Healing After Loss: Finding Strength in a Harder Chapter

In my last post, I talked about my seven-week scan. It’s such a strange feeling navigating IVF — knowing there are all these small milestones ahead, each one you hope to get to. When you do, it can feel almost unbelievable — that something you longed for is finally within reach.

For me — and this is probably just my nature — I’ve always been optimistically cautious. I try to stay grounded, balancing excitement with realism. I stay positive enough to appreciate how far I’ve come, allowing myself to imagine the possibility of becoming a mum one day. But then I gently remind myself, Hold on, Louise — keep perspective. Anything can happen.

Writing this post took longer than I expected. Putting words on paper in my private journal was hard enough. When I look back at that journal entry now, it reads so different from the pages before it — gone were the flowing sentences. Instead, my thoughts had become dot points: one page of emotionless notes, each marking what had happened that day and the days that followed. It was my way of coping — simplifying what felt too heavy to write out.

Before I go on, I want to make it clear that I’m not placing blame on anyone or on the circumstances at work during that time. Logically, I know what happened was, unfortunately, a very common experience, and nothing anyone could have done would have changed it. But it’s important to share what was happening around me when everything unfolded.

I was only a week or so shy of the three-month milestone — quietly hopeful I’d make it there. In my mind, that milestone felt like reaching a resting point on a long climb — a chance to pause and breathe.

But that week, everything at work shifted. The organisation was restructuring, and my department was caught in the crosshairs. There would be new opportunities available — though not enough to keep everyone — and each of us would have to reapply and interview if we wanted to stay.

It left a stale taste in the mouths of many. I’d been with that close-knit team of twenty for only a year, but they’d come to feel like family. The announcement hit hard. Some decided to apply for the new roles; others took the redundancy package, even though it wasn’t much. It was a stressful, emotional time. At the back of my mind, I remember thinking, If I don’t get another role here, who is going to hire a pregnant woman?

With emotions running high and people starting to pack up their desks, I decided to share my good news. I wanted to tell the team before everyone went their separate ways — to offer something positive amidst the uncertainty. Until then, only a couple of people knew about my IVF experience. It was interesting to see everyone’s reactions. Some thought I was joking at first, and then paused as it sank in that I was being serious.

People often say, “Don’t tell anyone until you reach three months.” But I figured I was close enough — what harm could it do? I wanted to share a little hope before everything changed at work. I think part of me just needed a moment of lightness in what had become a heavy environment.

A couple of days later, while at work, I went to the bathroom and immediately knew something wasn’t right. It was the kind of knowing that doesn’t need words. I walked back out and told my manager I needed to leave. As I left, emotional, I said, “I knew I shouldn’t have told anyone.” When I reached my car, I called the IVF clinic, and they asked me to come straight in.

The clinic ran blood tests and said they’d call in the morning. But deep down, I already knew. The next day, they confirmed it — I was miscarrying.

There was a part of me — and I know this sounds silly — that felt like I had jinxed myself. That if I’d kept it quiet, if I hadn’t told anyone at work, everything would have been fine. Looking back now, I know that’s not true, but I do know this: if I could do it again, I would have kept that news to myself. Not because of superstition, but because having to tell people afterwards — to relive the experience — is awful. All I wanted was to retreat into my shell and protect myself in silence. That would have been my way of coping. But once I’d shared the news, I couldn’t take it back.

When the clinic called with the results, they also told me I’d need to go to the hospital to see whether the miscarriage would progress naturally or need medical help. The local hospital was underwhelming at best. They didn’t run any tests and sent me home shortly after, saying I should be fine.

After leaving the hospital, I phoned the IVF clinic to let them know what had happened. They advised that I would still need to have an ultrasound. I managed to find a clinic with appointments available and booked for two days later. At that point, I was still in the process of miscarrying and felt both emotionally and physically drained. The clinic instructed me to drink nearly a litre of water and hold it until I arrived — an hour’s drive away. This was especially difficult as during my pregnancy, I constantly needed to go to the bathroom. So having to hang on with a full bladder for that time was awful. I remember sitting in the car, feeling panicked and unwell, wishing I could just skip this and go home.

For anyone who has gone through an internal ultrasound during a miscarriage, you’ll know how confronting and invasive it can be. I don’t use those words lightly — it was one of the most vulnerable experiences of my life. I didn’t know the sonographer, I’d never been to that clinic before, and there I was — being examined during one of the most personal, painful moments I’ve ever faced. It felt deeply intrusive and unsettling.

A few days later, I returned to work — to a half-empty office and the quiet hum of what was left of our team. I felt drained, just wanting to get through the days, doing what I could to close that chapter and move forward.

📖 If you missed it, you can read my previous post about Early Pregnancy: Fatigue, Hope, and My Seven-Week Scan.
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