Tassia O'Callaghan

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, d

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.

Trying to conceive (TTC) after a loss is its own kind of heartbreak. Not just because of what you’ve been through, but because of what you’re still hoping for. Every month becomes a question mark. Every symptom, a maybe. And in the middle of it all is you — grieving, hoping, surviving. When we lost our baby in October, I thought the hardest part would be the miscarriage itself. And in many ways, it was. But what I wasn’t prepared for was how hard the after would be. The waiting. The trying....