One Year After My Miscarriage: Learning How to Live Again
- Tassia O'Callaghan
- Oct 24
- 5 min read
Updated: Nov 6
Content warning: This piece mentions misccariage and pregnancy loss.
A year ago, my world stopped.
At my 12-week scan, I was told there was no heartbeat. What should’ve been the first time seeing my baby move was instead the day I learned I’d lost them weeks earlier. I remember the quiet in the ultrasound room, the cold gel on my stomach, the way the sonographer’s expression shifted before the words came. Even now, I can still feel the shock in my chest — that hollow, slow-motion moment when time folds in on itself.
What followed was a blur: the A&E visit that lasted through the night, the physical pain, the emotional pain... There’s a before and after version of me — and a year later, I’m still learning how to live in the “after.”
The compassion that followed
What surprised me most wasn’t the grief itself, but how deeply it was shared. I’d already told my family and my in-laws that I was pregnant, so when we lost the baby, I didn’t have to face it in silence. They shared their own stories of loss, ones that had stayed tucked away until then. We cried together, talked about the babies we’d never get to meet, and held space for each other’s pain.
It wasn’t the kind of comfort that tried to make things better — it was the kind that simply said, I see you, I know this pain too. That connection made the grief feel less lonely. It reminded me that love doesn’t disappear with loss; it just changes form.
Later, when I began sharing parts of my story online, that same compassion rippled outward. Messages came from friends, acquaintances, and strangers — each one another thread in a quiet network of women who understood. It was both heartbreaking and deeply human to realise how many of us are walking around carrying this kind of invisible love.
Grief doesn’t follow a timeline
At first, my grief consumed everything. I couldn’t go into a baby aisle, open pregnancy apps, or hear the word “due date” without crying. I avoided social media entirely because every pregnancy announcement felt like a personal attack. But with time, those sharp edges dulled. The grief still lives with me, but now it sits quietly beside the rest of my life instead of swallowing it whole.
The hardest days are the ones that sneak up unexpectedly — a random Tuesday when I see a baby who looks the age mine might’ve been. Anniversaries, scan dates, and imagined milestones all hit differently. But I’ve learned that sadness doesn’t mean I’ve gone backwards; it’s just part of carrying love for someone I never got to meet.
The mental toll of miscarriage
For a long time, I didn’t fully grasp how deeply miscarriage affects mental health. I’d experienced anxiety before, but this was different — a mix of trauma and loss that I couldn’t logic my way out of.
Research supports what so many of us feel: miscarriage can trigger anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress symptoms. According to a recent study, nearly one in three women met the criteria for PTSD one month after early pregnancy loss. And yet, psychological care after miscarriage is rarely offered automatically. Most of us are sent home with a leaflet and told to “take care.”
What helped me most wasn’t a single fix, but a mix of small things that built up over time: acupuncture, walking outside every morning, reconnecting with my body through slow movement rather than punishing workouts. I had to rebuild trust with myself, physically and emotionally. I started eating warm, nourishing meals, drinking warm drinks, and keeping a journal (even when I didn’t know what to write). Healing became less about trying to “get over it” and more about learning to feel safe again.
Trying again
Trying to conceive again after loss brings its own storm of emotions. Hope and fear live side by side — sometimes in the same breath. Each cycle can feel like a test of endurance. I track my hormones, watch for ovulation, and ride the wave of cautious optimism followed by the gut-punch of a negative test.
It’s exhausting, both mentally and physically. And yet, I keep going. Not because I’ve “moved on,” but because I’ve made peace with uncertainty. I’ve learned that grief and hope can coexist, that wanting another baby doesn’t replace the one I lost.
Some months, I cope by treating trying to conceive like a personal project: tracking my sleep, nutrition, and supplements with almost clinical precision. Other months, I give myself permission to do nothing but rest. I’ve learned to listen to what my body and mind need, rather than forcing myself into a fixed plan.
What’s changed in a year
A year on, I feel stronger: not in the motivational quote way, but in the quiet resilience that comes from surviving something that could have destroyed me. I can look back at that version of me in the hospital and know that she didn’t break — she adapted.
There’s still sadness, but it no longer defines me. I’ve found joy in small things again: in the warmth of my cat sleeping beside me while I work, in walks with my husband, in cooking dinner together without talking about ovulation or test strips.
Something else changed, too. Last week, I looked at my pregnancy scan, at the baby I’d lost. I’d never looked before — it was too much. It’s taken time, but now, I can look at that snapshot of what might have been, hold space in my heart for them, and feel a rush of hope for the future.
How I’m coping now
Coping a year later looks different than it did at the start. It’s not about “staying positive”, it’s about balance. Here’s what that looks like for me:
Routine: Structure keeps me grounded. I wake up at the same time every day, take my supplements, walk outside, and eat balanced meals. It gives my brain the consistency it craves.
Connection: I’ve built gentle boundaries around who I talk to about fertility, but I’ve also found deep comfort in online communities where people truly get it.
Self-compassion: I remind myself that healing isn’t a race. Some days I feel okay; others, I cry for no reason. Both are part of the process.
Hope: I still believe my story isn’t over, even though I don’t have a baby in my arms yet. Whether that means a natural pregnancy, IVF, or adoption, I trust that good things are still coming.
Celebrating: I’m learning to celebrate the small things and live in the moment. Friends’ baby milestones can still be hard, so I give myself time out when needed — then come back to celebrate with them, authentically.
What I wish others knew
If you’re supporting someone after miscarriage, know that you don’t need to fix it. Just showing up — sending a message, dropping off food, saying, “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here” — can mean everything.
And if you’ve been through a miscarriage yourself: you’re not broken, and you’re not alone. You don’t have to rush to be okay. The sadness might never disappear completely, but it can transform into something softer: love, empathy, strength.
One year later, I’m living again. Not like before, because loss changes you. But in a way that feels deeper — more aware of how precious life really is.
I used to think healing meant forgetting. Now I know it means remembering with peace.
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.