I felt guilty for grieving my miscarriage

As I stood at the kitchen sink and watched my son and daughter chase each other round the garden, a confusing mix of emotions washed over me.

My perfect children were right there and I couldn’t love them more.

But as they ran around, shrieking and laughing, I was filled with grief and guilt.

Grief that I had most likely suffered a miscarriage, losing their much-hoped for sibling; and guilt that, by being so upset about losing a baby, I was somehow insinuating that they weren’t enough.

My husband Dan and I had decided to start trying for a third baby in 2025.

I’m from a large family, and I loved the idea of the constant chaos and perpetual playmates that came with more children.

Naively, after two successful pregnancies, I had assumed it would happen fairly easily – but that wasn’t the case at all.

Far from it.

Years earlier, in 2020, I had had an early miscarriage with my very first pregnancy.

It had been brutal, quick, and soul-destroying – it was the most devastating thing I had ever gone through.

After that, we were incredibly lucky to have two adored, much-wanted children – but I never forgot that raw pain of my body losing a baby I desperately wanted.

And now it was happening again.

This time around, I’d worried from the start that something wasn’t right.

The positive line on all my pregnancy tests was faint and never seemed to grow darker; the digital tests never progressed from saying I was ‘1-2 weeks pregnant’ when they should have been at least at ‘3+’; and I’d started experiencing blood spotting.

I spoke to my GP and the Early Pregnancy Unit about my concerns – and when I’d got to what should have been, by my calculations, around five weeks pregnant, my GP arranged two blood tests.

These were to measure the level of hCG, the pregnancy hormones, in my body; it’s a relatively simple way to check a pregnancy when it may be too early to see anything on a scan.

During my first test, when I was still a little hopeful, I cried on the poor nurse, devastated that this was happening – and the results showed a pitifully low hCG level.

During the second, 48 hours later, I was much more practical.

I had my son with me and it was more important to get it done so we could be closer to an answer.

But it was still an incredibly difficult experience.

As I sat down in the nurse’s chair with my wriggly toddler in my lap, the medic looked at me quizzically.

‘Why are you here today?

Is this for an annual review?’ she asked.

I would have thought she might have known what was going on before making me say the painful words – I could see my medical notes on the screen in front of her, after all.

‘It’s to see if I’m having a miscarriage,’ I replied, hoping this wouldn’t be the moment my three-year-old decided to start listening.

‘Oh, I see,’ she answered, having the grace to look a little awkward.

The next day, my doctor called with the latest results.

Despite my shred of hope that somehow, miraculously, the pregnancy had stuck, it was apparent that my hCG levels were continuing to fall; and that at this point, I was having a miscarriage.

In a funny way, I felt a sort of closure.

The exhausting cycle of hoping against hope that things were okay had ended.

Now it had been confirmed that my little spark of a baby had been extinguished, I could begin to come to terms with it.

Because I’d started bleeding and things seemed to be taking a natural course without the need for more intervention, the doctor told me I would just have to ‘watch and wait’ to ensure the miscarriage completed.

Horribly, this included continuing to take pregnancy tests.

These came back positive for days, until finally they returned to negative.

This time, the emotional pain was different to what I had felt in 2020.

Without diminishing my sadness, the despair was less of an open wound and more of a quiet grief.

It had to be – because already having two energetic children meant life couldn’t stop because I lost the start of their sibling.

And it’s a confusing kind of sadness when you lose a pregnancy as a parent.

Friends and family have been supportive – sending flowers, offering hugs and shoulders to cry on for my husband and I – but this has not been the universal response.

‘You’ve got two, anyway,’ one well-meaning friend told me, presenting my beautiful kids as the silver lining of the miscarriage cloud.

I could only nod as the thought ‘But I want three!’ roared desperately inside my head.

I am aware of how incredibly lucky I am to have two wonderful children, and that some would kill to be in my shoes.

I know others may think I’m greedy, or imply sadness is unnecessary this time, because I’m already a mother.

No one is judging me harder than I’m judging myself for being so upset when I have two kids in front of me – but deep down, I know the idea I should be happy with what I’ve got, and that anything else is a bonus, is laughable.

I’m not trying to shrink my love for my son and daughter, or saying they’re not enough.

They are perfect.

If we’re lucky enough to have another child, it’ll be showered in love.

But I know for sure: If we are not blessed with number three, I’ll always remember this little spark.