Pregnancy loss is one of those things you don’t fully understand until you do.
Before it happens to you, it exists somewhere abstract. A quiet statistic. A hushed conversation. A story someone else carries.
And then one day, it becomes yours.
Positive test. You’re so excited but you haven’t told anyone yet. You’re at a store, you see the cutest little baby dress EVER so you buy it, even though you don’t even know the gender yet. Then shortly after, it’s all gone. The rug is ripped out from under you.
I’ve been there.
At 26, a tumor wiped out my left ovary and fallopian tube. Just like that, half of my reproductive future shifted. At 30, we experienced two miscarriages back-to-back before my third pregnancy — the one that brought us our son.
He arrived healthy. Whole. Our spicy little light after a stretch of so much grief.
Even though I thought we were in the clear after having a healthy baby…loss wasn’t done with us.
When he was about 16 months old, we had another miscarriage.
When he was around 20 months old, I had a ruptured ectopic pregnancy that destroyed my remaining fallopian tube. I am SO grateful that I survived that awful experience, but suddenly there was no more “we’ll just try again”.
Now we are staring IVF in the face as our only option for another child.
This isn’t the path I imagined. It rarely is.
The Grief No One Prepares You For
Pregnancy loss is devastating in a way that’s hard to articulate.
It’s physical.
It’s hormonal.
It’s emotional.
It’s existential.
There is the grief of the baby you didn’t get to meet.
The grief of the timeline you thought you were on.
The grief of your body not cooperating the way you hoped it would.
And then there’s the quiet isolation. People often don’t know what to say. Or they say the wrong thing. Or they try to make it hopeful too quickly.
“You can try again.”
“At least you know you can get pregnant.”
“Everything happens for a reason.” (This one, specifically, hits my inner rage button).
When you’re in it, those words don’t land despite the good intentions.
Pregnancy loss is something you often don’t get — until you get it.
When Your Body Feels Like the Enemy
One of the hardest parts for me has been navigating the relationship with my own body.
After losing an ovary at 26, I knew fertility might not be straightforward.
After miscarriages, you start scanning everything:
Was it stress?
Was it something I ate?
Did I miss a symptom?
Is something wrong with me?
After a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, your body no longer feels abstractly fragile — it feels physically vulnerable. When it results in the devastation of your only chance at natural conception – it feels hollow.
There is a loss of trust that can take time to rebuild.
And this is where I want to pause and say something clearly:
Pregnancy loss is not your fault.
Not because you didn’t rest enough.
Not because you worked too much.
Not because you exercised.
Not because you didn’t meditate enough.
Loss is complex. Multifactorial. Often medically unpredictable.
But that doesn’t mean you’re powerless.
Why I’m Building Verdae
After walking through this — and continuing to walk through it — I feel deeply called to create space for women who are in the messy middle.
Verdae isn’t about promising outcomes.
It’s about education.
It’s about body literacy.
It’s about understanding how your hormones, nervous system, stress levels, sleep, nutrition, and environment all influence overall reproductive health.
It’s about giving women tools they can implement at home so they feel more informed, more grounded, and more supported — even when outcomes aren’t guaranteed.
Because while we can’t control everything, we can:
- support our nervous systems
- nourish our bodies
- track our cycles
- ask better questions
- advocate for ourselves
- build community instead of carrying it alone
Pregnancy loss has a way of stripping things down to what matters. For me, it clarified how badly women need support that is both compassionate and intelligent.
IVF, Hope, and Holding Two Truths
Right now, we are facing IVF as our only option for another child.
That sentence carries hope and grief simultaneously.
IVF is a gift of modern medicine. It is also emotionally, physically, and financially demanding.
It requires resilience. And softness. And courage. And surrender.
I don’t know how this chapter ends.
But I do know this:
You can hold grief and hope at the same time.
You can feel broken and still be strong.
You can be heart-heavy and still show up for your life.
If You’re Walking This Road
If you are navigating failed pregnancy tests, miscarriages, ectopic pregnancy, infertility, or the complicated space in between — I see you.
If you feel angry at your body.
If you feel numb.
If you feel jealous of pregnancy announcements.
If you feel guilty for those feelings.
All of it makes sense.
Pregnancy loss changes you. It rewrites parts of you. But it does not define your worth. It does not measure your womanhood. And it does not mean your body is a failure.
You are not alone — even when it feels that way.
My Invitation
If you’ve landed here because you’re trying to understand your body better, support your fertility, or simply not feel so isolated — you’re in the right place.
Verdae exists because I needed it.
Because pregnancy loss taught me how much women crave:
- honest conversations
- practical education
- grounded wellness tools
- community without shame
You don’t have to “get over it.”
You don’t have to be positive all the time.
You don’t have to walk it alone.
We are allowed to grieve.
We are allowed to hope.
We are allowed to seek support — medically, emotionally, and holistically.
And we are allowed to keep going.
With love,
Kerry
Continue Your Journey
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