What My Body Remembered: Roots Beneath the Grief
A soft telling of loss, love, and the seasons inside me.
There are stories we don’t imagine will ever become ours.
Stories we hear in passing, whispered, softened, spoken carefully, and we think, I hope I never have to learn what that feels like.
And then one day, without warning, we are living it.
My story is one of deep, instant, unconditional love, and of loss, repeated and unexplained.
Six pregnancies.
Six heartbeats.
Six small lives that began inside of me and ended before I could hold them in my arms.
This is not a story of grief without hope.
This is a story of love that continues, even where life does not.
I share this because grief grows heavier in silence, and I refuse to carry it in the dark anymore.
You are not alone here.
And neither am I.
Evelyn Rose — My First Baby (November 2023)
She was my first pregnancy, and I had no fear.
No one had ever told me miscarriage was common.
No one had ever told me that joy could be interrupted so suddenly.
We saw her heartbeat.
We found out she was a girl at 10 weeks.
Her name was already hers, Evelyn Rose.
At 12 weeks, the ultrasound room went quiet.
I remember realizing too slowly what silence meant.
We cried until we couldn’t breathe.
I miscarried her at home.
Hours of contractions.
Pain I had never known before.
We buried her in our garden and planted a rose bush.
It blooms for her.
Caleb Raine — My Second Baby (March 2024)
We believed it couldn’t happen again.
We were wrong.
I knew from the beginning he was a boy.
His name is Caleb Raine.
We saw him dancing at the 12-week scan.
We let ourselves relax, just a little.
Two days later, there was blood.
At the ER, they confirmed his heart had stopped.
I miscarried him at home, too.
This time, I had to push.
Labor, without the joy of a cry at the end.
We buried him with his sister.
Their rose bush blooms for them both.
Aurora Claire — My Third Baby (August 2024)
By now, I no longer believed a heartbeat meant safety.
I started progesterone, but the dose was minimal, almost performative.
She made it to 8 weeks.
Her name is Aurora Claire.
I had a D&C to allow for testing.
I wanted answers so badly.
But afterward, the doctor called to say they hadn’t collected her remains.
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I had unknowingly passed my daughter into the toilet at home and flushed.
I didn’t know.
But guilt doesn’t respond to logic.
I still carry that ache.
Logan Asher — My Fourth Baby (January 2025 — New Year’s Day)
This pregnancy was intentional, but layered in complicated emotion.
Part of me knew from the start it would end.
I wanted to be the one to bring him in for testing myself.
He made it to 8 weeks.
His name is Logan Asher.
This time, I miscarried at home on purpose, so I could bring him to the doctor for testing.
The results came back: he was perfectly healthy.
No explanation.
No reason.
Just loss.
Connor Orion — My Fifth Baby (June 2025)
This one was unplanned.
I was preparing for our wedding.
Life was full, layered, moving forward.
We kept this pregnancy private.
Just us and him.
He made it to 10 weeks.
His name is Connor Orion.
When we lost him, I didn’t break the same way outwardly, and it hurt my husband to see me so still.
But I wasn’t numb.
I was overwhelmed.
We were getting married.
We were moving into our new home.
We buried him with his siblings and moved the rose bush with us.
I couldn’t leave my babies behind.
Vivienne Rose — My Sixth Baby (October 2025)
I don’t know why, but I believed in this one.
Maybe because the progesterone dosage was corrected.
Maybe because we conceived her on my husband’s birthday trip.
Maybe just because hope is stubborn.
She made it to 10 weeks.
Her name is Vivienne Rose.
My body knew before anything else did, as it had before.
I felt the shift.
I knew the story I was about to live again.
Losing her broke something open.
I took time off work.
I slept, cried, and disappeared for a while.
I visited a medium.
What happened there was gentle, not closure, but connection.
The girls came forward.
There was peace.
There was love.
Something softened.
1 in 4 women will experience miscarriage.
But recurrent loss, pregnancy after pregnancy, heartbeat after heartbeat, hope rising and collapsing over and over, is a grief very few talk about.
My test results? Normal.
My babies? Healthy.
My losses? Unexplained.
We are now undergoing further testing with Boston IVF.
If answers don’t come, IVF will be our next step.
I am willing to try, at least once, to bring one of my babies home.
Because I am a mother.
Because my babies existed.
Because their names matter.
They are buried in the garden, where the rose bush blooms.
Their presence is woven into every season of my life.
If you are reading this and your heart aches with familiarity:
I see you.
I sit with you.
Your grief is real.
Your love is real.
Your babies are real.
You are not alone.
And neither am I.
