“At least you can get pregnant.”

Five months into my first pregnancy, conceived through IVF, I woke at 3am with mild cramps. Though I’m usually an optimist, I knew instinctively that something was terribly wrong. My waters broke, and we dialled 999. On the bathroom floor, guided by the emergency responder, I delivered our son. In shock, I tried to keep him alive. Two paramedics arrived and gently told me to stop resuscitation. My baby was too young; his lungs couldn’t survive outside the womb.

Later, in a hospital bed, the reality hit: I had gone into labour, delivered my baby, and he had died. My son, Axel, was laid in my arms wrapped in a tiny blanket. I had feared how he might look, but he was perfect. The grief was overwhelming - tears, wailing, and sobbing that felt endless. I sat on the sofa for days, barely eating or sleeping. Crying for hours each day left me exhausted.

Medical professionals called my experience a “late miscarriage.” But that term didn’t, and still doesn’t, capture the depth of my loss. It felt clinical and dismissive. I had given birth. I had held my baby. I had lost him. Language matters, and the words we use can either validate or diminish someone’s experience.

In the weeks that followed, I masked my pain in public. I didn’t talk about what had happened. But inside, I was sinking into a deep depression. Life around me moved on, but I was stuck in a loop of trauma and grief.

Then came the phrase I heard again and again: “At least you can get pregnant.” It was meant to comfort, but it carried the wrongful assumption that another pregnancy would be easy, and that it would somehow heal me. I wasn’t emotionally ready, but I pursued another IVF cycle just months after Axel died. The test was negative. So were the next three. Each failure deepened the grief and shattered the illusion that getting pregnant again would fix everything.

I reached a point I hope never to revisit. One night, I lay awake, overwhelmed by fear and despair. I wished to find a way so that I would not wake up the next morning. Though I had no means to act on these thoughts, I panicked and woke my husband. We talked for hours. That conversation kept me alive.

For me, healing began when I started writing. My book, Beyond Grief: Navigating Pregnancy and Baby Loss, was published in 2022. Later, I co-wrote and produced the short film 22+1, partly based on my experience. Through these projects, I found purpose in the pain.

If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, don’t let others, or yourself, minimise what you’ve been through. Tell your story in spaces that will help you heal. Know that even if your mental health spirals, you can reach out for help from loved ones and professionals. You’re not walking this journey alone.