In the quiet hum of a Portland coffee shop, a familiar sense of reflection washes over me. Travel often has this profound effect, granting a unique vantage point from which to observe the patterns of one’s own life. At home, the relentless pace of daily routines leaves little room for deep introspection. But here, amidst the gentle murmur of a new city, I find myself slowing down, allowing my thoughts to coalesce around a topic I’ve long contemplated, yet fervently hoped would never materialize into a necessary conversation.
This post wasn’t something I planned to write today. Yet, the tranquility of being away from my usual whirlwind has created the perfect space for a deeply personal revelation. So, I will simply say it aloud, getting the most uncomfortable part over with, before delving into the layers of emotion and experience that accompany it. My husband and I have been actively trying to conceive since last summer. This journey, which began with excitement and anticipation, has steadily transformed into one of the most emotionally and physically exhausting trials I have ever faced. The initial nine months felt like a hopeful adventure, but now, the prolonged struggle for pregnancy has become genuinely disheartening. My younger self, filled with grand plans, would be stunned to learn that at nearly thirty, the dream of having children remains unfulfilled.
July of this year brought a surge of cautious elation when I finally saw a positive pregnancy test. We shared the news with a select few close friends, all of whom were also expecting, and of course, with my husband, Stephen. Each day, I meticulously observed the lines on countless home pregnancy tests deepen, a ritual driven by a desperate need for reassurance. My annual gynecologist appointment, serendipitously scheduled for the following week, confirmed the pregnancy and laid the groundwork for our first ultrasound.
However, our hopes were soon shattered. The pregnancy was not viable, ending in a very early miscarriage. While the loss was devastating, I find a sliver of gratitude in its early timing, if one can truly find a positive amidst such heartache. Shortly after this profound disappointment, my father’s severe illness surfaced, consuming my mental and emotional energy entirely. The grief and stress of dealing with my father’s health overshadowed, for a time, the raw pain of the miscarriage. This year, undoubtedly, has been one of the most trying periods of my entire life. It has thrust me into the harsh realities of existence, confronting me with challenges I, as someone incredibly fortunate and sheltered, had never before encountered.
My primary motivation for writing this is to foster open communication. I want to articulate this complex experience for myself, for you, and for the countless women – and men – who have navigated, are currently navigating, or will someday navigate this incredibly difficult path. Because, frankly, it really fucking sucks. And what’s more, it’s a topic that far too often remains shrouded in silence. While I deeply respect anyone who chooses to keep their personal struggles private, I firmly believe that those who wish to speak out should feel empowered and comfortable doing so. Until now, very few people knew about our journey to conceive. We kept it intensely private, even from our closest family members, a level of secrecy that, in retrospect, seems quite absurd. It felt like a taboo, a topic deemed inappropriate for public discourse, despite the fundamental and age-old nature of couples striving to create new life.
The statistics surrounding pregnancy loss are staggering and deeply unsettling. I was astonished to discover that approximately one in four women will experience at least one miscarriage in their lifetime. Twenty-five percent is a monumental figure, especially when contrasted with the miniscule fraction of people who actually discuss it publicly – a number I’d wager is closer to 0.001% (a completely anecdotal estimate, for the record). Before my own experience, I would have guessed the incidence rate to be around one percent. The reality, however, is a stark one in four. Further research reveals that between 10-20% of all confirmed pregnancies unfortunately end in miscarriage, painting a clearer picture of its widespread, yet often hidden, prevalence.
When I discovered I was bleeding profusely in the restroom at work, a profound sense of shame engulfed me. For days, I fabricated excuses to my boss and colleagues, citing general unwellness and the need for sick leave. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it certainly wasn’t the full truth. The thought of admitting, “I need sick days because I’m having a miscarriage,” felt utterly unacceptable – like something shameful, sinful, and highly unprofessional. The internal voice in my head insisted, “Keep your baggage to yourself.” The idea of revealing the truth was unthinkable, which now, with the benefit of hindsight, seems utterly preposterous. Why did I feel such an intense compulsion to conceal something that is, first and foremost, a natural biological event; second, an extremely common occurrence; and third, entirely beyond my control? It’s important to note that I work with genuinely wonderful people; my shame wasn’t directed at them specifically, but rather at the deeply ingrained societal norms I felt compelled to uphold.
So, today, I am simply here to talk about it. To lay it all bare: I had a miscarriage. It was awful. I yearn desperately to be pregnant and to hold our baby, and for reasons I can’t control, it isn’t happening for us right now. It hurts deeply. There’s still a lingering shame in speaking these words aloud, akin to whispering a forbidden curse word in a room full of sweet old ladies, fearing their judgment. It. Sucks. I genuinely strive to maintain a positive and optimistic outlook on life, but lately, that endeavor has been an uphill battle.
I had optimistically promised myself that the entire “making a baby” process would remain enjoyable and spontaneous. I vowed not to become one of those overly analytical women who pore over fertility books, meticulously track ovulation with tests, obsessively check basal body temperature, and utter cringeworthy phrases like, “Okay, honey, it’s that time of the month!” (Ugh!). And yet, in recent months, I’ve found myself embracing almost all of these practices – save for the temperature tracking, simply because I haven’t quite mastered it yet. The realization that conceiving didn’t come naturally to us has been particularly disheartening. I had always envisioned a straightforward journey: we’d start trying, and within about six months, we’d be joyfully breaking the happy news to our parents. Easy. Fun. Unfortunately, that idyllic vision proved to be anything but real life.
