The Spark Behind the Sadness: A real-time reflection on miscarriage, grief, and the sacredness of well, whatever it is you need.

Day One: When Silence is Louder Than a Heartbeat

I found out yesterday that my baby doesn’t have a heartbeat. At 40 years old, I didn’t even know I wanted this baby until I lost it.

Six weeks. That’s how long we’d had together. Just long enough for the surprise to settle into excitement. Six weeks along. Old enough for dreaming, short enough to be called “early,” but real enough to split me in half when the heartbeat didn’t show up.

Quiet. Still.

How do you grieve something you didn’t even know you wanted until it was gone?

I don’t know. Except that you need to.

If you need to cry over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then that’s what you do. If you need to put your phone on silent, then that’s what you do. If you need to be around people, or not, then that’s what you do. There’s no right way. There’s only your way.

I don’t want to smile. I don’t want to laugh. I just want to be human and feel sad—because that’s allowed.

I don’t want to answer the door. I don’t want to text back. I just want to sit here and cry and eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Alone. In silence.

You can’t skip this part. There’s no cheat code. Grief isn’t a side quest— sometimes it’s the main storyline. And it helps (a little) to know that the trail has been walked by others, even if the terrain still feels foreign. It’s not uncharted. It’s ancient. It’s human.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” —Psalm 34:18

Sometimes I feel fine. Then someone sends a kind text and I break all over again. I cry when others cry. I cry when people are too nice. I cry when someone hands me a tissue. And I remind myself that crying doesn’t mean I’ve lost my spark—it just means I’m feeling.

I’m still me. I’m just not sparkly right now.

The Bible doesn’t shy away from grief. It meets it. It holds it.

“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.” —Jeremiah 1:5“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” —Matthew 5:4

This verse doesn’t erase the pain. But it reminds me that I’m not alone in it. That this tiny life was known. That my tears are seen. That comfort is promised—even if it comes slowly, even if it comes through a sandwich and a quiet moment on the couch.

So this is Day One. It’s not pretty. It’s not polished. But it’s real. And maybe that’s enough for today.

Day Two: The Waiting Room and the Ballerina in Black

I survived day one. Barely. I survived a nightmare I didn’t know would shake me this hard. I wasn’t prepared for yesterday to feel like the worst day of my life. I thought I was strong. I thought God would carry me through no matter what the outcome was. And He still is—but right now, it feels like I’m being dragged through the valley of the shadow of death by my shoelaces. My shoelaces.

Pregnancy is a lot of things. But in the past 24 hours, I’ve realized it’s also a lot of things we don’t talk about.

Sometimes it’s being 40 and thinking, “Wait, what? Yay! But wait… what?”

Sometimes it’s taking three tests because the first two weren’t convincing enough.

Sometimes it’s wondering if you’re carrying twins because your test line is so dark.

Sometimes it’s sore boobs, nausea, and peeing every 20 minutes while trying not to think about the future impending labor.

Sometimes it’s spotting and telling yourself it’s probably nothing.

Sometimes it’s praying so hard for a heartbeat that you start whispering, “Beat, baby, beat,” like a mantra.

And sometimes, it’s sitting in a dimly lit room with warm gel on your belly, staring at a screen that looks exactly like it did last week, except this time… there’s no heartbeat.

My appointment was at 7:30 am.

At 7:26, I whispered a final “beat, baby, beat.”

But the screen looked like it did last time. Still. Colorless. Silent.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “There’s no heartbeat.”

Time broke in half—before and after.

The sonographer hugged me. Really hugged me. The kind of hug where you try to let go, but they don’t.  The kind of hug that says I see you. And that’s when I knew it was real. And that’s when I lost it.

I waited in a white room with a ballerina in black on the wall. She wasn’t dancing. She was sitting, looking out, like she knew. Thank you Ballerina for not being cheerful today. Thank you, Degas. I needed her. That painting mattered, to me.

