Anger, Grief, and Healing in My Unseen Journey Through Miscarriage

Disclaimer: This post discusses the deeply personal experience of miscarriage. I recognize that each person’s journey is unique, and I share my story with the hope that it may provide comfort, understanding, or solidarity to those who have experienced similar pain. If you are currently grieving a miscarriage or struggling with fertility, please proceed with caution as the content may be emotionally triggering. Your healing journey is yours alone, and it’s okay to take your time and seek support when needed.

The story of my mother’s miscarriage was so deeply woven into our family history that I can’t even pinpoint when I first heard it. It was just there—a fundamental thread in the story of me, in the story of her, in the foundation of who we are. The way kids absorb family lore, stacking pieces together as they grow, this story was part of my blueprint for understanding the world.

The story itself was simple: My mom got pregnant—on purpose. She saw the positive test, went to her first doctor’s appointment, and heard that sweet, galloping sound of a fetal heartbeat. And then… nothing. At the next appointment, there was no heartbeat.

I don’t know the exact details. Maybe she started bleeding first. Maybe the silence of the Doppler confirmed her worst fears, and a D&C was scheduled before her body naturally let go. I could call and ask, but honestly? The specifics don’t really matter for the sake of this story (plus, I’m “in the zone” right now, taking full advantage of the silence while I melt Hawthorne’s brain with his fourth episode of Jurassic Park: Chaos Theory).

What does matter is this: I’ve known about my mom’s miscarriage—the one that came before me—for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t a secret. It wasn’t whispered about. It was simply talked about. If I had questions, they were answered.

And the other part of the story?

"Suzy, if I hadn’t lost that baby, I wouldn’t have had you."
"Suzy, I prayed that if something was wrong with this baby, if it wouldn’t be okay, God would take it peacefully."
"Suzy, my body knew this baby wouldn’t survive, so it protected me and let go."

These were the lessons I absorbed early on:

• Pregnancy always comes with the risk of miscarriage.

• Miscarriage is not the fault of the mother.

• It happens because something wasn’t right, and the body is intelligent enough to recognize that.

• Miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you.

These were facts I knew growing up. But when I had my own miscarriage? That’s when I realized how taboo it actually is.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Suzy, what about your miscarriage?

As a Virgo sun and a Capricorn rising, planning isn’t just something I do—it’s who I am. It’s my comfort zone, my way of making sense of the world. Preparation, long-term vision, and meticulous execution? Non-negotiable. And when it came to my first pregnancy, I approached it the same way.

I had a plan:

• I wanted to be off birth control for at least six months before trying (after 12 years on it, I wanted my body to reset).

• I wanted my cycle synced with the moon—ovulating on the full moon, bleeding on the new—so my body would signal when it was ready to take on the role of creator and nurturer.

• I’d track ovulation with test strips, not a period app.

• And I wanted a Pisces baby. As a high-strung, anxious only child, I’ve always admired the flowy, intuitive, creative energy of Pisces. I figured having one would teach me how to slow down and tap in.

Everything was lining up perfectly. Six months off birth control? Check. Ovulation tracking? Check. Moon sync? Check. And in May, right on schedule, I got pregnant—due date: 2/22/22. Iconic.

If you’ve ever been pregnant—especially on purpose—you know the magic of those early days. Your mind races ahead a year, picturing your future life. You’re cutting watermelon and suddenly realize your body is knitting together a baby without you even thinking about it. You’re never truly alone—there’s a spirit inside you. It’s euphoric. It’s awe-inspiring. It’s this deep, soul-level bonding with your partner as you marvel at the life you’re creating together.

Of course, I knew miscarriage was a possibility. I reminded myself to stay grounded. “It’s still early. This is a fragile state. You might lose this pregnancy, and that’s normal.” I said it out loud. I tried to believe it.

But that didn’t stop me from sharing the news.

I recorded my grandpa’s reaction when I told him he was about to become a great-grandfather. He cried. Everyone in Starbucks cried and laughed. That memory? Forever cherished.

