them off at college, and their wedding.  In an instant, we’ve written a story.  And we are never the same.

Of course the typical feelings of “it’s not fair” crossed my mind.  People on the news doing terrible things to their children.  People on Facebook complaining about the cost of school supplies.  People in Walmart giving their toddlers soda to keep them from misbehaving.  If you don’t want your burden, I’ll take it.

And I went through the “everything happens for a reason” stage.  I spent a lot of time trying to figure out the reason:  If I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a mom, maybe this was mean to show me I DID indeed want that.  My husband and I experienced, for the first time, extreme grief together.  Maybe it was meant to bring us closer together.

But really, I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason.  And life is not fair.  We live in a fallen world and sometimes really crappy things just happen.  We can’t control what happens, but we can control how we respond.  We can take experiences and let them make us all dark and twisty inside.  Or we can use them to make us better.  Lemonade out of lemons, I guess.


The Outside Looking In

But I can’t help feeling like a social pariah.  Standing awkwardly in the corner of the room and watching all the other girls twirl, their dance cards full.  It would be unacceptable to sneer at them.  To be bitter about it.  To act childish or uninterested or anything less than happy.  Anything else would be a dead giveaway to the pain inside.

But why so I feel like such an outcast?

For the same reason we think everyone has abs but us- we have 24 hour access to what we crave via the world wide web.  Every time I log on to social media, I’m reminded of everyone else’s beautiful and healthy pregnancies:  The creative pregnancy announcement.  The 20 week ultrasound pictures.  The anticipation of delivery yet to come.  Newborn pictures from the hospital room.  And all the fresh, new family pictures.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am so happy for everyone and all of your blessings.  But if I’m being completely honest….

I don’t want to be happy for you.  I want to be one of you.

I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.  I want to be learning to love my new body.

I don’t want to handle it well.  I want to be frustrated by all the baby wearing options.

I don’t want to be an inspiration.  I want to be the craziest combination of scared and excited.

I don’t want it to suck.  I just want to be pregnant.

It freaking hurts.  I’m not even 100% sure I want to do this again.  My logical brain knows enough to know that there is healing after miscarriage.  That I have upwards of a 90% chance of having a healthy, normal pregnancy.  But if there is even a chance that this will happen again, I just don’t think I can.  My track record for repeated voluntarily pain is not so great.  I’ve only done one GoRuck.  I only have one tattoo.  I only tried my pierce my own belly button one time.  Once is enough- it hurts.

So why I am writing this?  It’s not to make everyone who is having or has had a successful pregnancy feel bad.  It’s because all this needs to be said.


Society’s Dirty Little Secret

No one talks about miscarriage.  Especially early in pregnancy.  Statics show that 25% of women will experience a miscarriage.  But before this happened to me, I could list on one hand the number of women who I knew had a miscarriage.

Now when I tell someone, they sometimes whisper quietly “I had a miscarriage too.”  Like it’s a secret.  Or something to be ashamed of.  Friends- there is an epidemic of women who are rationalizing the silence.

I get it.  I have rationalized several reasons why I should keep it to myself:

  1. If it’s a secret celebration, it should be a secret loss. If I haven’t told anyone about the pregnancy, announcing a miscarriage just feels like poor taste.  Like- You’re not good enough to celebrate with me, but hey, get over here and mourn with me.
  2. I’m Defective. Without fertility, the human race ceases to exist.  As a woman, this should be the one thing I can do.  I am, therefore, a defective set of ovaries.  No use highlighting that flaw.
  3. I’m Guilty. While most early miscarriages are chromosomal, my logical brain recognizes there is enough science and antidotal evidence to support the idea that environmental factors such as stress, nutrition, and nutrient sufficiency have an impact on fertility.  So maybe if I had Paleo’d harder.  Taken more supplements.  Meditated more.  Started trying before I was 30.  I could have possibly created an environment that was able to support a baby.
  4. Maybe if I had been more excited. Excuse me, but is this not the ultimate irony?  I’m not sure I’m ready and the only way for me to know is to lose the pregnancy.
  5. I don’t want to be that girl. Why should I rain on someone else’s parade?  It’s easier to leave the metaphorical room and cry in the corner than make expectant mothers feel like they can’t be happy.
This needs to be said.
It needs to be talked about.
Miscarriages cannot continue to be taboo. 


