Content Warning: Pregnancy loss, miscarriage

Written by Ruby Cole-Ellis, Co-Founder and Editor

The tears still come when I talk about it. These tears, I expected.

When I look back and think of this whole experience, I can tell you, that day, I knew something was wrong before anyone said the words out loud.

It was a Friday morning. Matt had taken time off work so we could meet in Red Deer for our 8-week pregnancy dating ultrasound. The clinic staff welcomed us warmly and explained how the appointment would go. They told us we’d be able to take photos at the end, that we could even request some of the scans to be emailed to us. It felt hopeful. Routine. Like the beginning of something.

But halfway through the ultrasound, the room went quiet. The technician never turned the screen toward us.

If you’ve ever had an ultrasound, you know that moment when they usually smile, point things out, let you see the tiny flicker of a heartbeat. None of that happened. She just kept scanning in silence. I felt it immediately in my gut. Something was wrong. I just knew it.

When she finished, she said she was going to call the doctor to verify everything. A few minutes later the radiologist came in and gently said the words that will never leave my mind:

“I’m so sorry. The babies have stopped growing.”

Babies. Yes, twins again.

At first I almost laughed in disbelief. We already have two-year-old twins, Ian and Noa. This pregnancy hadn’t even been planned. But when doctors in Guatemala mentioned they could see two yolk sacs a week earlier, I had started running the numbers in my head: four kids under three.

Part of me was terrified. Part of me was excited. I’ve always wanted a big family.

Getting pregnant with Ian and Noa took years, surgeries, and many pregnancy and fertility treatments. They are everything I ever dreamed of—perfect little fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. So when this pregnancy happened unexpectedly, I started to think maybe it was meant to be.

The road to that ultrasound had already been rough. Around five weeks pregnant I started spotting. That had happened with the twins too, so I tried not to panic. Then the entire family caught gastroenteritis. Being pregnant meant I couldn’t take much for the pain or nausea, so I just powered through.

After that came a cough that wouldn’t go away. Every time I coughed, I felt the cramping worsen. Then we left for a long-planned trip to Guatemala to celebrate the twins’ second birthday with my family.

While there, I got very sick again… respiratory syncytial virus (RSV)  this time. My fever spiked to 41°C and I ended up in the hospital. Because I was pregnant, they rushed me through tests and ultrasounds. They saw the two yolk sacs but no heartbeats yet. But it can still be normal to not see a heartbeat when you are 5 or 6 weeks pregnant. My hormone levels were still rising, just not as much as they hoped.

“Have faith,” they told me. So I did.

When we came back home from our very chaotic family vacation, all we had to do was wait ten more days for the dating ultrasound. Those ten days felt endless! And then we heard the truth. What broke me the most wasn’t just the loss, it was seeing Matt cry. In all our years together I’ve only seen him cry a handful of times. When the doctor spoke, one big tear rolled down his cheek.

That single tear crushed me. That tear I did not expect.

Miscarriage isn’t new territory for me. Statistically, according to the Mayo Clinic, one in four to six pregnancies ends this way, yet we barely talk about it. In the past my miscarriages were sudden and swift. Traumatic, yes, but quick.

This one was different. My body still believed I was pregnant.

That night the pain began. Real contractions… we are talking 10 out of 10 pain. I’ve had stage-four endometriosis, a full knee reconstruction surgery, serious car accidents, multiple bones break, brutal periods, and a C-section, and I can honestly say this pain rivaled all of it. But nothing happened. Just hours and hours of contractions with no release.

Lots of tears, but no baby coming at the end. Those tears I did not expect… and that is a cruel place to be.

By Monday, I could barely stand. I was on the floor at home, trying to manage the pain while my toddlers were nearby. When I saw my doctor that same afternoon, I looked at him with tears in my eyes and said, “I can’t do this.”

He agreed a D&C (Dilation and Curettage surgery) would probably be the safest and quickest option and said he would do anything he could possibly do to expedite me on the OR list. Boy did he pull some strings, because the next day I was in surgery at 6:00 AM. By noon, I was home.

Physically, the relief was almost immediate. And that, in itself, was confusing. Because how can you feel better… when something so devastating just happened? That’s the part no one really prepares you for.

And there’s the physical ending—whether naturally or through surgery—and then there’s everything that comes after. The hormone crash. The emotional drop. The space that suddenly opens up once the logistics are over.

The first week, I was in survival mode. Coordinating childcare. Taking calls. Signing forms. Managing pain. There was no time to feel. It was just: get through it. Then the following week… It hit me.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just quietly. A heaviness. A sadness that settled in when life slowed down enough for me to notice it.

