Between Grief And Hope

By Sarah Russell

“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

Five words no prospective parent ever wants to hear. And certainly not twice.

The first kicks, the growing bump, the names you stored in the notes section of your phone, the first meeting you could vividly see and feel. All of it, gone in under ten seconds.

For us, making a human wasn’t a romantic weekend away or a "just relax and see what happens" vibe. It wasn’t a glass of wine and a bit of luck. It was science: clinical, and calculated. 

One loss was horrific enough. Two was a total life-pivot.

I relocated to Australia, chasing a solution across the ocean, trying to outrun the silence of the last two times. I thought if I could fix what I felt was fundamentally broken inside me—I’d be OK. Don’t get me wrong, this actually did help—but it wasn’t the whole solution

The heaviest and hardest lifting wasn't the international move or the eye-watering medical bills. It was the quiet stuff. It was the grief hovering like dark circles under my eyes, the uncertainty I wore like a second skin, and the "what ifs" that kept me awake night after night—oh, how vivid that insomnia feels even now. 

I carried it semi-well on the outside. Sure, I cried, I was paralyzed at times. I canceled, ghosted, and withdrew. But even today—though one of my losses was at the stage where I had to publicly announce we were no longer expecting—to most others, I still carry it silently, secretly, and shamefully. Some knew the news, but they didn't know the impact.

Silence. Shame. Secrecy.

For many, including myself, this journey is deeply, almost aggressively private.

There was the shame that my body was "failing" the one thing it was biologically designed to do. Then there was the uglier shame—the kind where I judged others who I deemed "less healthy" or "less dedicated" who seemed to conceive with ease. In that privacy, a dangerous, suffocating silence grows. There is a lingering stigma around pregnancy loss that leads many to feel damaged or “defective.”

Then there are the words. Words like infertile and infertility specialists—words insurance really dislikes too by the way. Those words felt like an identity. At least, they did for me. 

It (sadly) gets (even) harder. 

The world doesn't stop for your grief. Friends were announcing pregnancies—the muffled "we have some news" opening line still sends sickly chills up and down my spine. Baby shower invites filled my inbox. Babies "crashed" our coffee dates, and suddenly, the sight of a stroller made me want to cross the street. I quickly became a person I never dreamed I’d be: bitter, envious, and deeply, deeply lonely.

The era I shattered

Even now, sitting here as a parent to two beautiful young children, I still don’t really know how I did it. I still can’t even bring myself to think about the logistics of that time too deeply—though I’m working on it. This journey teaches you that you never really fully recover, and honestly? I’m at peace with that.

Because truthfully, this was the era I shattered. I didn't just "go through a hard time." I broke down to my core. My hopes and dreams felt even more painfully unknown than they already were. And to those people who told me to "work on expectations”, "find joy in who I was” and “don’t hang your hat on children making you feel fulfilled”—I just never got it. (But thanks anyway).

It wasn’t all doom and gloom. Here’s the bit that started to turn things around. 

I recall a particularly bad test result that proved, internally, that things were getting really bad. It was a forced stop sign from the universe. So, I did one thing I know how to do really well: I started to talk.

Through talking, I (re)learned that I wasn’t broken—I was just hurting. I learned how to find "glimmers"—those tiny, microscopic moments of light—in the middle of the hardest days. I learned to live with the juxtaposition of grief and hope, two things I never thought could exist in the same brain at the same time.

I learned that my grief wouldn’t make me the "ideal" version of myself, but I tried to repair the cracks as best I could. I found a community of people who had walked this exact, jagged path. I felt seen, purposeful, and powerful. It was here that I realized I could do another thing I do really well: I could help others.

Helping others was the only thing that made me feel human again. That’s where the faith crept back in.

I’m not a religious person in the traditional sense, but I did find a faith that felt guiding and grounding. I started to understand why people turn to religion in their darkest hours—you need something bigger than yourself to hold onto when you simply don't have faith in anything living and breathing around you. 

I started a crystal collection—which, funnily enough, my kids now love to explore and investigate. I plastered positive quotes around my house—I still treasure a very faded statement I wrote to myself that got me through the darkest days. I religiously wrote in a gratitude notebook—three things, every single day, for years. Even when my heart was pounding with the fear of another "no heartbeat" scan, I was writing down:

1. The sun on my face.

2. A fridge full of food.

3. My husband, who still chooses me.

I can’t fail to mention my team of support—it’s important you find people who believe in you: my therapist, pilates teachers, acupuncturist and my hero doctor, who still gets a family holiday card every year. He took my hands, looked me in the eye, and said, “You might not have faith right now, but I do.” And thank goodness for that.

The two-sided coin.

Even now, with two beautiful children sleeping in the next room, the agony remains. It’s a lingering “feeling" I can’t quite describe—the quiet wondering about the little ones I didn’t get to meet. I remember their birthdays. I wonder how old they’d be now. I find myself questioning: Would they have had the same button nose? Their father’s green eyes?

I have immense joy now, but I also hold space for the immense sadness of what I didn’t get to experience. Those two things don't cancel each other out. They sit side-by-side.

Miscarriage isn’t about "getting on with it" or "getting over it." You don't just wake up one day and forget everything that brought you to this moment. It’s about learning to live a life that is permanently, fundamentally different.

By speaking out, we strip the power away from the shame and the stigma. I am always happy to speak with others about this. If you are in the middle of wading through grief and loss, please know it’s not a journey meant to be walked alone. You don't have to erase your past to have a future; you just have to find the grace to carry both.

About the Author

Sarah Russell is a mother to two young boys and a children’s occupational therapist. Her passion is respecting and protecting childhood, for which a slow and unhurried childhood is a foundational cornerstone. You can connect with Sarah via stamburrini@gmail.com