The Baby I Didn't Get to Keep

Jun 23

This isn't easy to write—or even think about.

I can’t count how many times I’ve typed this out, then deleted it… opened this draft, then closed it again. But I’m sharing my story because I know there’s another woman out there who needs to hear it. A woman sitting in her own silent heartbreak, wondering if she’s the only one. If that’s you—this is for you.

After years of infertility and navigating PCOS before finally having my son, Waylen, I never expected to see two pink lines appear so casually. We weren’t even trying. I felt like I had somehow cheated the system—like I was finally free of the struggle.

That day, I just felt… different. A familiar kind of different. I took a test while Tyler was at work, not expecting anything. After all the negative tests I’d seen over the years, I was used to disappointment. But this time… it was positive.

Waylen was barely a year old. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel overwhelmed at the idea of two under two—but in an instant, I envisioned that baby’s whole life with us. In my heart, I went from a mama of one to a mama of two.

When Tyler got home and I told him, he lit up.
“We’re going to have another baby!!” he said, grinning ear to ear. I’ll never forget that joy on his face.

Since my periods weren’t regular due to PCOS and breastfeeding, I estimated I was around five weeks. We were so excited we could hardly keep it to ourselves. That weekend, we told our parents and closest friends. Watching Tyler tell the news with pure happiness was one of my favorite memories. We were dreaming big—names, baby showers, a future with two little ones giggling in our home.

I reached out to my midwife, the same one who had attended Waylen’s homebirth. She was overjoyed for us and suggested I go in for an early ultrasound, just to date the pregnancy.

A tiny little blob popped up on the screen. “Well, you sure are pregnant!” the tech said with a smile.
Because I was only measuring 4–5 weeks, we couldn’t see or hear a heartbeat yet—but she reassured me that everything looked normal for this stage.

And the truth is, I didn’t need to hear that heartbeat to know my baby was real. Every moment I carried them, I knew. I talked to them every day—about their silly big brother, about how much Mommy and Daddy already loved them. My heart had already stretched to make room.

But then, a normal Tuesday turned unforgettable.

I was busy planning my nonprofit’s first in-person event—a birth expo I’d poured my heart into. I went to the bathroom and saw the smallest bit of blood. My heart dropped.

I wanted so badly to believe everything was okay. But my gut said otherwise.

I called my midwife right away. Since I wasn’t cramping, we decided to wait and watch. The next few days were mentally excruciating. I prayed. I cried. I held onto hope. The bleeding was light—maybe everything was okay.

Saturday arrived, the day of the event. It was beautiful—full of other birth workers, families, and energy. But the bleeding picked up. Quietly, I was falling apart.

My midwife brought a portable ultrasound to check things at the end of the day. I kept hoping the event would never end, because I wasn’t ready to face what I already knew in my heart.

The scan confirmed it: no heartbeat.
No wiggly limbs. No baby growing.

Just silence.

My heart shattered.

All the dreams I’d already woven—gone in an instant.

I could see the heartbreak in my midwife’s eyes. She held space with such tenderness. She didn’t rush. She didn’t minimize. She just sat with me in it.

The physical miscarriage began later that weekend. Around 10 p.m. on March 25, the cramping started—intense and unmistakable. What no one prepares you for is how much it physically hurts. It felt so much like labor. I was dizzy, in pain, and scared.

At 11 p.m., I called my midwife while I was in the thick of it. She stayed on the phone with me through the worst of it. Not to fix it. Just to hold space. She reminded me I wasn’t alone.

That meant everything.

Since then, some days feel peaceful. Others, I still feel like I’m in the thick of it. Miscarriage doesn’t end when the bleeding stops—it lingers in your heart. In the baby names. In the empty calendar blocks where milestones would have been.

I’ve found healing in small things—reading The Worst Girl Gang Ever, connecting with other loss mamas, letting myself feel it all. I don’t have a neat bow to wrap this up with. I still wonder: Who would that baby have been? What color hair? Whose eyes?

How would Waylen have reacted to being a big brother?

It’s hard to grieve someone you never got to meet. I’m still learning how.

But here’s what I do know:

That baby was loved. From the second I knew they existed.
And even if I only got to carry them for a short time, I am their mama.
I always will be.

To the woman reading this who just found out her baby isn’t coming earthside:

I see you.
You are not broken.
You are not alone.
And you are still a mother.

I don’t have all the answers. But I’m walking this road too.
And I know—we were never meant to grieve alone.

💛