My Story

In the fall of 2020, my husband and I started trying to grow our family. We got pregnant quickly, and were overjoyed — until our first ultrasound told us otherwise. It was a blighted ovum. A loss.

We were told what so many women are told: miscarriage is common. One in four pregnancies end this way. It was unlikely to happen again.

Until it did.

Eight months later, we lost a second pregnancy. Genetic testing on both of us came back completely normal. There were no answers — just grief, and the quiet dread of not knowing why.

After that second loss, I bled for two months. What we eventually discovered was retained pregnancy tissue, which had left me severely anemic and in need of uterine surgery — a hysteroscopy — to move forward. I was healing physically while still grieving emotionally.

We got pregnant a third time. And lost that pregnancy too.

This time, we had the tissue tested. After three losses, insurance covers more — lucky us, as they say. That baby, we learned, was a boy. He was lost to a chromosomal condition called Trisomy 15, incompatible with life. Knowing he was a boy made the loss feel even more real.

We were officially diagnosed with unexplained recurrent pregnancy loss. Despite every test, every surgery, every answer we'd chased — we were no closer to understanding why.

So we stopped. We stepped away from trying and came back to ourselves. To the things that made us feel human again.

When we eventually sought out fertility clinics, we were told our only option was donor eggs. Another clinic wanted to put me on diabetes medication for a pre-diabetes diagnosis I hadn't even known I had. We said no to both.

Instead, when we felt ready, I leaned into what I knew: improving egg quality, supporting my husband's sperm health, reducing inflammation, and stabilizing blood sugar — naturally. No clear roadmap. No guarantees. Just trust in our bodies and the work we were doing.

We got pregnant a fourth time. And I could barely let myself believe it. Every ultrasound felt like borrowed time. I cried at every single one.

That pregnancy gave us our daughter. And 17 months later, her little sister arrived too.

Two healthy girls. After a year of loss, and a lifetime of questions that were never fully answered.

I share this not because I have all the answers — I don't. But because I know what it feels like to sit across from a doctor who tells you there's nothing more they can do. To grieve quietly while the world keeps moving. To wonder if your body is working against you.

And I know what it feels like to find your way through anyway.

That's why I do this work.