In 2018, my husband and I decided it was time to grow our family. We were filled with excitement and anticipation, envisioning the joy of welcoming a child into our lives. However, as months turned into a year with no positive pregnancy test, our hope began to waver. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we were overjoyed to discover I was pregnant. The excitement was overwhelming, and we couldn’t contain our happiness. We began sharing the news with family and friends, and I threw myself into preparing for the baby—shopping for nursery items and dreaming of the future.
Then came March 30, 2018—a day etched into my memory.
That afternoon, I started experiencing intense cramping. Alarmed, I went to the ER, where I was assured that everything looked normal and sent home. Despite the reassurances, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Sitting at my parents’ house later that evening, I tried to stay positive, encouraged by everyone around me. But deep in my gut, I knew.
That night, I stood up and felt something shift. I rushed to the bathroom, and that’s when my worst fears were confirmed: I was having a miscarriage. It was my first, but it would not be my last. In that moment, I felt broken, lost, and consumed by a sadness deeper than anything I’d ever known. Strangely, I was calm on the surface. I called my doctor to inform her of what had happened. She even commented on how well I seemed to be handling the situation. But the storm within me was far from over.
Moments after hanging up the phone, I started feeling unwell and passed out. When I came to, I was being rushed back to the ER via ambulance. There, it was confirmed that our baby had passed, and no “genetic material” remained in my body. Hearing those words felt like a knife to my heart. I returned home and sobbed in bed for hours, completely shattered and unsure of how to move forward. I didn’t realize then that this was only the beginning of a long and painful journey.
Months passed as we continued trying to conceive, each negative test a fresh wound.
When we finally did conceive again, it was a rollercoaster of hope and fear. But once more, our joy was short-lived as I experienced another miscarriage. This devastating pattern repeated itself, and over the next few years, I endured a total of four miscarriages at various weeks of pregnancy. Each loss chipped away at my spirit, leaving me questioning my body, my worth, and whether I’d ever become a mother.
Then, in September 2020, amid a global pandemic, we received a positive pregnancy test.
Author’s Personal Collection/Marcy Parko Miller
It was a moment of cautious joy, shadowed by the fear of repeating past heartbreaks. Against all odds, I carried my baby to term.
Author’s Personal Collection/Marcy Parko Miller
On May 13, 2021, our daughter, Elaina Grace, was born.
The moment I heard her cry was the first moment I felt like I could finally take a breath. Being pregnant after loss is like holding your breath for nine excruciatingly long months.
Author’s Personal Collection/Marcy Parko Miller
The day my child was born was the culmination of years of heartbreak, perseverance, and resilience. Holding that tiny life in my arms, I felt a joy so profound it eased, if only momentarily, all the pain that had come before.
Author’s Personal Collection/Marcy Parko Miller
But our journey didn’t end there. We conceived two more times after our daughter’s birth, but both pregnancies ended in loss.
Each time, I required a D&C surgery, and with every procedure, the trauma and grief deepened. Before my last pre-op, my doctor gently recommended therapy and birth control to help me process the toll the losses had taken. It was a difficult decision, but ultimately, the fear of becoming pregnant again and losing another child was more than I could bear. We made the heartbreaking choice to stop trying to grow our family, and while it was the right decision for us, our family will forever feel incomplete.
Author’s Personal Collection/Marcy Parko Miller
Grief is not linear, and time doesn’t erase these losses. Children cannot be replaced. We love our daughter more than words can express just as we love all of our children not on Earth. She is our light, our hope, and our greatest joy. I am so grateful to be her mom, but I carry the weight of what could have been every day.
Author’s Personal Collection/Marcy Parko Miller
Today, I am a mother. But my journey to get here has shaped me in ways I’m still coming to understand.
I share my story not just for myself, but for anyone navigating the heartbreak of infertility and loss. If you are on this path, please know you are not alone. Your feelings are valid, your pain is real, and your story matters. There is a community of us who see you, support you, and hold space for your dreams. And above all, know that hope, even in the darkest moments, can light the way forward.
Author’s Personal Collection/Marcy Parko Miller
In remembrance of Declan Michael Miller, Claire Michaela Miller, and Jocelyn Hope Miller. Fly high, my sweet angels.
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Marcy Parko Miller shared her story as part of our 10 Years, 10,000 Names campaign. Help PALS continue to support parents like Marcy with our Pregnancy After Loss App and other resources as they build their families after loss. Give now. A donation of $40 (for the 40 weeks of pregnancy after loss) helps us provide support and hope through our Pregnancy After Loss App to individual members during their pregnancy.
Read more of Marcy’s story on Instagram:
- Trying to conceive after loss: Your top 10 list of what you must know
- Pregnancy and Parenting After Loss: There will be a moment…
- Miscarriage, Stillbirth, Infant Loss, and Pregnancy After Loss: It Takes a Village, and a Sisterhood
- It’s Okay to be Scared during your Pregnancy after Loss
- What It’s Really Like to Be a Loss Mama with a Positive Pregnancy Test
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