So, I Had A Miscarriage…
*Takes deep breath…
In the spirit of transparency and reintroducing myself, I want to share the story of not just a disappointing moment in my life–but one of the most defeating and heartbreaking incidents during my time away.
Here goes…
At the top of last year, Neil & I were discussing our family plan—how much longer we’d want to wait before we started trying for our second child. Our answer was kind of up in the air, but around March of ‘25, I started feeling this urge to be proactive and get this train moving.
About three weeks before our daughter’s third birthday, I made a sneak appointment with my OBGYN to get my IUD removed. Everything was good! My doctor removed the IUD with no problems, did a brief inspection while she was down there, and said, “Looks great! You should be pregnant in no time! See you in a few weeks for a pregnancy confirmation test.”
And I wasted no time.
Less than two months later, I was pregnant. Right before doing a photoshoot for my website, I actually took a pregnancy test—I was late, my breasts were feeling super heavy, and my eating patterns were starting to get weird. Not long after sticking that pregnancy test into a cup, there it was—PREGNANT.
I was so excited! Not only was I excited, I was holding on for dear life to keep this a secret because I wanted to wait until Father’s Day to tell Neil. This was about to be the best Father’s Day gift ever for him. I only had to wait six days, but it was six days too long. When I finally told him, he was thrilled.
About six months prior, I had a dream of me walking into this white room—white marble floors, white curtains draping floor to ceiling windows. In the middle of this room was a circular bed dressed in white linen. On the bed was this little girl about 4-years-old; she was so cute with her little pigtails. She felt familiar, but I’d never met her and I wasn’t sure who she was. Sitting next to her was this bright and bubbly little boy; he was giggling with all of his gums showing. He looked like Nova with his butterscotch skin and a head full of curls like Nova was when she was around his age. He felt familiar, too. The difference was it felt like I knew him and that he knew me. And need I mention, he was dressed as if I had dressed him—a striped shirt under these cute little overalls with suede clog mules. I was obsessed. Then I woke up.
Based on this dream, I was sure I was carrying a boy—which would’ve literally been a dream come true.
I love being Nova Elle’s mama, but I’ve always wanted to be a boy mom—and in a good way. I want to be the team-mom at all the football and soccer practices with all the snacks. I want an excuse to buy a decked out mini-van to carry the whole team to practice and then do drop-off after. I want to do all the dope boy mom things, only to then rush to ballet rehearsal with my girl.
I wasn’t always sure I’d get married—but I was always sure that I’d be a mom one day.
And now here I was pregnant with our second child.
But it wouldn’t be for long.
At our pregnancy confirmation appointment, I knew something was wrong.
Based on my cycle, I should have been eight weeks pregnant and the doctors should have been able to hear a heartbeat. But when they did the sonogram, they heard nothing—and they would later tell me based on the size of the embryo, it looked like I was six weeks instead of eight weeks.
Within two days time, I started miscarrying.
The day after my birthday, Wednesday, July 9th, my body fully discarded my baby—our baby.
It was the most devastating thing I’d ever seen.
One minute I was pregnant, and then I wasn’t anymore.
I had been bleeding for six days by then and was in dire pain. I went to the bathroom after getting home from doing some blood work—and there it was. I yelled for my husband and just began to sob. I can still hear myself falling into Neil’s arms—repeatedly screaming in tears, “Neil, that can’t be him! That can’t be our son! It just can’t be! That can’t be him, Neil! That can’t be him!”
I got pregnant so easily with our daughter; it was shocking how easily and quickly I got pregnant. I was stunned. When my mother and father first got married, they had years of complications conceiving. They had been married for almost six years before they had me. I was their miracle baby (thanks to a good night out dancing); my sister was their second miracle baby (thanks to that one time in Vegas). Being hyper aware of my parents’ birth story, I carried this fear for years that I may have a similar story. But that wasn’t the case. Neil and I conceived within a month of being married—and when we delivered Nova, it was the most beautiful and blessed experience. No horror story, no days of laboring; I had Nova within four hours of my water breaking.
It’s safe to say that I was expecting trying again to go the same way—but it didn’t.
I was heartbroken—and the truth is: I still am.
During the days leading up to the miscarriage—even the day of, I made post-it notes that are still around our home—on mirrors, on kitchen cabinets, on walls, in my prayer corner—speaking life into our son. Praying for a miracle, praying that the Lord wouldn’t let this happen to me—but then my prayers began to shift. I started praying more than anything else that the Lord wouldn’t let go. That if He was allowing this to happen, that He would not leave me and that He would hold onto me tightly.
