Sitting down to write this brings a flood of emotions. I am supposed to share our story of miscarriage and our rainbow pregnancy, but how do I write about something I don’t want to relive? It means I have to face the heartbreak, grief, and pain of the past four years. Honestly, even with counseling, I am not sure I am ready—or strong enough—to do that. I’ve always been the strong one, the mother who supports and lifts others, but somehow I’ve struggled to do that for myself.
November 25, 2015, was one of the happiest days of my life. After having my IUD removed in March 2015, we finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and we were overflowing with gratitude. We shared the news with our family at Christmas, and the pregnancy progressed beautifully, reaching 40 weeks and 3 days without complications. On August 1, 2016, we welcomed our first daughter into the world—a day that will forever be etched in my heart.
But joy quickly gave way to a new challenge: secondary infertility. After our first pregnancy, we struggled to conceive for a year. In January 2018, we met with fertility specialists and began exploring IUIs and Clomid. Our first IUI was on February 12, and just eleven days later, on February 23, we saw two pink lines again. My heart nearly exploded with joy. That evening, our daughter unknowingly wore her “Big Sister” shirt while my husband came home from work. He was on the phone with his sister and immediately ended the call, completely overjoyed. The look on his face was pure happiness, and it made my heart soar. The following day, for our scheduled family photos, she wore the same “Big Sister” shirt—photos that have remained hidden, a secret treasure of hope and love.
Then came April 16, 2018—my husband’s 31st birthday—a day that would become the darkest of my life. We were in the waiting room for our 12-week ultrasound, planning how we would share the news with family later that evening. Minutes later, I was lying on the ultrasound table, sobbing uncontrollably. Our baby measured only 9 weeks, 5 days, with no heartbeat. Those words—“I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat”—replayed endlessly in my mind and still do. Words no parent should ever hear. I asked my husband to stay home with me that day; all I wanted was to hold our daughter, to feel her warmth amidst our grief.
There were no warning signs, no symptoms of miscarriage. Yet my medical records cruelly labeled it a “missed” abortion. Missed? I didn’t miss the heartbreak, the procedures, or the overwhelming sense of loss. I felt shattered, questioning my worth as a woman and a mother. How could I have failed to protect our baby? Why didn’t I know the heartbeat had stopped? And to have it happen on my husband’s birthday—my heart ached for him, too.
That night, as my husband called family, sobbing—a rare display of his own grief—I felt utterly helpless. I couldn’t make it better, I couldn’t undo what had happened. I couldn’t even face myself in the mirror. I felt empty, unworthy, and undeserving of love or another child.
The pain continued physically and emotionally. I underwent a D&C on April 19, followed by a second on May 18 due to retained tissue. The financial burden only added to the heartbreak. HCG levels took weeks to drop, and we cautiously restarted fertility treatments in June. Months passed, each cycle filled with hope and despair. November 3, 2018—our due date—came and went, a constant reminder of our angel baby. December brought new challenges: blocked tubes and surgery scheduled for December 24. Then came the shocking $14,000 medical bill, leaving us questioning whether adoption or IVF might have been alternatives.
January 22, 2019, marked our first IUI after starting Femara. On February 6, a positive pregnancy test brought mixed emotions: hope, fear, and spotting. Labs confirmed HCG levels rising, but caution shadowed every step. I replayed the fear of loss from our previous miscarriage, and each ultrasound felt like stepping into the unknown.
On March 4, 2019, our first early ultrasound revealed a strong heartbeat. Weeks of worry followed: I battled Influenza A in March, terrified that illness might harm our baby. But each scan brought reassurance: 10 weeks, 11 weeks—our rainbow was growing strong. Finally, we shared the news with family and our daughter, Charlotte, whose excitement was contagious. Even then, I kept it quiet from the wider world, too fearful of heartbreak.
To mark each milestone, I began taking rainbow pregnancy photos, a secret celebration of life and hope. Feeling the baby for the first time made it real, and on Mother’s Day, we announced the pregnancy to the world, surrounded by love and support.
July brought another hurdle: surgery for hemorrhoids at 28 weeks. I was terrified of anesthesia, worried for the baby. My husband stayed by my side as we monitored the heartbeat before and after surgery. Recovery was painful, and for the first time, I realized I wasn’t as strong as I thought. Tramadol barely helped, Lortab made me dizzy, but ibuprofen gave relief. Charlotte was my constant companion, her sweet care and compassion a source of strength. Sharing blue raspberry Jell-O beside the bathtub, she showed me the beauty of innocence and love, reminding me that we had already been blessed beyond measure.
Finally, the day arrived. Our due date passed on October 17, and on the morning of October 23, 2019, our rainbow baby entered the world at 7:32 a.m.—a healthy, beautiful girl, 9 pounds, 9 ounces, after 40 weeks and 6 days. I watched in awe as the doctor carefully unwrapped the cord, and finally, our daughter was placed on my chest. “Thank God, she is healthy and finally in my arms,” was all I could think.
Even then, I wasn’t fully “okay.” Anxiety lingered, the fear of loss still present. But now, my 3-year-old sits beside me, and our 6-week-old rests peacefully. The joy of having them both is immeasurable.
One of the hardest questions I face is, “How many kids do you have?” In my heart, we have three. Our angel baby lives in our hearts, remembered and celebrated. Sharing our story has brought connection, comfort, and faith. There were days when I felt utterly alone, unable to rejoice in others’ pregnancies or even attend baptisms. But over time, prayer, reflection, and gratitude for Charlotte helped restore my faith. We pray every night for those trying to conceive, for those grieving loss, and we thank God for our angel watching over us.
This journey is not one I would wish on anyone, but it is ours. It has tested our hearts, strengthened our love, and shaped the family we are today. Through every tear and every triumph, we have held on to hope—and it has brought life, light, and a rainbow to our lives.