I told my best friends they were being promoted from "best friend" to “aunt,” and their reactions still give me butterflies.

Then, I told my very Florida-Man father—with a baby fishing pole toy, naturally. And this is where the pattern shifted. There was excitement, sure. Joy and laughter, absolutely. But there was also something else—an unspoken energy of let’s see, let’s wait, let’s stay grounded.

And oddly enough, I’m grateful for that.

It wasn’t disappointment. It wasn’t a lack of excitement. It was wisdom—the kind that comes from experience, from knowing how fragile this moment really is. Because when I had to tell them I lost the baby, I didn’t feel like I was letting them down.

With my friends, it felt different. They had been so excited, and now I had to break the news. And then they had to figure out how to respond. It felt like I was putting them in an awkward place, like I had suddenly become a burden.

About a week or two after telling my parents, I went to the bathroom, wiped, and saw light pink.

Cue full-body shakes and instant bawling.

Luckily, my mom worked close by and came over after work to do all the things a woman regressing into childlike emotional needs requires—holding me, soothing me while I took a hot bath, and reminding me that spotting could be totally normal. After all, she’d spotted through her entire first trimester with me.

But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

And honestly? I think I’d known for a while. My boobs weren’t sore like everyone said they would be. No nausea. No wild food cravings or aversions. No bone-crushing fatigue. At my first ultrasound at 6.5 weeks, the baby measured a full week behind. The tech reassured me that cycles can vary, ovulation can be off—but I knew better.

Remember? I plan. I track. My cycle was 27 days, like clockwork. I’d been monitoring my ovulation for months before even trying to conceive. I knew exactly when this baby was conceived. But I shoved those worries down because nothing had happened yet. And why steal joy from the present based on a future I was making up? I’d spent too many years in that anxiety loop, and I was trying to change my experience.

Then came a trip to visit a friend in D.C., and reality set in. The pink wipes became more frequent. It was happening, and I couldn’t deny it anymore.

The worst part? The nurses at my OB’s office wouldn’t take me seriously.

I knew what was happening. I wanted answers. I wanted to move through this as soon as possible—not just for my body, but for my mind. But their protocol? Wait until I was “soaking a pad.” That didn’t happen until I was actively miscarrying at home weeks later.

Unable to bear the unknown, I found an independent ultrasound tech—no insurance, no frills, just a grainy 1990s TV screen showing me the inside of my uterus. At this point, I was approximately 9 weeks “pregnant.” Well… at least I should have been. I lay down, took a shaky breath, and braced myself.

I knew what I was about to see.

And there it was—the same little peanut, the same size as before. No growth. No heartbeat.

The tech couldn’t officially tell me the pregnancy was nonviable (because rules), but I had my answer. I walked out of that office and stepped into the “after” phase of my first miscarriage.

Except, that’s not how my day went.

In the span of just 36 hours, I not only learned of the loss of my first, yearned-for, planned-for baby—but my husband and I also received emotionally devastating news from close family. Then, about 30 minutes after confirming my miscarriage, my best friend called me, crying from her bathroom floor—her father had unexpectedly had a heart attack and didn’t make it.

Those two life events obviously took precedence.

I mean, I didn’t know this baby. I never saw a heartbeat. I didn’t feel pregnant. I always knew a miscarriage was possible. And in many ways, I never felt deeply connected to this pregnancy—it was too early. But those other things? Those were real.

Instead of focusing on my loss, I focused on supporting my husband, navigating the emotional rollercoaster that was unfolding around us. Instead of resting at home and processing, I was bleeding through pads on the drive to the funeral of my best friend’s father.

So, of course, I put on a brave face. I told myself and others: I trust that my body is intelligent. It knew something was wrong and protected me. My body knew this wasn’t the right time. My body is passing this pregnancy safely. This wasn’t my fault. I will get pregnant again.

I believed all of this. None of it was untrue. But as I looked back, I realized I was slapping platitudes over the deeper, more complex emotions that were brewing inside me. The sadness I hadn’t fully felt, the grief I hadn’t fully processed, the loss that was still so fresh.