I cried. I blew my nose. I had to wait an hour before the first doctor arrived because it was so early in the morning. The touchscreen on the opposite wall showed rotating advice for healthy pregnancies.  Uncomfortably close to me on my right was a 3D uterus with a removable IUD resting next to pamphlets celebrating beautiful birthing centers.

While the screen on the wall silently chirped tips for healthy pregnancies. I moved the 3D uterus model out of the way to search for a miscarriage pamphlet that didn’t exist. Nothing. No soft music. Just silence. Loud, echoing, blinding silence.

No one prepared this space for grief.

And I remember thinking: Why hasn’t someone fixed this?

• Why isn’t there an option to pause or switch what’s displayed on the screen—something for loss, for waiting, for wondering?

• Why isn’t there a playlist of soft music available on-demand?

• Why isn’t there a single pamphlet about miscarriage in arm’s reach?

• Why aren’t we leaving room on the wall for grief, too—not just joy?

  
  

And yet—God was there. Not in a booming voice or a miracle heartbeat. But in the hug. In the tears. In the ballerina. In the text from my brother. In the nurse who waited outside the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to find my way back alone.

If you’re still reading- whether you’ve been here or not—I hope you know that grief doesn’t need to be tidy to be holy. It just needs to be felt.

The Exit Wound

8:40. A knock. Kind eyes. Cue tears. Again.

The doctor was everything I needed and didn’t need all at once. Everyone was. That sounds contradictory, but if you’ve ever been in grief, you get it. People try. They love you the best they know how. And sometimes that’s enough. And sometimes it’s not. And sometimes it’s both. People were everything I needed and nothing I needed, all at once. Welcome to grief.

The doctor sat in front of me and did what she was supposed to do. Said what she was supposed to say. In the end, what stuck with me most was this: “miscarriage is so common, but you don’t hear as much about it because women tend not to talk about it.” We don’t talk about it. Not really. Not in the waiting room. Not in the pamphlets. Not in the magazines. Not in the small talk.

I decided, right then, that I would talk about it.

Not a year from now. Not with a rainbow baby in my arms. But now. In the raw. In the real. While the wound is still open. While my body still feels pregnant. While I’m crying into Chick-fil-A napkins in my car.

So here I am.

I made my follow-up appointment with a voice that didn’t sound like mine. I  pretended to laugh at her joking about trying to schedule things around the upcoming Fourth of July holiday. I paid for the ultrasound. I smiled at the receptionist. And then I ran.

The waiting room was full. I hope they’re all okay. I hope they hear heartbeats. I really do. But I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t breathe.

I got to my car. Chick-fil-A napkins everywhere. Sobbed. Wondered if I was supposed to sob. Wondered if I should hold it in. Wondered what I was even feeling. I still felt pregnant. My boobs still hurt. But she was gone. (I’m convinced it was a girl. Same feelings I had with my daughter.) She’s gone, but my body hasn’t caught up yet.

I drove home.

I don’t know if I’ll write more later. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But I needed to write this now. Because maybe, somewhere, another woman is googling how to tell her kids. Or staring at the Degas ballerina wondering if anyone else knows what this feels like. Or wishing there was something—anything—to read in the waiting room that acknowledges this heartbreak.

I know I’m not the only woman who didn’t hear a heartbeat yesterday, or today, or last week, or ten years ago. If even one of us shares what it feels like, maybe someone else won’t feel so alone in the silence.

Thank you. For sitting with me here. For bearing witness.

If this helped you feel seen—whether you’ve walked this path or never will—then that’s why I wrote it.

My spark is still here. She’s sitting quietly with her peanut butter sandwich and her ballerina friend. And she’ll shine again soon. Promise.

So this is just me, right now, writing it down. For her. For me. For all of us who didn’t hear a heartbeat.

“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.” —Revelation 21:4“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” —Psalm 30:5

Maybe not tomorrow morning. But someday.