Losing Our Baby
November 14th, 2025 I was due to deliver our baby.
Instead, I’m birthing a story of loss and love.
This is the account of our baby’s life, my miscarriage, the moment we saw and held our baby, and the astonishing ways we saw God’s goodness in the midst of tragedy. It’s raw, it’s honest, and when you read it, my prayer is your heart will be moved.
One Sunday morning in March, I stood at the kitchen counter with Chris and uttered a short prayer, “Let us be content with whatever it is.” In front of us, a piece of paper covered a pregnancy test. We’d been trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant for seven months, and my period was a few days late. I thought nothing of it as a delayed period wasn’t unusual for me, and I felt no different than any other day. Plus, we’d already taken an early pregnancy test and gotten a negative. So taking this test was a technicality, a “let’s just take this so we can move on with what we already know” sort of action.
After a few deep breaths, Chris pulled the paper off the test, and we were instantly flabbergasted. There was a plus sign… it was positive! We reacted in unison. We looked at the test. Gasped as our hands snapped up to cover our gaping mouths. Turned toward each other, eyes wide in disbelief. And then in sync, we turned back to the test to confirm the positive we weren’t expecting.
“Oh my gosh!” was all I could speak as Chris embraced me—tears running down my cheeks, his chest pounding so heavily he asked if it was my heart or his beating against him. We were shocked.
Pregnant
The rest of the day and the weeks to follow can largely be summed up in one word – disbelief. I knew I was pregnant, the two tests and lack of period confirmed it, but I couldn’t believe it. We’d been trying for months and months, after what felt like years of deciding, and here we were, pregnant. It was hard to wrap my mind around.
I was scared I’d be a super anxious person in this state, and that I’d be barfing like it was my job. But much to my surprise and gratitude, I was neither. I felt mostly like my typical Mindy-self except for around week six when my already hypermobile joints welcomed relaxin, a hormone that increases ligament laxity to help your body make space for a growing uterus and human. For me what that meant was even more mobility – I could hyperextend my joints more than usual and felt pain in my muscles as they tried to keep everything in place.
As far as the anxiety piece, I must pause and praise God. There was something about having literally zero control that served me really well. Instead of getting anxious and grasping for control, for once in my life I said, “Alright Lord, here we go! This is all in your hands.” Sure, I had moments of fear, don’t get me wrong. But I never touched my mind to worst case scenarios like miscarriage. I took one day at a time and trusted the Lord with the rest.
We kept our growing secret close to our chests during the nine and a half weeks I was pregnant. Both Chris and I waiting for our first ultrasound to make it feel truly real.
Unfortunately, we never made it there.
Bleeding
April 6th, I went to the bathroom and there on the toilet paper was a single drop of blood. My heart rate quickened as I sat there and tried to stay calm. This didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was a solo drop, which can be quite common in early pregnancy. After talking myself through the panic and talking with Chris, we did the only thing we could. We waited to see what happened.
We proceeded with our day, visited with family, and tried to stay positive. Every time I went to the bathroom, I held my breath and was grateful to find nothing new on the toilet paper. I chalked it up as my body going through the motions of menstruating and felt relieved. (FYI- it’s very common to spot while pregnant around the time of your period because your body is so used to this action.) After a week and a half of nothing, I thought I was in the clear.
April 14th, things took a turn. I was on my out the door to a hair appointment and I felt something purge from my body. (Women, you know what it feels like, when all of a sudden your period arrives. It’s a very distinct feeling.) Chris happened to be working from home that day and was standing in the entryway, panic in his eyes, when I froze and grabbed my crotch.
“I think I’m bleeding!” I exclaimed.
I went to the bathroom and was terrified to find I was right. Instead of one drop, this time I wiped away a heavy streak of bright red blood. Now, I was nervous. What could this be? I thought.
What’s wild (and was probably the Lord’s protection) is, at this point my mind didn’t run to miscarriage. I didn’t think I was cramping. And I had friends who bled in their pregnancies and went on to deliver healthy babies. I considered things I’d googled like subchorionic hematoma (which causes women to bleed pretty significantly) and questioned if somehow my hypermobility could be playing a role. I remained as calm as I could, but I had to admit this time it felt different.
I called the OBGYN and told a nurse what was happening. I was in a tricky spot. Our first ultrasound was to take place in three days, and they couldn’t get me in any sooner. So ideally my body could hang tight till then and we could get a better idea of what was going on. The only other option was to go to the ER and get an ultrasound. But let’s be honest, nobody wants to go to the emergency room unless absolutely necessary.
I opted for the wait and see approach. If things got gnarly and I was bleeding nonstop, then off we’d go. But for now, I sat tight—literally, as if somehow tightening my pelvic floor would keep the baby there—and prayed.
The next 24 hours were a rollercoaster. Overnight and through the morning, the bleeding stopped. Okay, maybe we are good! Then mid-afternoon, I took a short walk, and I felt it again – more blood. Hmm... maybe it does have to do with my hypermobility, it started after movement?
Back and forth I vacillated, from hopeful to questioning what was going on. And still, somehow even though I was now bleeding every time I went to the bathroom, I did not once consciously think, Mindy, you are miscarrying your baby.
