The Silence was loud - My experience with a silent miscarriage
An early miscarriage. A silent miscarriage. A missed miscarriage. Whatever you choose to call it, one thing I know for certain — it was strange, and far more painful than I ever anticipated.
It came out of nowhere. Unexpected. Unpredictable. And far, far harder than I naively thought it would be.
I used to think — if I ever lost a baby in early pregnancy, I’d probably be okay. Not that I judged anyone else for grieving, I just assumed I would feel differently. But now I know: I was so wrong.
I knew we had conceived just two days after it happened — I could feel it in my body. Then, just shy of four weeks pregnant, the miscarriage occurred. Before that, the familiar symptoms had already started to show up: fatigue, nausea, that unmistakable shift. I was surprised, even a little shocked, but slowly I began embracing the idea of baby number three. Hope had started to bloom.
Then came the backache. Intense, strange for me. A heavy discharge, no blood. Then, a sudden drop in my mental health — a depression I can only describe as crushing. I stopped feeling pregnant. The nausea faded. The connection I’d started to form... just drifted.
Was that a miscarriage? There was no blood. Was I imagining this? Was it a phantom pregnancy? I was trapped in confusion and silence, unsure if I was even “allowed” to grieve something I couldn’t medically prove.
But deep down, I knew what had happened.
Silent miscarriages are aptly named. They arrive with almost no signs, yet leave so much devastation. And for me, the silence didn’t soften the blow — it amplified it. I was consumed by it. Functioning as a mum felt impossible. I could barely get through the basics: feeding the kids, brushing teeth, getting dressed. That was all I had to give.
And then, on Mother’s Day, the miscarriage began in full. The irony wasn’t lost on me. There I was, celebrating my two beautiful children while mourning the one slipping away. Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to cover it.
The following weeks were emotionally heavy. People kept asking about baby number three — lovingly, kindly — not knowing how painful those questions were. I appreciated their words, truly. It meant they saw the mother in me. But the weight of what could have been hung heavy.
Now, four weeks later, I’m okay. Not whole, not untouched — but okay. The grief comes in waves, in quiet moments. Like when my kids play on a three-seater seesaw, and I can’t help but fixate on the empty space. Or when my toddler says, “Mummy, I’d like another baby now.” I just smile and think, One day... hopefully one day. And then I remind myself and him: you two fill my heart up already.
Even seeing others pregnant doesn’t spark jealousy — only joy. And that surprised me. I thought I’d feel sad. But I don’t. I’m happy for them. That’s the power of inner work — choosing gratitude and soft acceptance over the mindset of “why me?”
That said, having two children didn’t make this miscarriage “easier.” This was a different baby. A different soul. One I only got to glimpse before it left again. And when it did, it took a spark of mine with it.
I’ve also realized how isolating miscarriage can feel. So I want to talk about it — not to shout it from the rooftops, but to say: there’s no shame in loss. And there’s no one right way to process it. Whether you keep it private or share your story, your grief is valid.
I’ve learned I don’t need proof to honor my experience. I don’t need evidence to believe what I lived through. Thank you, universe. And thank you, little spirit baby. I still feel you — just differently now.
Life goes on. I’m now on call for my first freebirth client, and I feel honored to support such an incredible woman. Two more clients are booked, and my podcast's first episode is officially launching on 1st June 2025 — save the date!
This year is unfolding quickly. It’s a year of emotional depth, alignment, and growth. I'm trying to embrace all the feelings — even the uncomfortable ones — without rushing through them. For those of you who have supported me or booked with me from the very beginning of this lifelong journey: thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
If you’re going through something similar and want to talk, please reach out.
With love,
Jaz x