I delved into readings about “rainbow babies” – a poignant term for infants conceived after a miscarriage, symbolizing hope after a storm. Given the early stage of my miscarriage, we were able to resume trying relatively quickly, and I held onto the fervent hope that this would be our path. However, reality had other plans. I clung to that hope with all my might, and when a subsequent pregnancy didn’t materialize, the full weight of our earlier loss, combined with this new disappointment, hit me with even greater force.
Just last year, I was absolutely convinced we’d be selecting adorable little onesies to gift our parents at Christmas, perhaps emblazoned with “World’s Best Grandparents” or some equally charming, cheesy sentiment, to announce our news. When that joyous moment didn’t happen, I recalibrated my hopes: surely Valentine’s Day? No. Mother’s Day? Not then either. Groundhog’s Day, perhaps? Nada. Then I thought, alright, THIS Christmas, those precious onesies are definitely happening. But alas, sorry Mom, not this year. Maybe Mother’s Day of 2017? The endless cycle of hope and disappointment is exhausting.
The uncertainty is undeniably the most agonizing aspect of this journey. Nagging questions plague my mind: Is something inherently wrong with me? Or have we simply not been “lucky” yet? And while I strive not to sound bitter, I must implore you: please, please do not tell me that “it’ll happen when it happens… just don’t think about it.” Such well-meaning advice, while offered with kindness, has the power to elicit a physical reaction from me. Add that to the growing list of things you should never say to someone desperately wanting to be a parent. Although, in fairness, I understand that the intent is always to help.
Another significant challenge throughout this entire ordeal has been the perpetual waiting. In many respects, we’ve pressed a mental pause button on our lives, deferring plans and aspirations while we wait for an event that hasn’t yet occurred, and whose certainty remains elusive. Last year, I reluctantly stepped away from roller derby, only to realize, in hindsight, that I could have easily played the entire season without any risk to a developing fetus. I even briefly returned to skating last summer, contemplating a casual return to the sport. Two weeks later, however, the positive pregnancy test arrived, and naturally, I immediately ceased attending practices for my full-contact sport. After the miscarriage, I simply never found the motivation to go back. Similarly, we passed up what promised to be a delightful trip to England with Stephen’s family. When the idea was first raised, we deliberated and ultimately decided against it, convinced that I would either be seven months pregnant and disinclined to travel, or, even better, we hoped to be cradling a newborn. These decisions, made with such hopeful anticipation, now feel like missed opportunities, adding to the layers of frustration.
It’s incredibly difficult to maintain a sense of normalcy, to make future plans and chart our course, when we are constantly hoping for such a profoundly life-altering event to occur – an event that stubbornly refuses to materialize. It feels like being suspended in an inexplicable state of limbo, a perplexing purgatory from which I am utterly powerless to emerge.
This prolonged period of uncertainty and disappointment has, paradoxically, forced me to step back and honestly confront the fundamental question: “Are you truly sure you even want children?” And the answer, resoundingly and without an ounce of doubt, is a definitive YES. I am officially, undeniably, and profoundly ready for parenthood.
I am ashamed to admit this, but witnessing other women who are pregnant or already mothers evokes a strong sense of jealousy within me. Hearing of my many friends and family members who conceived during their very first month of trying ignites not only jealousy but, irrationally, a touch of anger. And yet, simultaneously, I am genuinely nothing but happy for them. This complex mix of emotions is a heavy burden, one I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. I fully recognize that these feelings of jealousy are irrational and unfair, but acknowledging their existence openly is, for me, a vital step towards processing and ultimately moving past them.
Lately, I’ve sensed a palpable nervousness from some of my friends who know about our efforts, as they’ve hesitated to share their own pregnancy news or discuss their experiences with me. This makes me feel truly terrible. So, to all of you, please do not hold back. I genuinely want to celebrate with you, without reservation – I promise you that. Your joy does not diminish mine, and your journey is important.
I sincerely apologize if this post has come across as overly negative. That was not my core intention. However, the honest truth is that I have kept most of these raw feelings hidden away for far too long, burdened by too much shame and societal pressure. While I constantly strive to find the positive aspects in every situation, I also believe it is 100% permissible to simply articulate: “You know what, this whole experience sucks, and I desperately need to talk about it.” So, here I am.
Hi, I’m Brita, and my husband and I are navigating the challenging journey of trying to get pregnant. Welcome to this often-unspoken odyssey. Now that I have finally opened up about all of this, I am committed to continuing the conversation. I hope to share more posts detailing the ongoing process, exploring potential next steps, and delving into the evolving emotional landscape of this experience. Hopefully, future entries will be significantly less rambling and a touch more organized, though I can’t make any definitive promises on that front.
Ultimately, I truly hope to transform this monologue into a dynamic conversation. If you have gone through, or are currently going through, a similar experience, and feel moved to share your story or simply wish to talk, please do not hesitate to reach out. Leave a comment below, or if you prefer a more private exchange, you are welcome to email me directly. Let’s create a space where these essential conversations can thrive.