Grateful and Grieving: Pregnancy After Loss

A gentle note: This post mentions pregnancy loss and pregnancy after loss. Writing has always been cathartic for me, and I created this space to both heal my own heart and connect with others. I'll always include a note like this when sensitive topics are ahead. If any of this feels tender today, please guard your heart and come back when you're ready.

Mother's Day was this past weekend, and if I'm being honest, the closer the date came, the more my dread grew.

It was my first Mother's Day since losing our baby girl, Sophia, in September of 2025 when I was six months pregnant. Six months… Far enough along that I had felt her little wiggles throughout the day, imagined what she would look like, built out her registry, and started planning out the wildflower theme in her nursery. And then she was gone.

I have so much to be grateful for— I truly feel that. I have incredible women in my life who I got to celebrate. I have a husband who has held this loss with me, beside me, every single day. I have a toddler whose giggles could honestly fix most anything. And I have a baby on the way — a fact that still occasionally stops me in my tracks, equal parts awe and disbelief.

Still, there is a piece of my heart missing. I was chatting with a 80 year old fellow loss mom recently, and with tears in her eyes she shared with me a simple truth— “you just never forget, no matter how long it’s been.” Maybe missing them is just what loving them looks like now.

I’m learning that holding joy and grief at the same time is about realizing that loving doesn't erase longing. That you can cry in the car on the way to a celebration, and still genuinely mean every smile when you get there.

There's a version of me that existed before September — before I knew what loss felt like from the inside. I moved through pregnancy confidently. I announced the news from the rooftops without a second thought. I never entertained the possibility that something could go wrong. There was a lightness to me that I genuinely miss. A kind of innocence that I didn't even know I had until it was gone. 

I'm currently almost 22 weeks into my third pregnancy, and I still find it awe-inspiring and full of hope. There is genuine joy living inside this pregnancy, but it's layered with an awareness that is impossible to undo. I notice it most on the way to ultrasounds. Not because I believe something is wrong — but because I now intimately know, in a way I didn't before, that the possibility exists. And once you've lived on the other side of that possibility, the waiting room just feels… different. The small talk feels different. The question “how are you feeling?” is heavier. The few seconds of silence before the technician speaks feel like a lifetime.

You can't unknow what loss taught you. You carry it into every appointment, every milestone, every moment of good news that used to feel uncomplicated. The joy of expecting again is immeasurable, but the grief is unrelenting, and I’m learning how to hold both seemingly conflicting emotions at the same time. I wish I was at the point where I could offer guidance here, but honestly, I’m navigating uncharted waters here myself. What I can tell you is this: none of us are alone in the complexity of it. There is a whole community of loss moms in what I've often heard called "the shittiest club, with the best members."

The footprints that have left a mark on me forever.

Sophia is why I started and forevermore. She's woven into every word of it. I hope to share my journey, helpful resources to other moms in different seasons of motherhood, and if possible, serve as a mom friend who “gets it” to whoever needs one.

I'm so glad you're here.

If this resonated, you can find me on Instagram at _andforevermore_