Content note: This piece speaks openly about miscarriage, pregnancy loss, and grief. Please honour where you are in your own journey and read with care. Sending you so much Love.
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In 2025, I experienced two miscarriages.
I wasn’t sure if I would ever share these stories. I wondered if there would ever come a time when it would be humanly possible for me to speak about what, at the time, felt like the worst possible thing that could happen to me. The worst possible thing that could happen to anyone. And yet, the worst possible thing that happens to many women—one in four, if we’re looking at the statistics.
For a long time, my experiences felt too tender, too painful. I was on this long train ride of grief, never knowing when, if ever, I would get off.
The silent grief lived with me every day for months. It was like holding an enormous secret that so often felt too heavy for my innocent hands to carry on their own.
But I wasn’t ready to tell the secret. How could I? What would I even say? How would I say it? What would they say?
“Sorry for your loss” didn’t really cut it. No words did.
In many ways, I felt it was better for me to move through the journey in silence. Or anonymously scroll through Reddit threads and Facebook posts from women who truly, truly knew the enormity of what I was experiencing.
You don’t really know until you know…
But I wonder if maybe others should know too?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my experiences with miscarriage, it’s that we don’t talk about pregnancy loss nearly enough.
So, here is my story.
🤍
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My first miscarriage happened at eight weeks.
My body knew what was happening before my mind could accept it. It’s not normal to see even the smallest amount of blood at that stage, not even a light pink stain on a tissue.
In some rare cases, it happens, and women can go on to a full-term pregnancy. But more often than not, it’s the body saying, in the most loving way possible, “Not this time, beloved. This isn’t the one who stays.”
I waited for hours, moving between disbelief, fear, hope and despair. One moment clinging to the possibility that everything might still be okay, the next confronting the unbearable thought that it wasn’t. Back to hope, back to fear, over and over again, suspended in the debilitating uncertainty of the unknown.
I was somewhere between life and death, standing at a sacred threshold I would come to know intimately in the years that followed.
From the moment a woman discovers she is pregnant, she becomes a mother. Cells pass between her and her developing baby, as her body begins preparing for new life. Regardless of the outcome or duration, the soul contract has been made.
I was living out my soul contract with this beautiful being who had chosen me, even if only for what felt like the briefest moment in time. They were initiating me in ways I wasn’t able to fully express until now.
As the hours passed and my body prepared to birth this child, I found myself entering a liminal space. I felt an angelic presence around me, spirit guides and ancestors close; the veil had thinned, and I knew I was no longer entirely here on Earth, but somewhere between worlds.
In this altered state, I intuitively asked my partner to run me a bath. I asked him to gather flowers and crystals and candles; to prepare the room for me to enter into ceremony with the Sacred.
I knew that was what I had to do. And that was what I did.
I entered the water, surrounded by floating flowers and dimly lit flames, and surrendered to the experience that was unfolding within me.
My womb, which had become a place of life, was now becoming a place of death. I was at the threshold between worlds. It was familiar though, as though my body knew what she was experiencing, something age-old, something Divine.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I moved between the earthly realm and a deep trance state. When I closed my eyes, I saw an angelic being beside me, a feminine presence. She held me as my heart broke into a thousand pieces, pouring unconditional love into every corner of that room.
My partner was beside me, holding his own heartache, honouring the helplessness of not being able to change what was unfolding, while trusting in me, his beloved, and the innate wisdom of my feminine body.
As the hours passed, the water slowly turned from clear to mahogany, the flowers floating around me as my body moved through the process of letting go. I watched the water change colour, witnessing the meeting of life and death within my own body. There was nothing I could do to stop what was unfolding; no desperate plea or prayer would keep my baby alive in the form I’d hoped so desperately for. All I could do was be present with the transformation, let the pain come and go, and witness what millions of women have witnessed before me, since time began.
All the while, I was divinely held in the deepest grief I had ever known, and yet, somehow, surrounded by so much love. I can’t recall how long I was there, but long enough to be with it all, to be with my sacred vessel as we both died and were reborn again.
🤍
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I have spent years studying and holding space for rites of passage. The thresholds that mark the ending of one way of being and the beginning of another. But the deepest initiations of my life have been the ones I never consciously chose.
Miscarriage was one of them.
It brought me into an intimate relationship with my body, my womb, my grief, and the mystery of life itself. It brought me into an intimate relationship with death and ending as lore, as part of the everlasting cycle of all that is.
Later that year, I would experience another miscarriage. Another divine soul who came into my womb, if only for a short while. Another goodbye I never imagined I would have to make. Another intimate meeting of life and death.
My babies still live on with me, in my stories, in my heart. They visit me in the form of blue butterflies beneath the sunlight. I thank them often for the gift of grief, for the ways they helped my heart, body and womb prepare to welcome in my rainbow baby, the one who stayed.
Though still, even in all my spiritual-ness and human-ness, and my sometimes romanticised way of explaining terrible things, I cannot fully say that I understand why some souls stay and others leave. I wrote a poem once that may come close; you can read it here if it feels aligned.
What I do know now from all of my experiences is that motherhood does not begin when we hold our children in our arms, nor does it end if our children don’t live here in this Earth realm with us. Motherhood is womanhood. As a woman, you are born Mother, and you will die Mother, and no experience can ever take that away from you.
May the souls of our children be blessed forever.
~ B
🤍
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If you are passing through this sacred threshold from Maiden to Mother, I am opening a space for us to walk this passage together. A four-week online journey of honouring all that we are leaving behind and all that we are becoming. Express interest.
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