It has been a little over a month since our loss, and while I don’t intend to make this blog solely about grief, today’s post is an exception. I want to acknowledge and share the heartbreak of losing our child. If reading this feels too difficult, I completely understand—living with it is unbearably hard every single day. But miscarriage is not something that should be shrouded in silence. It is a loss that deserves to be spoken about, honored, and understood.
Losing a baby is one of the most devastating experiences a person can go through. Whether it happens early in pregnancy or later on, miscarriage brings a unique kind of pain—one that is often silent, deeply personal, and difficult for others to fully understand. The emotional toll is overwhelming, and it leaves you with grief, guilt, and an unbearable sense of loss.
When we found out we were expecting again, our minds filled with possibilities—imagining our child’s face, their personality, and the life they might have. We dreamed of first steps, birthdays, and all the little moments in between.
But miscarriage shatters those dreams in an instant, leaving only a profound emptiness that words can’t fully capture. The physical pain is devastating, but the emotional toll is beyond measure.
The physical pain, as mentioned above, was devastating. I didn’t even realize I was in labor—what I assumed was mild spotting and cramping were actually contractions. From the beginning of my pregnancy, I hadn’t felt well, so I dismissed the nausea as just another symptom. But deep down, I knew… something wasn’t right.
That evening, after a long day, I was resting when I suddenly felt a pop, followed by a sudden gush—my water had broken. I miscarried at home, in my bathroom. In an instant, I was consumed by uncontrollable shaking, nausea, shock, panic, and overwhelming grief. I can try to put it into words, but no description could ever truly capture the depth of that moment.
At the hospital, through uncontrollable sobs and shock, my husband and I were consumed with grief. For me, the guilt was crushing. My mind raced with questions—had I done something wrong? Why had my body failed me? Why did this happen? Why did God take our baby?
The doctors and nurses kept repeating that it wasn’t my fault, that miscarriage is more common than people realize, and that nothing could have prevented it. But believing them felt impossible then, and even now, doubt lingers. The feeling of failure, of my body betraying me, stays with me every single day, along with the immense sadness I carry.
The grief that follows a miscarriage is deeply complex. I have felt waves of sadness, anger, numbness, and even jealousy toward those experiencing healthy, beautiful pregnancies. Some emotions have been too heavy to share, especially the pain of making the impossible decision to cremate my child.
Our family offered their condolences and kindness, which I appreciated, but I wasn’t ready to talk. I didn’t want to see anyone or go anywhere. My midwife and doula have continued to check in on me, providing support, yet I have chosen to grieve mostly in silence, speaking about my loss only with a few trusted people. And still, amidst all this pain, it feels as though the world keeps moving forward while I remain frozen, mourning in place.
Healing from my miscarriage doesn’t mean forgetting or simply “moving on” because, truthfully, you never fully move on. Instead, you take each day as it comes, learning to carry the loss while making space for love and hope again. For my husband and I, we have placed her urn—yes, we learned we were expecting another daughter—in a central place where we spend much of our time. We’ve started a notebook where we write her letters. I also wear a necklace with a heart, holding two birthstones—one for Valeria and one for our baby, Alex, named after the nurse who cared for me that night. In small ways, these things bring me a sense of closeness and a measure of peace.
I never imagined I would have to cremate my child. But I am learning to navigate this grief, reminding myself that I am not alone. My feelings are real, valid, and my baby mattered. Healing isn’t about letting go—it’s about honoring my loss and allowing myself to grieve in my own way, in my own time. Some days, that is hard to accept. But I am learning that I am allowed to mourn on my own terms.
My husband has experienced a profound loss as well and is navigating his grief in his own way. I am not minimizing his pain in any way; I am simply sharing my own experience.
As I navigate this painful journey, I remain strong for our daughter, Valeria. When she is older, she will know about her sister—it’s not something I’ll hide from her. I just hope that one day, she will love and cherish her sister in her own way.
Ciao
Mama on the Move 
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