Mourning is hard enough.  But mourning in secret…  Humans are meant to live in groups.  The worst form of punishment we’ve managed to cook up for each other is prolonged solitary confinement.  People go super crazy.

To be clear, at no point has anybody told me I’m defective, guilty, refused to mourn with me, or told me not to be that girl.  But even as I write this, I’m struggling with the idea of going public:  “Since nothing’s official until its Facebook official, I was pregnant.  Now I’m not.  So that sucks.” 

So really.  Why am I writing this?  To bluntly share how it feels.  To be honest- I had no idea.  The few miscarriages I knew of, I always felt sad for the parents but never imagined the magnitude of grieving and epic sense of loss that took place.  And the feeling of loneliness.

For those of us who are still waiting for our dance cards to be punched, maybe we’ll feel less alone.  We’ll feel like its ok to not smile.  It’s ok to be uninterested for a time.  And just be a little bitter.

To grieve openly, honestly, and totally raw.



I haven’t found closure yet.  I don’t know that I ever totally will.

But in the meantime, I’m just over here making lemonade.




20 thoughts on “M is for Miscarriage”

  1. I agree. Completely. It’s like…taboo to talk about it or tell people. WHY? When it is something that demands support we feel we aren’t allowed to talk about it. Good for you for having the courage to. Maybe I should talk about mine too…thanks you for starting the conversation.

  2. I’m so deeply sorry that you both have to go through this. This was so beautifully written and brave. Love you both.

  3. I just had a miscarriage 3 days ago and you hit the emotions spot on. It’s very painful emotionally and physically. Thanks for posting this.

    1. ignitenourishthrive

      LeighAnn- I’m so sorry that you have to go through this. It sucks, but it starts to suck less after awhile. Sending thoughts of healing your way!

  4. Kelsey, my heart goes out to you. I am the mother of a beautiful 21 year old son. Before his birth, I had two miscarriages. I didn’t think I would ever want to fall pregnant again. I still remember my angel babies, have tattoos to memorialise them, and am so pleased I found the bravery to try again. My son is my world. I can’t imagine not having him in my life.
    Take the time to be with your pain and grieve your loss. There is no right way to do this.

    1. ignitenourishthrive

      Hi Melissa-

      Thank you so much for your kind words of encouragement. I am so glad that you’ve found peace with everything and you give me hope for the future!


  5. what a well written rant. Better out than in. The pain comes from not having anything concrete to hold onto mentally…I was pregnant…I was not pregnant. Either way it is real and a loss. I see a gift here and don’t want to dismiss your pain. 1. You realized that being a mom will be awesome! 2. Your husband is going to be a great partner in pain and in joy. 3. You created the rant and gave other women hope in knowing they are not alone. Wow Kelsey you are incredible! Deborah 🙂

  6. Its like you have just written the words that are in my head that i cannot write! I feel so much better knowing someone has the same words and feelings as myself.

    1. ignitenourishthrive

      Hi Amy,

      I’m so sorry for your loss. It is so hard, but I’m glad my words can offer some hope. I am praying for your healing!


  7. I’m currently screaming on the inside wondering why I’ve never heard anything about miscarriage if it wasn’t on an episode of a soap opera. Having just miscarried with my first pregnancy, I’ve been shocked at how many women around me- who are close to me- have gone through this but never talk about it. I have to talk about it. The emotional and physical pain of miscarriage is way too much to just deal with alone.

    Thank you for a well-written piece that describes exactly how I am feeling today.

    1. ignitenourishthrive


      I’m so sorry for your loss. I wish women didn’t have to endure this, but since we do I sure wish it was more normal to talk about!!! Sending you love and healing! <3


  8. Amanda Tapping: 8(yes, eight!) miscarriages could not freeze or kill her love for her only child, daughter Olivia. But still, in what she writes now publically, you read and feel every single second of despair she probably still suffers. I deem her the strongest woman in the world, and maybe you can connect with each other…

  9. Pingback: Miscarriage – 5 Years Later – Ignite Nourish Thrive

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