But what else could I do? My nervous system was completely shot from all the devastation. I had to prioritize.

I didn’t see it at the time, but I really wish I could be there for my past self now. As the energy around those “more important” events began to settle, I realized that the time to process my miscarriage had arrived. But by then, I had no idea how to actually do that. I’d pushed those emotions so far down for months, I didn’t know how to access them, how to feel them, how to move through them.

I’m not one to shy away from pain, especially emotional pain. I know that feeling it is the best way to get through it. But by then, it felt like the window to process had closed. On top of that, I was back in the classroom, trying to navigate the chaos of a new school year. I simply didn’t have the time—or energy—to take care of myself.

Slowly, I began to notice the subtle ways my body was trying to deal with the emotions I wasn’t allowing myself to feel. I started drinking every night. One bottle of wine after work? No problem. Easy. It was basically like drinking water.

I found myself getting irrationally angry or triggered whenever someone mentioned the possibility of me getting pregnant again. Even something as innocent as, “You might want to get a bigger size for your bridesmaid dress just in case you’re pregnant next year” would send me into a full-body rage. Pregnancy? Absolutely not.

What made this even stranger was that I thought I did want to try again after getting the all-clear from my doctor. But then I wanted to wait a cycle for my body to heal. And then that turned into two cycles, and by then, just the idea of being pregnant again made me furious.

And the worst part? I often found myself drunk, sobbing on the bathroom floor, banging my head against the cabinets in a twisted attempt to punish myself for not being able to carry a baby. I wanted to physically shake the fear of never being able to bring a child to term out of my body. I knew the loss wasn’t my fault. I knew there was no reason to believe I wouldn’t have a child eventually. But when the alcohol broke down my defenses, the raw emotions, fears, and thoughts that I had been pushing away came crashing through. In those moments, I realized: I wasn’t okay. There were a lot of emotions that needed to be felt, and they weren’t going to be ignored anymore.

While I mourn that time and the self-destructive ways I tried to cope with my loss, I also have deep grace and gratitude for that girl, her body, and her subconscious mind. I don’t think I was fully healed from my miscarriage by the time I got pregnant again, but I do believe the healing I did experience came from those drunken nights. Those were the only moments I truly allowed myself to cry and say out loud what I needed to process.

I always tell people going through pregnancy loss, “Miscarriage is SO complex. There’s no way to prepare for it, and there’s no right or wrong way to feel it—just feel it.” I say this because I never, ever, ever would have guessed that my first miscarriage would leave me with such intense rage and resentment afterward. Toward what exactly? I still don’t really know. Rage at my body for letting me experience joy and excitement, only to have it taken away. Resentment toward the women who only knew the magic of pregnancy, never having to understand that a positive pregnancy test doesn’t guarantee a growing family—it’s hours, days, weeks, months of fear and anxiety. Constantly checking if your boobs hurt enough, if the nausea is enough, if you’re tired enough, if the cramps are from a growing uterus or the start of another loss. Waking up in the middle of the night to check if your toilet paper is still white, or if it’s been marred with pink or red.

Why did my future pregnancies have to be clouded by that fear and anxiety, when other women—who, of course, don’t know this heartbreak—could just skip around in joy and confidence, filled with magic?

I don’t know. But I did know that when I could think about having a baby without that visceral reaction of anger, I’d know I was ready to try again.

Then, in November of 2021, I was at a stoplight on my way to school, and the thought of pregnancy crossed my mind. I was shocked to realize my body had no reaction. Neutrality.

In December of 2021, I started tracking my ovulation again. My cycle lined up with a potential due date that would fall on my birthday—September 7. And in the days leading up to Christmas, my boobs hurt so badly that I couldn’t even hug my dad. The pregnancy symptom I had been waiting for.

Then, on September 9th, 2022—after three days of laboring at home, one day at the hospital, and a c-section (a story for another time)—I held my healthy son, Hawthorne Henry Lyons.