I’ve faced my share of hardship over the last two years, more than anyone should have to bear. I lost my son. I lost my father after an aggressive battle with cancer. I had two miscarriages. All in the space of just over a year. It was more than I could handle, more than anyone could handle. But when life throws unimaginable grief at you, you don’t get a choice. You survive. You put one foot in front of the other and hope you don’t fall apart completely.
So when I found out I was pregnant again at the start of 2024, pregnant for the fourth time, this time with my beautiful daughter, Olivia-Grace – I wasn’t celebrating. I wasn’t hopeful. I was bracing for impact. Because expecting a baby after losing one doesn’t feel like joy; it feels like standing on a cliff edge, waiting for the wind to push you over.
The fear was suffocating. It consumed every waking moment. I was already a hollowed-out version of my former self, barely holding together the pieces of a life shattered by grief. I remember thinking, If something happens to this baby, if she dies too, I don’t know how I’ll survive it. It was the first time since losing my son, Archie, that I genuinely didn’t know if I could keep going.
The First Trimester
I lived this pregnancy in fragments. Day by day, week by week. I had three calendars: two counting up, one counting down. My only goal was to reach twenty-eight weeks. Twenty-eight weeks felt safe, or as close to safe as I could get. Having lost a baby at twenty-four weeks, I knew too well that the difference of just a few weeks could mean life or death.
At four weeks, I saw the two pink lines. I took a deep breath and numbly booked my first blood tests, waiting to see if my HCG levels would rise. I told myself that if I lost this pregnancy, it was still early. I reminded myself not to get attached. I didn’t tell a soul, other than my husband. I met with two obstetricians, consulted a GP who specialized in high-risk pregnancy, and started progesterone supplements twice a day. I carried on as though nothing had changed.
At eight weeks, we went on a holiday, a last-minute distraction before I would be tied down with specialist appointments and surgery for a cervical stitch at thirteen weeks. But even on holiday, the anxiety never left me. When I started bleeding, I was terrified. I increased my hormone supplements to three times a day and avoided swimming in the hotel pool or the ocean, afraid of infections, afraid of my body betraying me again. I had weekly ultrasounds just to stay sane, because I no longer trusted my own body to tell me the truth. I had been here before, thinking everything was fine, only to discover my baby had stopped growing weeks earlier.
When we made it to thirteen weeks, I allowed myself the tiniest bit of relief. The risk of miscarriage had dropped significantly. I had my cervical stitch surgery and spent days resting. But I still told no one. With the stitch in place, my anxiety shifted, and now I was consumed with the fear of premature birth. I refused to think about holding a healthy baby. That kind of hope still felt dangerous.
Then we found out we were expecting a little girl. But even knowing this, I still couldn’t let myself believe she would ever make it into my arms. My only goal was to keep her safe a little longer, to claw our way past the twenty-four-week mark, and then to the next milestone, and then the next.
The Second Trimester
At sixteen weeks, my fear came crashing down on me again. My cervix had shortened significantly, and I started to feel pelvic pressure, the same symptoms I had before Archie was born too soon. I thought about the length of my cervix all the time. I was so terrified that even walking up the stairs in my house felt like a risk. We still hadn’t told anyone outside my medical team about the pregnancy. It felt like admitting I was pregnant would jinx it, would make it real, would mean more people to disappoint when it all inevitably fell apart.
I spent two months on bed rest, barely moving except to go to my weekly appointments. Miraculously, my cervix grew in length, a shock to both me and my obstetrician. The stitch was holding. It was the first real glimmer of hope I had dared to feel.
But the anxiety never left. My pregnancy was a constant battle against infection, with rounds of antibiotics one after another. I attended a pregnancy after loss group, which helped, but the fear still sat in my chest like a weight I couldn’t shake.
Then, at twenty-eight weeks, I reached the milestone I had been fixated on for months. It was the longest pregnancy I had ever had. I had made it beyond where I had lost Archie. And for the first time, I let myself think, Maybe. Just maybe.
The Third Trimester
The third trimester was the first time I started to believe I might actually have a baby. A living, breathing baby. I let myself buy baby clothes. I had a tiny baby shower. I started preparing – not just physically, but emotionally.
Of course, there were still bumps along the way. When I couldn’t feel enough kicks, I rushed to the hospital in a panic more than once. My body rejected one of my hormone medications, sending me into excruciating pain. And as the birth approached, a new kind of fear took hold; the fear of delivering another baby only to lose them.
I wasn’t prepared for the psychological toll of reaching full term. Every time I thought about the birth, I flashed back to the trauma of Archie’s. Being separated from him, being unable to hold him, and ultimately, having to experience my son dying. The idea of another birth, another hospital stay, was terrifying. It didn’t matter how close we were to our happy ending, I still didn’t believe in happy endings.
But then, somehow, we made it.
Full Term
At thirty-seven weeks, I walked into the hospital for my second C-section. I walked in still holding my breath, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But this time, finally, there was no tragedy waiting for me.
This time, my daughter was born healthy, crying and weighing over 3kg.
This time, I got to hold her.
This time, I got to take my baby home.
Pregnancy after loss is unlike any other experience. It’s holding grief and hope in the same hand. It’s managing fear so consuming it feels like drowning. It’s waiting for bad news at every turn, even when things are finally going right.
For me, what made this the hardest thing I’ve ever done was the sheer length of time I had to fight for her, for my baby. Nine months of crippling fear, of managing every detail, of knowing that my baby’s life depended entirely on my body, a body I no longer trusted.
But she made it.
And so did I.
And that is the most miraculous thing of all.
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