4 Things I’ve Learned after 4 Pregnancy Losses

In the summer of 2021, as we counted down the days to our first egg retrieval, I started listening to the Infertile AF podcast. I had a lot of questions about what exactly was going to happen next, and hearing the stories of women who had been in my shoes before helped me better understand some of the possible outcomes

It didn’t take too many episodes before I started to get nervous. I knew that IVF didn’t have a 100% success rate. But I also knew that there was no obvious reason why it wouldn’t work for us. So, deep down, I think I thought it probably would. But then I learned that it was actually normal to go through more than one IVF cycle. And I started to worry about how long it might take for us to find success. 

But it was the story of IVF-related losses that felt like a total gut punch. Why did so many women have to experience this? And how on earth did they find the strength to keep going? At this point, we had been trying for three years without a single positive pregnancy test. I couldn’t imagine finally seeing that beautiful second pink line after so long, only to have it be snatched away from us. But that’s exactly what happened. And it’s continued to happen every time since.

Our first pregnancy was also our first loss. It was bad luck, that our first IVF transfer would end up ectopic. Our second transfer, and second pregnancy, was a chemical one. Our third pregnancy was another ectopic. And now, just a few weeks ago, we experienced our first missed miscarriage. 

With unexplained infertility, it’s hard to understand what’s happening. There is no pattern to our pain, no known reason why. And there is no way to truly predict if it will happen again. Our doctor is still encouraging us to keep trying, showing us how, with each loss, we actually continue to get one step closer: our first pregnancy, then our first natural pregnancy, then our first natural intrauterine pregnancy. But this two steps forward, one step back pattern is exhausting. 

I’m worried I won’t be able to handle another loss. Each one has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through. But, if I’m being honest, each one has given me something too. I turned the recovery from my first ectopic pregnancy into a journey toward falling in love with my body for the first time in my life. My second loss taught me that I am braver than I think. My third loss rewrote the story I was telling myself on what my body could accomplish on its own. And now, my most recent loss, has cemented my identity as a mother, regardless of whether others see it or not. 

I’ve been reflecting a lot on these and other lessons that my losses have taught me these past couple of years. Here are the 4 that stand out most to me today.

1. This is what continuing to try looks like.

The struggle to get pregnant is real. But the struggle doesn’t end with a positive test. It continues, evolves, and–some days–can be even harder to overcome. With my most recent loss, the pregnancy symptoms were worse than I had ever experienced. Already struggling just to get through the day from fatigue and nausea, I also felt like I was drowning in anxiety. 

There were many days when I lay on the couch, paralyzed with fear. What if I ate the wrong thing? Moved the wrong way? Encountered the wrong stress? What if I did something to make me lose this pregnancy too? I kept thinking I had gotten over the hard part, that I had gotten pregnant. Shouldn’t this part be easier? 

It was on one such day, as I lay motionless, trapped by endless anxious thoughts, that I had a stunningly clear realization: this is what continuing to try looks like. I am here, experiencing this new form of struggle because this is where I wanted to be. 

I started to think about the book by Mark Manson The Subtle Art of Not Giving  F*ck. I read it years ago, and one message that has stayed with me is: “Life is essentially an endless series of problems. The solution to one problem is merely the creation of another.” I thought about how the version of me from just four weeks ago would do anything to be where I am today. I knew she would want me to do everything I could to keep pushing through the fear and uncertainty.

And I started to think about how the struggle never really ends. Getting pregnant is hard, and staying pregnant is also hard. But parenthood? That’s got to be the hardest part of all, right? “Winning” the infertility journey can be about a lifetime of love and happiness, sure. But it’s also about a lifetime of embracing the many struggles of raising a child. Or, I think “winning” can also look like deciding when to quit. But that, too, will be a future marked by struggle.

As I recover from our fourth loss, I’m left asking where do we go from here? And while I don’t know the exact answer yet, it’s helpful to remember that there isn’t really a path forward that is pain-free. But I can at least decide which pain I’m willing to pursue. 

2. We can learn from loss. 

I am a big proponent of not letting your fertility dictate how you live your life. I think it’s important to listen to doctor’s recommendations, but I give great pause before taking the advice of internet strangers (which is people like me, I guess, so take that for what it is). 

When I first started trying, I ran myself into the ground figuring out what were the “right” vitamins to take and the “best” diet. I took prenatal exercise classes to make sure I was moving my body enough but not too much (this one was torture as instructors would inevitably keep referring to the non-existent baby that was supposedly growing inside of me). I overhauled my cleaning supplies, my skincare, and my makeup, though never really confident that I was choosing the “right” products. I even tried acupuncture and craniosacral therapy. And whatever little spare time I had left after ALL that, I spent reading more books and blogs filled with tips on improving fertility. 

This was no way to live. And, honestly, none of it has worked for me yet anyway. 

I think what is most important is to figure out what works best for you. And sometimes you only learn what you really need through experience. Each time I reach a new milestone in this journey, I’ve been filled with anxiety. I was shaking for my first egg retrieval. My first transfer was torture. My first pregnancy was filled with weeks of dread before finally being confirmed ectopic. This most recent pregnancy was no different; I always seem to find new things to worry about. 

But, each time, I also learn what most keeps me up at night. Rather than going back down the rabbit hole of internet advice–and discovering a world of concerns I didn’t even know I should have–these experiences help me focus on addressing just those fears that show up for me.  Through this practice, my second transfer was a breeze and even my second ectopic was infinitely more manageable, despite being in an even more dangerous place. 