Grief is like that. It doesn’t always show up when you expect it to. It waits for space and pregnancy loss carries a very particular kind of grief. Because so often, it happens in silence. Many women haven’t shared their pregnancy yet. There’s no public announcement, no collective mourning, no clear “before and after” that the world can see. You’re grieving someone the world has never met. You’re healing from something people didn’t even know happened and that can feel incredibly isolating.

There’s also this strange, uncomfortable mix of emotions: relief and heartbreak existing at the same time. I remember thinking, I just want this to be over… while also wishing with everything in me that it wasn’t. And when it was finally over, there was a sense of relief. The pain stopped. My body started to feel like mine again and with that came guilt. How can I feel relief… when I lost my babies?

But the truth is, both can exist. Grief and relief. Sadness and gratitude. Loss and love. They don’t cancel each other out… They can sit side by side.

Grief doesn’t look one way. It doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t ask for permission. Grief can look like asking ChatGPT if it is normal to want to kiss and hug your children so much after miscarriage, or filling your day up to be busy so much that you barely have time to breathe. Grief can look like you keep adding pins to a baby nursery Pinterest board the day your period has returned. Grief can look like analyzing every little thing you did or ate over the last few weeks, wondering if you did anything wrong. 

For some, the aftermath of pregnancy loss it’s immediate and overwhelming. For others, it’s delayed. For some, moving forward quickly feels right. For others, it takes time to even take a step. All of it is valid.

If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, I want you to know this:

Most miscarriages—especially early ones—happen because of chromosomal abnormalities, meaning the embryo simply didn’t have the correct genetic instructions to develop normally. It’s sadly very common and completely outside anyone’s control. There is nothing you did wrong. 

The guilt you’re feeling now is something psychologists sometimes call magical thinking in grief. When something painful happens that we couldn’t control, the brain tries to create a reason we could have controlled, because that makes the world feel less random.

So the brain goes to thoughts like:

Maybe I didn’t want them enough.

Maybe I caused it somehow.

Maybe if I had felt differently…

But those thoughts are a coping attempt, not reality. Your pregnancy ending was not a reflection of your love or readiness. There is no timeline. No “right” way to grieve something so complex, so physical, so invisible to the outside world. Your experience is valid. Your baby was real. You are their mom. You were their mom. And you always will be.

A good friend of mine, when I told her my experience shared that in some religions, miscarriages are seen as a much needed visit from a higher soul to help you grow through this time in your life. I pondered on that thought. What could possibly be the lesson from such a horrible experience. What good came from all these tears I did not expect?! 

As I try to make sense of all of this—of the sickness, the uncertainty, the loss, the pain—I keep coming back to one thing:

Love.

An overwhelming, unexpected, almost uncomfortable stupid amount of love.

Love that showed up in my marriage in a way I didn’t even realize we needed. Somewhere between routines, daycare drop-offs, and pure exhaustion, Matt and I had drifted into survival mode. Not broken, not disconnected…just… busy. And this brought us back. It softened us. It reminded us of who we are to each other, not just as parents or partners managing a life, but as two people who chose each other. I saw him show up with a steadiness that made me feel safe again. And in the middle of all that pain, there was something incredibly grounding about that.

Love that let me be a daughter again. Being back in Guatemala, being taken care of by my mom in moments where I physically couldn’t take care of myself, it reminded me that I don’t always have to be the strong one. That I’m allowed to be held too.

Love that made space for my children to be deeply known by their grandparents. Extra days on that trip that, at the time, felt uncertain… became moments I now see as gifts. Watching my parents have that one-on-one time with Ian and Noa, building memories that wouldn’t have existed otherwise, it matters in a way I can’t fully explain.

And love from friends and family who showed up, who checked in, who held space for me, even when I didn’t know how to ask for it. Letting people take care of me instead of always being the one taking care of everyone else… that didn’t come naturally to me. But it changed something.

Even in something that felt so senseless, there were pieces of my life quietly realigning bringing me back to what matters, to who matters, to how deeply I am capable of loving and being loved. 

A few happy tears have started to roll down my face… These tears I did not expect.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’m choosing to hold onto: That love doesn’t disappear in grief. If anything, it reveals itself more clearly. Oh, how blessed am I to love and have loved so fiercely.

Thank you for the tears, little ones. The sad ones, and the happy ones. The expected ones, and the unexpected ones. Thank you for letting me be your Mommy, even if just for a few weeks. Until we meet again.

If you’re in Canada and need support, there are resources available:

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support Centre (PILSC)

Canadian Perinatal Mental Health Collaborative (CPMHC)

Postpartum Support International (PSI) – Canada Chapter

Mental Health Support – Programs from the Government of Canada

And if at any point your grief feels too heavy please know this is not something you have to carry alone. Reaching out for professional help is not weakness; it’s care.