For so long, the idea of being pregnant myself had been distant and abstract, influenced by years of experience in birth work. I maintained boundaries to keep some healthy distance from my own feelings and those of my clients. Feeling excitement and desire for my own pregnancy was challenging.
Then it happened.
Initially, there was overwhelming shock upon discovering my pregnancy after a single “trying/not trying” attempt on the Grand Canyon (I had never been pregnant before). After taking at least 10 pregnancy tests over three days, it began to sink in that it was real. I kept staring at those little lines on the tests, confirming the undeniable truth that something the size of a sesame seed, potentially to become a baby, was inside me.
I had always feared that getting pregnant would be difficult. After years of sleep deprivation and the demanding life of a full-time doula, this swift conception made me ponder the idea of it being “meant to be.”
Within days, the reality of being pregnant hit me hard. The boob pain was excruciating. A dewy glow appeared on my skin from rising estrogen. I wanted this to happen; I never anticipated how deeply I would feel that desire. With all the knowledge and resources at my disposal as a doula, I knew I could handle this. The surge of hormones gave me a profound sense of purpose and a newfound commitment to caring for myself.
However, alongside this hormonal drive came OCD level anxiety. I found myself compulsively buying more pregnancy tests, seeking daily reassurance that I was indeed pregnant. The knowledge that I was in the delicate early stages, with the constant worry that the sesame seed might vanish, brought me the greatest discomfort I’ve ever experienced. The days dragged on until the nearly 8-week ultrasound, where I hoped to see that the sesame seed had grown into a slightly larger minuscule legume.
It felt like every other day I spiraled into the feelings of how little I could control. Reaching out to those who I knew would snap me back into alignment and out of my head, calling me back to a grounded place. Most of the time I went inward. Trying not to alert too many about how the high anxiety was. I would feel calm down for a day but then the anxiety could catch me at my throat.
And then I realized how hard it was to ignore my pregnancy or find distractions. My life is largely surrounded by pregnancy and birth, which amplified my fixation on what I could control in my own body. Where does one go to find answers to the unknown? I googled like nobody’s business. I googled all the things I urge people not to: “Signs of a viable pregnancy,” “Signs of miscarriage,” “Symptoms of miscarriage,” “Early signs of anticipating a pregnancy loss.” The high statistics on miscarriages in early pregnancy ringing in my ears. Remember that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage.
After my binge googling, I would look up from my phone and realize how far I had let myself go, staring at the wall glazed over from screen time. I’m a fucking doula. What am I doing to myself?!
Yet, all that was certain was I had to wait. Wait until my body decided the fate of my pregnancy. I kept thinking about how vulnerable this phase of pregnancy is. And how unseen this vulnerable time tends to be when you’re newly pregnant. Typically, I start working with doula clients around 12 weeks, when we acknowledge together that the pregnancy is more assured and the risk of miscarriage significantly less. But 12 weeks is three months! Three months of sitting in limbo, vigilant of every bodily signal (or lack thereof). Three months of anticipation. Like, seriously? How do we not talk all the time about the complexities of this stage?! And on top of that, the mental gymnastics of deciding whom to tell about your pregnancy. Maybe due to the initial shock, I had to tell some people what was going on. It felt impossible to keep solely to myself.
It felt like just the day after I had started to settle into the uncertainty, that which I had feared came true. I woke up early with some light cramping and went to the bathroom to find a bit of pinkish blood. Immediately, I turned to Google. Could this be implantation bleeding? This could be normal…right?!
Trying to continue with my day, I headed to Pilates. But as I started the workout, the cramping intensified. I went to the bathroom, and it became clear what was happening. This pregnancy wasn’t going to progress.
I went back home and canceled the rest of my plans for the day. As I lay on the couch, the cramping worsened. For the next four days, I felt like I was drifting in and out of my own body amidst the heavy bleeding. Part of me longed to return to normalcy, while another felt emptier than ever. I couldn’t believe how much space even a tiny being the size of a sesame seed had occupied in my body. And then, within hours, that sense of fullness was replaced by a hollow, lonely void.
I wanted to hold onto the idea that “this isn’t a big deal” and that early miscarriages are super common. But despite my efforts, feelings of self-blame crept in—questions of what I might have done wrong haunted me. I oscillated between wanting to treat my body with utmost care and wanting to neglect it.
The emptiness was a constant reminder that something significant had occurred. I felt profoundly isolated within my own body—disoriented and out of sync. Despite this, I tried to operate on autopilot for several days, attempting to appear normal.
In navigating this process, I felt a strong desire to share my experience. I always understood that my own lived experience in conception, pregnancy, birth, and parenthood would change me. But I couldn’t have imagined how profoundly I would be affected mentally, physically, and spiritually in less than 7 weeks of being pregnant.
After I found out I was pregnant, I decided to book a photoshoot to celebrate and honor my body. A way to acknowledge its current state before the process of pregnancy will ultimately change it. Just 4 days after the miscarriage, I had that photoshoot. It still felt like an incredibly important moment to capture. And a weirdly radical way to honor my grief. Even with the distance and emptiness I felt in my body.
I often advise my clients and students that the “moments of surrender” and challenges they face in pregnancy, birth and parenthood are unpredictable. And that the fuckery in this process is that it’s often the challenge you least anticipate. In the past few weeks, I’ve come to see my own words in a new light. This shit is hard. There’s an undeniable resilience we all must nurture because alongside birth and life, there exists grief and death. Despite our deep desire for control, so much slips through our fingers.
Sharing my experience with others has brought me comfort. Even while attending a recent wedding, among strangers, discussions about loss, miscarriage, and grief arose. As I shared my story and held space for others, I felt deeply connected. We are all carrying so much. One person who confided in me about their recent pregnancy loss began by saying they didn’t want to dampen the mood. On the contrary, what if we normalized the things and experiences we see as “dark” as a part of life? By sharing our grief, we might find some solace together. And feel a little lighter in carrying it ourselves.
As I continue my journey in life and my career as a birth worker and doula trainer, my commitment to honesty and authenticity remains. Reflecting on my path, I’ve come to appreciate the significance of transparency. Especially within the realm of birth work. Initially, I felt compelled to withdraw and isolate myself through this experience. However, in processing my experience that shifted into the need to share. I believe that embracing radical honesty can empower us and cultivate deeper understanding and connection. I hope that in sharing my experience there’s that felt sense for others.
