I'm not fine, thanks.

An honest tale of recurrent pregnancy loss.

October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month. I’m sharing this essay with you today because our stories of loss matter and deserve to be witnessed. For anyone quietly searching for comfort, the way I once did, I hope you know you’re not alone.

I squinted my eyes, swearing the shadow I saw was a second line on the pregnancy test.

“Don’t you see it!?” I said to my husband.

“I don’t see anything.”

The very next day, as if an answer to a prayer, the second line appeared—clear, pink, and visible to the naked eye.

Naively, I expressed gratitude that getting pregnant was once again fairly easy for us. It had happened on the first try with my son, and we’d had a fairly uncomplicated pregnancy.

We were thrilled. Our dream of expanding our family was coming to life. My husband and I wondered if this baby might share his September birthday, and how exciting it would be for Michael and his sibling to be just about three years apart.

Three days later, the excitement faded. I felt the cramping and began to miscarry. That’s when I learned the term “chemical pregnancy,” a pregnancy that ends before it can be seen on ultrasound.

Miscarriage had been my greatest fear during my first pregnancy. I remember feeling eternally grateful when that fear never came true. It felt like I had conquered it, left it behind, never to be seen again.

Yet here it was, staring me straight in the face.

I felt surprised and sad, but quickly moved right along, clinging to hope that we could try again. Surely next time the baby would stick.

A few months later, in April, the second line reappeared. Joyfully, we made plans to redecorate the third bedroom and move my husband’s office downstairs. My best friend had found out she was pregnant the month before. We were giddy about being pregnant together and having babies born so close, destined to be second-generation best friends.

Then, over breakfast—pancakes and eggs—I felt the cramping again. This time, I was a week further along. My heart sank as the worst-case scenario returned.

When June came, and another positive second line appeared, I guarded my heart. And once again, a few weeks later, the pregnancy ended just as quickly as it began. I felt numb, desperate to find a way to fix the heartache.

We found a doctor at a local fertility clinic and began testing for recurrent loss. As I stared at the twenty vials that awaited my blood, the kind phlebotomist patted my hand and said softly, “It’s hard, but it will be okay.” His kindness gave me the comfort I desperately needed.

The testing revealed only a slight Vitamin D deficiency, so we were cleared to continue trying to conceive. Lo and behold, in August, the second line returned.

Something about this pregnancy felt different. The lines grew darker more quickly. My HCG numbers were strong. It felt like this was it! Hope began to flicker once again.

But lying in the dark on the cold exam table at six weeks pregnant, I watched as the ultrasound technician searched in silence with a furrowed brow. She couldn’t find a gestational sac in my uterus. I looked at my husband, and in that glance we both knew—fear, confusion, and grief flooded the room.

“I’m so sorry. This is an ectopic pregnancy,” the nurse explained to us afterwards. “Dr. Morris recommends surgery as soon as possible.”

Another loss. This time, surgery. Everything suddenly felt invasive.

I was scared. My husband was scared. Our two-year-old son couldn’t understand why I couldn’t pick him up at bedtime, unaware that any lifting could cause the ectopic pregnancy to rupture and put my life at risk.

When I woke up from surgery the next day, I had an overwhelming urge to go back to sleep. Yes, the anesthesia played a part, but it also marked the beginning of a sadness I’d never felt before.

As a trauma therapist—and, truthfully, a type-A perfectionist who has always used doing to cope with uncomfortable emotions—there is nothing harder than sadness. Because there isn’t much you can do with it besides feel it.

And let me tell you, I tried my very best not to feel it.

Two days post-surgery, I tried to hide my tears as I lay in bed, overwhelmed with grief. Not just for this pregnancy, but for all four losses in nine months.

Luckily, I married a partner who is deeply attuned. He leaned over and gave me the most steady embrace, one that finally let me fall apart.

As the weeks passed, messages popped up on my phone again and again:

“How are you doing?”

I almost responded with, “I’m okay,” but I knew I had to make a conscious choice to be truthful this time.

“To be honest, I’m not doing great.”

And that answer—simple as it was—brought the biggest sigh of relief. It didn’t take away the sadness, but by being honest and real with my loved ones (and now with you), the little girl inside me—the one who always felt like she had to hold everything alone—is healing a little more deeply.

I share this story openly because I know, both personally and professionally, how isolating and traumatic infertility, miscarriage, and recurrent loss can be.

If that’s you, please know that I see you. I see your grief. You are not alone.

I know the twinge in your stomach when another pregnancy announcement crosses your screen. The genuine happiness you feel for others, tangled with the deep sadness you carry for yourself.

I know the sting of every would-be milestone—the due dates that come and go like any other day.

A few weeks post-surgery, after a powerful EMDR session to process the trauma of the ectopic pregnancy, I decided to use an exercise I often share with my clients.

As a therapist who specializes in inner-child work, I invite clients to write letters to their younger selves—to offer comfort, reassurance, and compassion that they didn’t receive at the time. Every time I do this personally, I can see how soothed the younger version of me would feel, knowing what the adult version knows now.

So, I decided to access my future self and visualize her offering comfort to me now. What she had to say brought me to tears:

Dear Megan (35),

I see how much grief, despair, and longing fill your heart right now. Three babies lost, slipping away through your fingertips almost as fast as they came. The stitches near your belly button mark the fourth baby lost because they snuggled into the one place they couldn’t grow safely.

I know you are sad—so very sad—and angry that these babies you wanted so badly are not here with you.

You imagined each one as a sibling to Michael, sharing the room next door, growing up in friendship, teaming up against you and Mike, learning the ins and outs of a safe, connected bond they’d carry long after you’re gone.

What you’re going through isn’t fair. I know you want answers. You want to fix it. You want to scream, “Just do something!” to make the pain go away.

But I want you to know this: your baby will come.

They’re taking longer to get to you than you’d like right now, but they’re on the way. They will arrive safely in your arms, and all the pain that came before will make sense because they wouldn’t be here without all of it.

Every heartbreak. Every tear.

They’re on their way to you. You are their mother.

I love you so much. Hang in there.

Love,
Megan (50)

My heart will hold on to this letter for comfort and hope as we navigate the unknowns ahead.

If you are experiencing a “not fine” moment, please know that you’re seen. You’re allowed to feel it, even when—let’s be honest—it absolutely sucks.

And don’t forget: you can be both fine and not fine at the same time. For me, holding that duality helps. I’m okay, I’m well supported, I’m functioning, I am overwhelmed with gratitude that we have the greatest gift in our son, and I’m honoring the deep grief I carry in the very same breath.

Thank you for being here, and for embracing the real, raw parts of being human with me. I promise to keep saying the hard part out loud—because inner child healing means no longer holding our pain alone.