The First Pregnancy – A Journey of Hope and Heartbreak

My first pregnancy was with my ex, A. We had been married for a few years, lived in different countries, traveled, and finally decided it was time to start a family. I stopped taking the pill, and within two or three months, I was pregnant. It happened so quickly that I barely had time to process it—yet, in hindsight, I had already noticed the signs before I even took a test.

The First Signs

The first clue was my heightened sense of smell. I used to get my nails done every week, and suddenly, I could smell the hand cream from across the room. It was so intense that I even asked if they had changed brands. Pregnancy never even crossed my mind.

Then, there was a random argument with A—something so unusual for us that it caught me off guard. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so irritable. I even mentioned it to my therapist during our weekly session, and that’s when she asked, “Could you be pregnant?”

The moment she said it, something clicked. It wasn’t just the smell or the mood swings—something inside me just knew. I was certain, even before taking a test.

A was away at the time, and I wanted to wait so we could take the test together. I bought it and held onto it for a couple of days until he returned. I already knew it would be positive. And it was. So simple, so fast, so clear.

Little did I know that my journey to holding a baby in my arms had only just begun—and it would take far longer than nine months to get there.

The First Appointment

I had already done all my prenatal tests, chosen a doctor, and booked my first appointment. Everything felt like it was falling into place. My doctor was calm, performed the first ultrasound, and told me to return in two weeks. I was around six weeks pregnant at the time, and nothing in his voice or demeanor suggested anything was wrong.

I was in my own little bubble—so blissfully unaware that pregnancy loss was even a possibility. In my mind, once you were pregnant, you had a baby. That was it.

Two weeks later, A and I returned for the follow-up scan. The doctor did another ultrasound and then paused. There was no heartbeat.

He explained that at this stage, we should have been able to see one. That was why he had asked me to come back—sometimes, dates can be a little off, but in this case, it was clear. He told me I had experienced a missed miscarriage—a term I had never heard before. It meant that the embryo had stopped developing, but my body had not yet recognized the loss.

I was devastated.

Facing Loss

The doctor gave me two options:

1. Wait for my body to miscarry naturally.

2. Undergo a D&C (Dilation & Curettage), a medical procedure to remove the pregnancy.

At first, I decided to wait. Maybe a part of me wasn’t ready to accept it yet. But after a week of carrying the weight of knowing I was pregnant—but not really—I couldn’t take it anymore. I booked the procedure.

The worst part wasn’t the procedure itself. It was waking up in the maternity ward without a baby, surrounded by new mothers holding theirs. I didn’t see them, but I knew they were there.

Moving Forward

I told myself it was just bad luck—miscarriages happen all the time, right? It’s normal. It’s okay. It will pass.

At least, that’s what I tried to believe.

But nothing prepares you for losing a pregnancy. No one tells you how hard it is to go from excitement to emptiness in just a few weeks. No one tells you about the lingering sadness, the doubts, or the fear that it could happen again.

This was only the beginning of my story. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that even in the darkest storms, the sun eventually shines again.