Recurrent loss and secondary infertility (Ali's Story)

"There are moments in life that split everything into before and after. In March 2023, my world shifted in a way I never expected."

Hi friends,

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. For so many in the infertility community, loss isn’t just one moment in time; it’s woven through the entire experience of trying, hoping, and starting over. It shows up in failed cycles, in empty ultrasounds, in anniversaries that only we remember.

This month, we hold space for all of it — the grief, the love, the small moments of resilience that get us through. We see you if you’re in the middle of another round, if you’re waiting to try again, or if you’ve decided you can’t. The stories we share this month come from that same tender place: where heartbreak and strength live side by side.

Today’s essay is one of them. It captures the ache of recurrent loss and the quiet courage it takes to keep moving forward, even when there are no guarantees. For anyone who’s ever felt like their grief was invisible, we hope this story helps you feel seen.

Sending love to you this weekend, wherever you find yourself on the path. And if you have a story you’d like to share about infertility or IVF, we’d love to read and share it. Just use the button below to email us.

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Ali’s Story

There are moments in life that split everything into before and after. In March 2023, my world shifted in a way I never expected — with a fading heartbeat on an ultrasound screen. I didn’t know then that it would be the beginning of a multi-year journey of loss. Not only loss of pregnancies, but loss of time, trust, and the naïveté I once carried about growing my family.

Mine is a story about recurrent pregnancy loss, yes. But it’s also about resilience. About what it means to show up — for your young child, your job, your life — with a broken heart. About what it means to hold space for grief and hope at the same time.

It started with a missed miscarriage. No signs, no symptoms — just a routine appointment that unraveled everything. A baby measuring too small. A heartbeat a week behind. I was told it was common, that it happens to women all the time. That I should try again once my cycle returned.

So, we did. The second miscarriage happened during my first week at a new job. I was in unbearable pain that came on suddenly, rushed to the ER, waited for hours, and left without answers. A week later, we learned there was no heartbeat.

The third was perhaps the most terrifying because I was out of the country, on what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation with my husband, when I started miscarrying in the middle of the night. I flew home the next day — numb, scared, and utterly heartbroken.

Three pregnancies. Three babies we never got to meet. Each loss marked me. Each one deepened the ache.

Illustration by Shelley Illustration

Finally, we turned to a fertility specialist. He recommended IVF but first a hysteroscopy to remove a uterine septum. This septum had been the cause of my daughter being breech and now the potential reason for my subsequent losses. For the first time in a long time, I felt something that resembled hope. A problem with a possible solution.

After the surgery, two chemical pregnancies followed. I got the news in my car on the way to work — then had to pull myself together and run a meeting like nothing had happened. Breathe. Focus. Repeat. Grieve later.

All the while, life around me kept moving. While I was grieving, others were announcing gender reveals, hosting baby showers, posting sibling photos. Each joyful milestone a quiet reminder of where I wasn’t. I smiled, I celebrated, I showed up — but often, I did so while privately mourning what I couldn’t have. It’s a strange kind of loneliness, to be genuinely happy for someone else and deeply heartbroken for yourself in the same breath.

In December 2024, we moved to IVF. It was emotionally and physically exhausting. Our first egg retrieval was canceled at the last minute — all those early mornings, blood draws, injections, and cautious optimism felt wasted. But we tried again, tweaking the protocol. This time, it worked. We froze embryos, made new plans, and scheduled another hysteroscopy to prepare for transfer.

That procedure didn’t go quite as expected. There was still some remaining septum, and the doctor removed it then and there. I began to wake up mid-procedure, disoriented and in pain. I left shaken and unsettled, but I pushed forward. What choice did I have?

Six weeks later, our first frozen embryo transfer failed. Another blow. Another layer of grief.

This past August, we tried another transfer. This time, it stuck. A second line that kept getting darker. A glimmer of hope. Pregnancy after loss is hard to explain — a constant balancing act between joy and terror. You want to celebrate, but you’re scared to let your guard down. You live appointment to appointment, breath to breath.

After the second ultrasound for my current pregnancy, I had a video call with my fertility clinic. At the end, I asked, “What now?”

The nurse smiled and said, “You’re done with us! Please send us a picture of your baby when they arrive.”

And that’s when I broke.

The tears that had been building for two and a half years — through loss after loss, procedure after procedure, shot after shot — finally came. I could barely speak. All I managed was a quiet, “Thank you so much.”

Because sometimes, that’s all you can say when you’ve held so much for so long. When grief and gratitude are tangled up inside you. When you’ve spent years learning how to carry both.

This journey has changed the way I see the world, the way I move through it, and the way I hold space for others in pain. There’s a quiet kind of strength that comes from surviving something like this — not the kind that shouts, but the kind that endures. If you’re still in it — waiting, hoping, grieving — I see you. Your pain is real. Your story matters. And even if it doesn’t feel like it right now, you are not alone.

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