I was completely crushed, my heart shattered into pieces. I had been so excited, imagining myself swooning over our baby’s first ultrasound photo, hearing that strong, steady heartbeat from a tiny little body. I was already dreaming about creating a fun announcement to share with family and friends. I was expecting months, if not years, of memories with this little one. But life had other plans. God needed our baby more than we did. We went home, holding each other close, and waited for the miscarriage to happen. On Tuesday, March 14, 2017, my husband and I said goodbye to our first baby.
That evening, I let God take control and miscarried naturally. It was the most excruciating experience I’ve ever endured. I felt the contractions, saw my baby pass, and couldn’t help but cry through the pain. I was exactly ten weeks along, to the date. My husband stayed by my side the entire weekend, supporting me through every moment. The emotional pain far outweighed the physical, yet we found comfort in the love and humbling support of family and friends. Their kindness carried us through. Through the grief, I clung to faith, knowing that one day, we would conceive again. Hope kept us moving forward, toward the day we could once more say, “We’re having a baby.”
Nine months later, the wounds from that first loss were still tender, but healing had begun. The pain lingered, but I found a place of peace, a place where I could persevere without feeling defeated. And then, I got pregnant again. The joy I felt was indescribable—I couldn’t believe it was happening after such loss. But six weeks in, I experienced bleeding. Another miscarriage. Our baby was now in heaven with its sibling. That week was a blur: bed rest, fever, full-blown flu. Strangely, the flu dulled the emotional ache just enough to survive the week.
When I recovered, reality hit hard. I had lost another baby—without even knowing I was carrying one. The guilt was overwhelming. I questioned everything: had I eaten better, exercised more, drank less? Could I have done something differently? How would I bounce back from this heartbreak?
Years passed, and eventually, I decided to take a pregnancy test again. I nervously grabbed a First Response test, and there it was—the faintest pink line standing proudly next to the control. My heart raced. I immediately used the digital test I had bought, and after three long minutes, the screen displayed the words: “PREGNANT.” I lost my breath, cried tears of gratitude, and whispered a prayer thanking God for this third miracle. I texted my husband, begging him to find a quiet place at work to FaceTime me. Seeing his face light up with the biggest smile made me cry all over again. We shared the moment as fully as we could, even through a screen.
Then the worry set in. I got dressed, went to work, and counted the minutes until I could call my doctor. At 9 a.m. sharp, I made the call. They scheduled blood work and prescribed progesterone to start that evening. For weeks, I returned for blood tests to ensure levels were rising as they should. With each perfect result, my faith strengthened, but the fear never completely left. At six weeks, the pregnancy app informed me that my baby was the size of a chocolate chip—our little “bean”—and for the first time, I felt a tender connection forming.
Eight weeks brought our first ultrasound. The doctor spread warm gel over my belly, and there it was: a tiny, curled-up baby, heartbeat strong at 175! The sound was unforgettable—a melody that filled me with awe and gratitude. A printed photo reminded us to cherish every moment, and we left the office holding onto hope. Yet, anxiety lingered. Week ten—the week we lost our first baby—brought waves of worry despite the morning sickness, fatigue, and sore breasts. My doctor assured me these were signs of a healthy pregnancy, and so I prayed, rested, and persisted. Blood work and a second ultrasound during this week reassured us once again: everything was progressing beautifully, even allowing us to know the baby’s sex soon. It finally felt real—we were having a baby.
Weeks eleven and twelve passed. We shared our joy with family and friends, announcing our pregnancy with hearts full of gratitude. By week thirteen, the first trimester was ending. Morning sickness eased, progesterone was no longer needed, and a tiny belly proudly housed a growing baby, now the size of a lemon. Every day brought anticipation and excitement, and through God’s blessing, my husband and I were finally experiencing life with our long-awaited rainbow baby.
Becoming a parent isn’t easy—not just after birth, but in the struggle to conceive and carry a baby. So many assume it’s effortless, like baking a cake. But the reality is often full of heartbreak and miracles intertwined. Someone, somewhere, is learning they’re pregnant; someone else is facing loss; someone else is still hoping for a child. Be mindful of this. Celebrate pregnancies with love and compassion. Recognize that not all journeys are visible, and sometimes, the most joyful news comes after unimaginable struggle.
I have had two miscarriages, experiences that forever changed my perspective on fertility and motherhood. They’ve made me deeply aware of the fragile beauty of life. I urge everyone to trust in God’s timing and plan. Today, I am grateful beyond measure to be a mama. The rainbows that followed our storms are a living reminder of the joy God promised in human form. I will never take my role as a mother for granted. Every heartbeat, every smile, every tiny milestone is a treasure I cherish with all my heart.
