Miscarriage isn’t just a moment in time—it’s the collapse of a future we were already loving, the aching space between what could have been and what will never be, and the lives in our bodies, our dreams, our relationships and the parts of ourselves we don’t always have words for.
Maya’s story pulls back the curtain on what pregnancy loss really feels like: the quiet hope you hold close, the shock when everything changes, the grief no one can see, the way your body remembers even when the world moves on. This is the labyrinth so many of us find ourselves in—grieving in silence, piecing ourselves back together, trying to feel at home in our skin again.
Through Maya, we see the courage it takes to mourn, to trust the body again, to reach for something sacred, and to let ourselves be transformed. This isn’t just a story of loss—it’s a story of becoming.
A slow smile spread across Maya’s gentle face as she watched the bright red line appear before her. This simple line symbolized the fulfillment of a dream and the miracle of her own body. It meant she would be a mother again.
But this time, it would be different. This time she had a partner to walk beside her — this time she would birth not just a baby, but a family.
She carried the news secretly at first, clutched it to her heart as something only she and he knew— savoring the sensations, smiling at the thought of sharing the news with her daughter, who had been calling for a sibling for quite some time.
Her daily routine had not changed much, but within it now lived an awareness of a profound shift unfolding inside her, a sense of freshness that gave her life new meaning. Although she wanted to sing to the mountain tops “I’m pregnant!” she sang on the inside, waiting for that spark to turn into a flame…
But the flame never came.
One morning, in her second moon—just 8 weeks into her pregnancy—it all fell apart. The dream, the family, even her own body. She noticed blood spots, small at first, then more. Her heart pounded at the thought of losing this baby. She prayed. She rested. She sought healing from her mother, a powerful medicine woman, who burned herbs, applied needles, and whispered prayers over her. But the bright red blood kept coming, and the pain deepened.
The knot in her chest pained her more than the sensations in her body. It felt as if a tornado had swept through her—taking with it a piece of her soul, as if someone had awakened her abruptly from a dream and forced her to confront a harsh new reality.
She had already had visions of this baby—the shape of his face, the scent of his skin. She had imagined her belly swelling with life, her lover’s hands wrapped around her, her daughter’s laughter when she learned she’d be a big sister. And then, in a matter of hours, it was all gone.
In the empty weeks that followed, Maya asked every question grief brings: What did I do wrong? Why did my body fail me? She tried to makes sense of it but her questions remained unanswered.
Many moons passed. Each moon cycle became a mirror of her hope and heartbreak. With the new moon, she felt renewal—a flicker of maybe this time. (The new moon, dark in the sky, symbolizes beginnings and hope.). As the full moon swelled, so did her excitement. (The full moon, radiant and round, mirrors the fertile body of a woman.) She made love to her partner, imagining the intertwining of their souls, as their bodies wrapped themselves around each other, praying that light would take form inside her.
But as the moon waned, anxiety crept in. She studied every sensation—breast tenderness, hunger, nausea, fatigue—through a lens of desperate hope, searching for signs of new life. When her blood came again with the next new moon, it felt like reliving the loss all over again.
She began to feel undesirable, as if somehow deformed. Her own body failing her time and time again. The worst part was holding all of this inside. Though a midwife by calling, through her own experience of loss she discovered something she had never known before—that miscarriage is a silent grief women often carry alone, an invisible mourning without ceremony or witness.
Eight moons had come and gone. Maya decided to begin again—with a ritual cleansing, prayers, and release.
For seven nights, beginning with the new moon, she prayed to Oshun, the Yoruba goddess of love, fertility, and fresh water — the same waters that flow through all women. Facing east, her bare body wrapped in a simple white cotton frock, she lit candles and a small piece of camphor in a clay bowl. She chanted softly, speaking to the spirit of her child.
“My child, where have you gone? I am waiting for you.”
When the flame dimmed, she placed sage over the glowing embers, squatted over the bowl, and let the warm smoke rise into her womb. It felt like a healing salve for her grieving mama heart.
On the full moon that followed—the spring equinox—Maya had a vivid dream.
She was in a land of snow and ice, inside rounded white caves that connected like wombs with the shape of an igloo. She was giving birth. In the corner sat a comadrona, a traditional Mayan midwife, quiet and calm. Maya could sense her daughter and her lover nearby—not in body, but in spirit. She was squatting, the baby’s head emerging. But there was no pain. Only bliss—waves of ecstasy and release. And then she realized there was no baby at all, only light.
When she woke, the meaning dawned slowly. She had birthed the spirit of her lost baby. She had finally let go. And she realized with a shiver down her spine that it was the same time her baby would have been born.
A couple months later, Oshun came to her again—this time, in blessing.
Maya returned to the land of her birth, and the place where she had conceived nearly a year ago. It was there that she was revisited by the red line. The test was merely a formality. Maya already knew she was pregnant. Her breasts were full and tender and she had a voracious hunger. But most of all, she was a day late, and Maya was never late.
But this time, it did not symbolize longing. This time the red line brought with it a restored faith in her powers to receive and nurture life. This time, it was a promise fulfilled.
Before telling anyone, she walked down the familiar path through the woods to the creek. It was a path she had known since she was a little girl and yet still she was taken by the beauty of the moss on the ground and the sunlight in the trees.
She waded in, letting Oshun’s cool waters wrap around her, offering flowers of gratitude. She wept — not from grief this time, but from the joy of renewal. As she closed her tear-filled eyes she saw the red line.
In that moment, Maya knew: the labyrinth had never been a punishment. It was a spiral from grief to grace, from ending to beginning, from death to rebirth.
Q: Is it normal to feel grief for months after miscarriage?
A: Yes. Grief after pregnancy loss is deeply personal and can last weeks, months, or longer. It’s not “just sadness”—it’s love with nowhere to go.
Q: How do people spiritually heal after miscarriage?
A: Some find healing through ritual, prayer, journaling, therapy, support groups, or honoring their baby in personal ways.
If you’ve experienced miscarriage, you’re not alone. Share your story with us or explore more personal stories in our Miscarriage Movement community. Healing begins when we speak it.
