What No One Tells You About Recovery After Pregnancy Loss

August 7th, 2025

The Day I Went Under

We had been in the waiting room all day, just… waiting. It was close to 6 p.m. when Dakota told me he needed to pick up Anastasia from daycare. I could see the strain in his eyes — this whole situation was heavy for him, too. I told him to go, hoping the break would give him a moment to breathe.

But twenty minutes after he left, they finally called my name to head into the post-op area.

I remember staring at the little blue dot on Google Location, watching as Dakota made his way closer and closer to the hospital. I’d glance at the screen, then look up to answer nurses’ questions, signing paperwork with shaky hands. In my heart, I was so hopeful they’d make it back in time so I could see them before going into surgery.

But that moment never came.

Before I knew it, I was being wheeled into the operating room without getting to see my husband or my baby girl one last time. I fought back tears, trying to steady my breathing and believe everything would go fine — that I’d see them after.

The room was cold. Too cold. The nurse placed a mask over my face, telling me to imagine myself at the beach with cabana boys. I tried to smile, but all I could think of was Dakota. I was nervous. I was sad. I was grieving.

And then — nothing.

When I woke, the pain hit in two places: the ache of the surgery and the hollow place in my heart where my baby should have been. I was now in recovery, but not the kind that comes with a happy ending.

The days after were harder than I ever expected. I couldn’t pick up Anastasia — my three-month-old who still needed me — because of my incisions. I had to watch Dakota carry her, rock her, feed her. My arms, already empty from losing one baby, now felt doubly empty from not being able to hold the other.

Grief is not just an emotional wound; it’s physical. It’s in the stillness your body forces on you when you want to run to your child. It’s in the cold room you remember before the anesthesia. It’s in the goodbye you wanted, but never got.

Even now, I cling to the small anchors — Dakota’s quiet presence, Anastasia’s sleepy sighs when I can hold her in my lap, my whispered prayers in the dark.

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

That night, I went under with a heart full of fear and faith. And though I woke up with pain I couldn’t see, I also woke up still held in God’s hands.

What Was Lost

What makes this grief so heavy isn’t just the surgery or the recovery — it’s what was taken from me that day.

The surgeon kept referring to my baby as “an abnormality.” I know they didn’t mean to be cruel, but every time I heard it, it pierced me. It wasn’t just an abnormality. It was a baby — my baby — who simply got stuck. And now, I feel stuck too.

Ectopic pregnancy loss is so different from other losses. Your body can still feel pregnant. Your heart can still be ready to welcome new life. But the outcome is already written, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. In one procedure, I lost access to one of my ovaries — and I lost my child.

I wanted this baby. I was excited for this baby. I had already pictured their little face in my mind, imagined the sound of their cry, and the weight of their body in my arms. Now, all I have is the ache of absence — the silence where their heartbeat never had the chance to grow strong enough to be heard.

I am broken. I am afraid. And in this moment, I need God more than ever. He is the only one who can hold me together when my pieces feel too scattered to gather myself.

“The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.” – Psalm 18:2

How I Will Cope

Right now, the only way I can move forward is to keep my eyes on the future. Yesterday, my daughter turned four months old. She is the light that pulls me out of bed, the reason I keep breathing through the heaviness. She reminds me that there is still beauty here, even when it feels buried under grief.

I know I need to heal — not just physically from surgery, but emotionally and spiritually from loss. That means giving myself grace when the waves of sadness hit, allowing myself to cry when I need to, and remembering that my worth and purpose are not defined by what I’ve lost.

Coping for me will be about honoring the baby I carried, even for such a short time, while also pouring into the life I have now. It will be choosing moments of gratitude each day, leaning into prayer when I feel weak, and letting my faith guide me through the darkness.

I am still here. I am still a mother. And I believe God can take even this pain and create something meaningful from it — something that will one day make me stronger, softer, and more compassionate than I was before.