My body on the other hand, knew what was happening and operated exactly as God designed it to.
Laboring in the night
Sometime during the dark, I felt something shift. Chris kept asking how I was feeling, or if I was feeling anything new, and my only inclination was, it feels like I’m on my heaviest day of my period. My uterus felt warm, like it was brewing something.
We went to bed and tried to sleep, although for me, it never came. Chris drifted off, and as I lay there praying, I felt a new sensation in my body. The pain in my abdomen now came in waves. Cramp, cramp, cramp, break. Cramp, cramp, cramp, break. It wasn’t unbearable so it didn’t cause alarm or anxiety, rather awareness. Interestingly I thought, I feel like if I timed this there would be a pattern to it. And then I paused. Like… contractions…
At one point, I felt the urge to get on the floor, do cat and cow movements, breathe and release the tension I felt. But I resisted. Subconsciously, I refused to participate in what I didn’t want to happen.
The sun came up, and the clock turned to 5 am. I texted my sister, updating her on how I was doing, and said, “I can’t wait anymore. I need to do something.” The plan was to go to the ER, after giving one final hail Mary to the OBGYN as soon as they opened.
I updated the nurse yet again on what was happening, and begged, “I know you don’t have any openings, but is there any way you can squeeze me in?”
Bless this nurse’s heart, I felt the compassion in her voice as she said, “I don’t think so. But let me see what I can do.”
A window of hope.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang and I held my breath. “We can get you in at 11:00 am,” she said. Thank you Jesus, I praised and spoke into the phone. “Thank you so much, we will be there.”
I now had two hours to wait to find out our fate.
No heartbeat
Chris dropped me off at the front door of the clinic and I hobbled my way in while he parked the car. I checked in with the receptionist and immediately felt the dissonance- the waiting room littered with seemingly happy pregnant women; me asking the receptionist if she had a giant pad I could use. This is not how it should be; I lamented.
A moment later, Chris and I were greeted by the ultrasound technician. Megan was her name, the compassionate tech who so graciously squeezed me in to her completely full schedule – thank you, Jesus.
“I’m scared,” I choked out through tears as she closed the door to the dimly lit exam room.
“I know you are,” she nearly whispered, her warm hand gently embracing my shoulder.
The first thing I asked her was if she would tell us if she didn’t find a heartbeat. I’ve heard of many women who were forced to wait for a doctor to come in and reveal the news their tech had found, as if there was anything unassumed left to be discovered. I am grateful, her response was, “yes, I will tell you.”
Chris and I were looking forward to this moment. Me on the paper-lined table, reaching out to hold Chris’ hand, anxiously waiting for the tech to show us our baby. But this was not that gleeful moment.
Chris watched the screen as she scanned my uterus. I couldn’t look. I didn’t want to. I stared ahead, my heavy heartbeat quaking my chest as I forced myself to breathe.
After what felt like an eternity, I asked, “Is there a baby in there?”
“There is…”
“Is it alive?”
“I’m not finding a heartbeat.”
“Oh…kay…” was all I could speak as I looked at Chris, then laid my head back and cried.
My body sunk into the table like a dead weight. My anxiety once holding a vice grip on every single muscle in my body immediately released, leaving emptiness in its place. I was physically and mentally relieved—an odd feeling to experience when your worst-case scenario is taking place—but my fear wasn’t unknown anymore. My mind now knew what my body already had. Our baby died.
I finally looked at the screen and saw our baby. The joy of what this moment should’ve been, stolen by death as we saw its tiny body motionless—the round head, growing body, mini limbs, all frozen at what the technician guessed was 8 weeks of gestational growth. Ahh...I thought. The timing tracked perfectly, everything I’d experienced the past week and a half became clear.
April 6th, the day I bled a single drop of blood, was when our baby went to be with Jesus.
Delivering our baby
The rest of the time in the dimly lit exam room is a foggy blur, both painfully slow and uncomfortably fast, until the moment I stood up after talking with the doctor. We were about to say goodbye and head home when I felt a giant gush. I hunched over and grabbed for Chris’ hand as I gripped my abdomen.
“I think something just happened,” I said with an edge of panic in my voice. “That felt like a lot.”
Dr. Renee, seeing the concern on my face, kindly offered to examine me and whisked us off to the neighboring exam room. There, back on a paper lined table, the doctor looked inside of me to see what was happening. I apologized for all the blood down there, and then laughed when she looked at me comically and said, “honey, that’s the business I’m in. You’re good.”
With a long tweezers, the doctor gently removed everything my body released. I opted to look straight forward, Chris standing by me, as I focused on breathing and tried to still my legs that were trembling in the stirrups. It felt like she was endlessly pulling things out of me, and placing whatever it was, on a silver tray.
Like a good doctor does, she asked us questions to try to keep us grounded. How long have you guys been married? Where did you meet? Chris, you doing okay? Not going to pass out on me, are you? He didn’t, he was a rock-solid expert-level partner as we endured this traumatic moment together.