Now that I am a few weeks past my miscarriage, I’m trying to learn what I can from this first intrauterine pregnancy, too, to help make any future ones a little better. For example, a big concern that kept showing up for me was worry over not eating well because of my nausea. My pregnancy diet featured way too much Jello and McDonald’s poutines. I knew that eating smaller meals throughout the day would help, but nausea, fatigue, and anxiety left me feeling too overwhelmed to even think about how I could adapt my approach to meal planning. I still can’t believe how something so simple felt so impossible at the time. But now that those symptoms have gone, I’m creating meal plans and grocery lists that focus on small portions and simple recipes that I can rely on if the time comes to help make any future pregnancies easier. 

Another big concern was feeling like I didn’t have anyone to talk to. As this pregnancy progressed, my partner and I realized that we were not on the same page about who we wanted to tell when. Wanting to respect his need for more privacy, I didn’t share the news with many people. I even started to pull away from social settings, worried that my nausea would “out” us earlier than my partner was comfortable with. Now that the stakes are lower, and there are fewer pregnancy hormones in the mix, my partner and I are revisiting these conversations to ensure we are better aligned for any future pregnancies. 

I also know I will need to budget for more therapy appointments, plain and simple. And that it probably wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of research now on pregnancy-safe anxiety medications!

3. We get to choose what this experience means for our journey.

I’m starting to feel dangerously close to winning infertility bingo. We just keep checking boxes on the list of things you don’t want to have to endure: failed IUIs, failed IVF, tubal ectopic, cornual ectopic, and now miscarriage. Our doctors call it coincidence or bad luck. Rather than telling us to stop, they keep trying to show us how each new loss has also brought us one step closer to a healthy pregnancy. 

But we all know there isn’t enough evidence into unexplained infertility. What if there is an underlying issue that has already doomed us to a lifetime of heartache and loss and we just don’t know it yet? Should I not take four losses as a sign?

I’m also starting to worry more about what other people might think of me. Already I feel the shame of infertility; a sense that I am broken, I am not enough. Now, if I continue to try after four losses, will people think I’m crazy too? That I’m foolish to keep doing this to myself and my partner? 

So what does it all mean? What is true? And where do we go from here? 

As I struggled with these questions, I began thinking about my grandmother. My grandmother loved her family more than anything. And I absolutely adored her. I was devastated when she passed. Something that gave me and my family comfort in the days that followed was imagining her reuniting with everyone already in heaven. The image of my grandfather, his arms open wide to receive her in a deep, long-awaited embrace, gave me so much comfort. 

The problem was, I hadn’t believed in heaven for years. I remember going for a walk one day to grapple with this contradiction. Was it really possible that my grandmother’s spirit was reuniting with her family? I remember watching the sunlight dance ahead of me, flitting between the thick leaves of the trees overhead. And as it did, it dawned on me: for this particular question, at least, I get to choose what I believe. No one would ever be able to prove to me that spirits don’t get reunited. And choosing to believe they do does no harm to others, while bringing me so much comfort in my grief. So I decided, despite conflicting with my atheist views, that my grandmother was absolutely sitting around some metaphysical table somewhere catching up with her beloved family. And that, one day, I will get to see them again too.

Likewise, today, we find ourselves without enough evidence to really know what’s causing these losses. And while other people may have their opinions, they are not in my shoes. They don’t get to decide what this means. So I’m choosing, for now, to believe that our pattern of getting one step closer to a healthy pregnancy each time is our positive sign to keep going. Maybe I’m wrong. But until I see the evidence, or until it gets to be too much for us, this is what I’m choosing to believe. 

4. We always get to change our minds.

We were told during our second last ultrasound that the pregnancy was likely not viable. The baby was measuring behind and the heartbeat was too slow. I got dressed and made my way to our doctor’s office in a daze. I sat in the chair, barely hearing what was going on around me. The doctor and my partner were talking about what to do next for this pregnancy and what it would mean for future pregnancies. I could feel their eyes on me but all I said was: “I don’t know how people keep going.” 

For the first time on our journey I felt, with stunning clarity, that I was done. That this was the last loss for us. In the days that followed, I grieved the loss of our baby, but I also grieved the loss of any potential future pregnancies. I remained resolute. For about one week. 

As the days continued to pass, and the fog of grief got ever so slightly clearer, my resolution also began to fade. In my heart, I knew that I wanted to continue. In my heart, I knew I was strong enough to overcome this loss. And I knew I was strong enough to try again. 

When grief first shows up, it is like a knife to the heart. Sharp. Twisting. Flooding. I would do just about anything to not have to experience that pain again. But for me, in this moment, the pain of not continuing to try feels greater. 

I know I’m getting close to my limit. Our next loss might be our last. Or we might decide to stop before we ever get that far. That’s the beauty of this and any journey we choose to embark on in life: we always get to change our minds.

It’s cheesy, hardly my favorite show, but I keep thinking of this quote from How I Met Your Mother. Ted is sitting in a car with his ex-girlfriend, Stella. He tells her that he is so tired of waiting for his future wife. Stella responds with a joke about getting pulled over by a cop for speeding. When the cop reaches her window, he tells her, “I’ve been waiting for you all day.” And she responds, “I’m sorry, officer, I got here as fast as I could.” She then goes on to say to Ted, “I know that you’re tired of waiting, and you may have to wait a little while more. But she’s on her way. And she’s getting here as fast as she can.” 

I still believe you are on your way, sweet child. And so here I remain, arms open wide, ready to wait for as long as you need me to.