During this time, I was catching up on episodes of The Chosen—and it just so happened that I was watching the season where Peter’s wife is pregnant and she ends up losing her baby—how timely, right? This is also the season of that incredible scene where Peter walks on water. I remember watching that scene and being brought to tears. It wasn’t because I was watching one of Jesus’ greatest miracles happen before my eyes, but it was Peter questioning Jesus about why He’d allow his wife to lose their child. It was Peter throwing his anger and his sorrow at Jesus and Jesus not being afraid of it. It was Peter not shying away from how he was feeling and what he was carrying—and Jesus being ever so present. It was Peter then falling into the water once he took his eyes off of Jesus, Jesus grabbing hold of Peter, and once Peter realized that Jesus had grabbed him, Peter caving into the arms of his Savior and pleading with Jesus to not let him go.
“Don’t let me go; please, don’t let me go.”
To this day, that scene gets me—I watched it again while writing this. To this day, that is still my prayer and my song to GOD.
“Don’t let me go; please, don’t let me go.”
In the days after losing our child, I wrestled with not just guilt and shame, but an old acquaintance: anxiety.
I haven’t shared this on this platform, but during my second trimester while pregnant with Nova, the Lord healed me and delivered me from anxiety. After battling anxiety attacks for almost 20 years of my life, during a worship service at my church, I was set free. That was October of 2021. It’s now July 2026 and I haven’t had an anxiety attack since.
That doesn’t mean the weapon of anxiety still doesn’t form.
Following the miscarriage, I was so anxious—anxious about what to share with people we told. I didn’t want their pity. I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.
But then, the Lord asked me, “Why?”
“Why don’t you want people to feel sorry—why don’t you want people to feel sad with you and for you? Is that not what I want for you? Is that not what I call for you to do?”
The Bible says in Romans 12:15, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.
“So, you want people to rejoice with you, but not mourn with you?”
And then it hit me—I was afraid of that. I was afraid to show weakness. I was afraid to show that at the end of the day, I am still just human. Life is about both rejoicing and mourning. You can’t have one without the other; how will you even be able to appreciate the beauty of rejoicing if you have not mourned well—and vice versa.
Miscarrying taught me that I needed to let people be there for me…and I still do. I’m really good at being there for others and making space for them to be human and carried. But for a long time, I did not know how to be carried. I did not know how to mourn—and mourn well. I didn’t know how not to pack up my feelings and move on to the next thing.
But this—watching your body rid your child, the child you prayed for—looking at the remains of the embryonic sac that held that child, you can’t just get over that. It takes time. It requires lament—and probably always will.
I don’t know all of why the Lord allowed us to experience a miscarriage. I don’t know why GOD chose me—this woman, this wife, this mother—to experience that kind of heartache. But I do know that GOD is not a respecter of persons. So why not me.
According to the CDC, between 750,000 to 1,000,000 women miscarry every single year in the United States.
Imagine that—up to one million women. That’s 1 in 5 women carrying the guilt and shame of losing their child—wondering what they could have done, questioning why their bodies weren’t safe enough to carry this life that they waited and prayed for.
And while we may never get those answers on this side of heaven, here’s always what I know: that GOD makes no mistakes and that He is a good father.
While the experience of a miscarriage is heartbreaking, the Lord also helped me to see that a miscarriage is also a covering. It is our body naturally riding what it knows it can no longer safely carry. If our bodies hold onto an embryo that the body knows is no longer viable, not only will it further destroy the embryo, but it can also destroy you. Holding onto a dead thing is not a viable option. So our bodies rid what is no longer viable to make way for new life. It’s not an easy process to understand—let alone accept. But GOD created our bodies and He created us. He knows what we can endure; He’s aware of our threshold. GOD knew my unborn child before they were formed in my womb (Joshua 1:3), and He had plans for them (Jeremiah 29:11). Who am I to say that my unborn child’s purpose was not to expand my faith? Who am I to say that this experience was not a part of GOD’s plan for their life?
Miscarrying my child changed me.
It took something from me.
It stripped me–in so many ways.
And while a part of me will never recover from it, I am thankful that even in death, my unborn child grew me.
There is no doubt that I am saddened that I won’t get to meet my child on this side of heaven, but I rejoice knowing that I will get to see them one day—and that they are with The Father–a good Father–waiting for me to arrive.
If you made it to the end of this post, I want to say THANK YOU.
Thank you for holding space for me to share this with you and for showing up for me.
I am thankful for you being here.
Always praying GOD’s love & light your way,
xo, Nic.
