Living In-Between: What Recurrent Loss Taught Me About Carrying Grief
Content warning: This piece mentions miscarriage and pregnancy loss.
When I first wrote about losing our baby in October 2024, I thought the hardest part would be the miscarriage itself. In many ways, it was.
At the time, grief felt enormous. Overwhelming. It filled every room, every conversation, every quiet moment. But it wasn’t always going to stay that way. It might not disappear, but it changes shape, and settles into the everyday. That kind of grief becomes something I carry in my bones alongside everything else — work, relationships, birthdays, holidays, deciding what’s for dinner. Life, as it happens, carries on.
Since then, we've sadly experienced more losses, more waiting, more questions, and more uncertainty. For me, living with recurrent pregnancy loss is about learning how to make a home in that uncertainty, while still keeping my heart open to hope.
When Grief Becomes Part of Everyday Life
People often imagine grief as a period of time. Something you move through before eventually returning to normal. But prolonged grief doesn't always work like that.
I’ve laughed at dinner with friends and cried over a negative pregnancy test on the same day. I’ve enjoyed holidays while wondering what-ifs of due dates that never come. I’ve celebrated someone else's baby while grieving the ones I never brought home.
Life doesn't stop because you're hurting. The washing still needs doing. Work deadlines still arrive. Birthdays still happen. You still need to answer emails and decide what's for dinner.
I've found myself switching between work and fertility without any clear boundary — replying to client emails one minute, wondering whether this cycle might finally be different the next.
The world keeps turning. And we have to keep turning with it.
The Invisible Workload of Trying to Conceive
One thing I wasn't prepared for was how much time and energy trying to conceive after loss would consume.
There have been countless blood tests, fertility appointments, cycle tracking, medications, supplements, acupuncture sessions, and endless research. I've worked with specialists, an acupuncturist, and a naturopath. I've spent evenings reading scientific studies and mornings peeing on hormone sticks before most people have had breakfast.
But the most exhausting part is the mental load. I simply can’t stop thinking about it all. Almost every decision, however small, pivots around the question: Will this bring us closer to our baby?
And if I'm honest, there have been moments where I've felt angry. Angry that we're over two years into this journey. Angry that I've become fluent in blood tests and vaginal microbiomes when I'd much rather be decorating a nursery. Angry that it still feels so lonely, even though I know we’re not the only people in the world who have experienced something like this.
It’s All Become Part of Who I Am
I’m nowhere near as naive or as innocent as I was before we started this journey. I’m not a shell of who I was, either. I’m someone different.
Before all of this, I was a newly-wed who wanted to start a family with my husband. I had a job I loved, such a supportive family, and everything was in its right place.
Now, I’m someone who intimately knows the language of fertility, who instinctively notices babies whenever I leave the house, who can recite test results at the drop of a hat, who can calculate due dates in a beat.
None of this is what I wanted. I honestly miss the version of me who didn't know any of this. But I also have compassion for the person I've become, because she learned these things simply by refusing to give up.
Living With Uncertainty
I think uncertainty has been one of the hardest things to live with.
Human beings like plans. We like certainty. We like knowing that if we work hard enough, we'll eventually reach the finish line.
But fertility doesn't work like that. You can do everything "right" and still not get the outcome you want. You can advocate for yourself, change your diet, improve your lifestyle, take the supplements, and still be left waiting.
For someone who likes research and organisation, that lack of control has been deeply uncomfortable. I've spent an obscene amount of time trying to solve something that doesn't have a straightforward answer.
Most people don't see the mental load. They just see you carrying on. And sometimes that creates pressure to keep appearing “fine.” To keep smiling. To keep being productive. To reassure everyone that you're coping.
But the truth is, some days coping simply means getting through the day. Not every difficult chapter has to come with a motivational quote. Sometimes surviving it is enough.
Building a Future Regardless
One thing I'm still learning is how to plan for a future that I can't predict.
I'd love to say I've mastered the art of living fully in the present, but the truth is, I still think in cycles.
A few months ahead feels manageable. A year ahead feels impossible. When family suggest holidays or events, my first instinct is often, "What if I'm pregnant by then?"
Having the people around me know what's going on has helped more than I expected. It means I don't have to carry every thought by myself. I can offload some of the endless mental calculations and fears that otherwise stay trapped inside my own head.
Being loved so deeply comes with its own complications. Our families are rooting for us, and sometimes I put pressure on myself because I don't want to disappoint those very people who care. There's something bittersweet about being surrounded by hope.
My nine-year-old niece often tells me how much she wants us to have a baby. Her honesty about the baby we lost is both heartbreaking and strangely comforting. Cruel and kind all at once.
What Living With Grief Has Taught Me
People often talk about staying positive, but I don't think positivity is always the goal. I can’t pretend everything is fine. I don’t feel grateful every second or find a lesson in every heartbreak.
Sometimes I feel hopeful. Sometimes I feel angry. Sometimes I'm exhausted. Most days, I'm all three. And I've learned that that's okay.
I still don’t know how this story ends for us. I hope that one day, I’ll read these words while holding the baby we’ve been dreaming about for so long.
But until then, I’m living in this in-between. Between grief and hope, loss and possibility, the life I dreamed of and the life I’m living. And for now, that has to be enough.
This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.
