In early January, I found out I was pregnant.
For months, I had been going back and forth in my mind about whether we should try for one last baby—a little boy, a brother for my oldest son. And then, without much waiting or overthinking, it happened. I got pregnant shortly after my youngest turned one.
The pregnancy started like all the others. The nausea came, the exhaustion settled in, the sensitivity to smells took over. But this time, everything felt more intense. I started showing quickly—so quickly that I didn’t even get the chance to make a proper announcement. My body told the story before I could.
I made the decision to return to work earlier than planned from maternity leave so I could accumulate my hours for employment insurance. Every day, I pushed myself—an hour drive there and back, fighting waves of nausea, fatigue, and constant discomfort. I’d come home and collapse on the couch, just trying to make it through the day. It wasn’t easy, but in my mind, it was worth it. There was a purpose behind the struggle.
Yesterday, I reached 15 weeks and 5 days. We were supposed to find out the baby’s gender. I had already ordered a cake for the weekend so we could share that moment with family. It felt like we were stepping into a new chapter.
I went to my first ultrasound appointment alone. My husband couldn’t make it because work has been busy. I wasn’t worried—I was excited. I remember asking the sonographer if she could write the gender down on a piece of paper so we could still have our little reveal.
Then everything shifted.As soon as the ultrasound started, the room felt different. Quieter. Heavier. She asked me a few routine questions, but something in her tone changed. And then she said the words that didn’t feel real:“I’m sorry, I’m not finding a heartbeat.”
I hadn’t been looking at the screen. I didn’t want to accidentally see the gender. But in that moment, I looked—and I saw my baby. Still. No movement.
I didn’t react right away. I think my mind needed time to catch up with what I had just heard. She informed me that the baby had stopped growing just shy of 12 weeks. I had had no clue.
I gave myself some time to process but eventually, I made my way back to my car. That’s when everything hit me. I called my husband and broke down. My mom had been waiting, hoping for a message about whether it was a boy or a girl. I couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t answer anyone.That evening was filled with tears—mourning not just the baby, but everything that came with it. The plans. The due date in September. The life we had already started imagining.Even small things felt overwhelming. I didn’t want to take off my jacket because I didn’t want to see my stomach. I didn’t want to face people who knew. I was grateful a friend stepped in to pick up the kids so I didn’t have to explain anything to anyone.Later, my doctor called. She explained my options: wait for things to happen naturally, take medication, or have a medical procedure. None of those choices feel easy. None of them feel like something you should have to decide.
She suggested I go to the hospital to be seen sooner, and so here I am—sitting in a waiting room, waiting for a second ultrasound to confirm everything and for the next steps.
I’m sad. There’s no way around that.But somewhere in the middle of all this, I also feel a quiet sense of hope. Not the loud, forced kind—just a small, steady thought that this moment, as heavy as it is, won’t last forever.
When this is over, I want to slowly find my way back to myself. Back to running. Back to moving my body. Back to being present with my kids in the way I’ve missed over these past months.
Part of me is already trying to reframe the summer ahead—not as something that was taken from me, but as time I get to spend fully with the children I have. Time to play, to laugh, to just be with them.
And maybe, when I’m ready, we’ll try again.
For now, this is where I am.And for the first time since yesterday, writing it out makes me feel just a little bit lighter.
Going to Enjoy my Babies this Summer
Reclaiming MomBod 