After a little bit of time, her “work” slowed. She told me my body did a great job, and the bleeding was dissipating. From her doctorly perspective, everything had gone perfectly. My miscarriage was “complete.”
I had one major question for her… “can you see the baby?”
Every miscarriage is different. In many cases, the baby passes without being seen. In some, the mom needs a medicine or surgical procedure to clear out her uterus. And in my experience, my body released everything on its own—the baby still cozy in its amniotic sac.
Seeing and holding our baby
There inside a tiny translucent sac, about the length of my pinky finger, was our baby. A pale pink peanut sized little girl or boy with arms, legs, eyes, the start of a nose, and ears; fearfully and wonderfully made by Our creator in my womb.
He or she had been growing for 8 weeks and the development already, was absolutely breathtaking. I’ve never felt more in awe of the human body and God who created it so intricately. At this young gestational age our baby already had a growing brain, lungs, a strong heartbeat, and all the other major organs and systems in place.
Our initial meeting was brief, the doctor showing baby to us on the silver tray covered in red. But our second, a moment so tender it feels like it simply never existed, took place later when we held the tiny sac with our itty-bitty baby in the palm of our hand at home.
The doctor offered us a rare and intimate opportunity to take our baby with us and we gladly, brokenheartedly, took it. She wrapped baby up with great gentleness and care, placed him/her in a little “cozy spot” and handed the little container to Chris saying, “Here you go, dad”.
Heart. Be. Still.
We took our little one home and later that evening, we held our baby in our hands. We said countless “I love yous”, admired his/her eyes, tiny arms and legs, and told baby we cannot wait to be reunited in heaven. In a painfully precious moment, we said hello, and goodbye to our tiny treasure—and wept.
The goodness of God in the midst of our trauma
The past months have been challenging. I often still catch myself thinking, wait what? That happened to us? It is hard to wrap my mind around.
The only thing that makes sense in all of it, is the way that God explicitly cared for us in the midst of our loss. His provision transforms our story of tragedy, trauma, and loss, into one that is also about abundant love from our sovereign creator, God.
God moved mountains in two very specific ways that dropped our jaws and left us in awe. Please keep reading to hear the rest of our story and how I can confidently say I’ve never felt more seen or cared for by Him.
Leo’s surgery cancelled for our behalf
On April 16th, my nephew Leo was supposed to have a cervical fusion—an extensive, complicated surgery that would require a long recovery with delicate care post op. During the surgery, and days after, my niece was going to be in our care and then together we’d go visit Leo in the hospital. It was a whole family, all-hands on deck situation.
A few days before surgery, Leo developed a cold and the anesthesiologist said that put him at significant risk for potential breathing issues post-surgery. So, the surgery was cancelled. Leo had been healthy for months straight until suddenly two days before he got a tiny case of the sniffles, just enough to cancel a surgery that had required months and months of planning. Why God?! We all lamented. We asked Him to make it clear why Leo’s surgery had been postponed, but we didn’t expect to see the answer so clearly a few days later.
Later the day surgery was cancelled, I started bleeding, and on April 16th, the day Leo would’ve had surgery and Lola would’ve been in our care, I miscarried our baby.
I believe in full confidence that God allowed Leo to get the sniffles so that his surgery would be cancelled and we could have the full support of my family as we experienced this tremendous loss. This is no coincidence; He moved this surgery date, for us.
Smoothest, least dramatic miscarriage
The second piece of God’s provision is even more specific, and the realization stole my breath away moments after we left the doctor’s office.
Walking out of the clinic was brutal. I kept my tears at bay until the automatic doors opened, and we began our trek to the car. I half leaned on Chris, half dragged myself forward as I sobbed guttural cries, aware but unconcerned about the people looking at us most likely wondering what tragedy we had just endured.
We got to the car and sat there, stunned. What do we do now? Just go home? What. Just. Happened?! We held each other’s hands, cried, and recounted how grateful we were that it happened when and where it did. It would have been scary for it to happen at home, an experience that most miscarrying mothers endure. But we wouldn’t have even made it there. Had we left even two minutes earlier, it would’ve taken place on the elevator. And that would’ve been awful. But it didn’t.
At the thought, I gasped and cried even harder.
“Oh my gosh, Chris!” I choked out in between sobs. “God specifically answered my prayer.”
6:13 am that morning, I texted my sister and said, “I asked the Lord that if I’m going to miscarry, that it could please be in the smoothest, least dramatic way possible. Can you pray for that too?”
With my hand on my chest, a reaction of both shock and awe, I deepened my explanation, “Chris, I asked for this specifically—the smoothest, least panic-driven, least dramatic experience possible— and He went above and beyond to provide exactly that!”
I held my chest, overwhelmed by the abundant love of God. Our experience, miscarrying at the doctor’s office, surrounded by support who could guide us through the loss, help us understand what was happening, and make sure I was physically okay through it all was extremely rare; we were stunned and so grateful. God answered my prayer, providing for us in ways I wouldn’t have even known to ask for.
“Thank you, Jesus!” I sobbed. “Wow, Chris. That’s how much He loves us.”
With grief and gratitude
It’s hard to wrap up this blog post because this isn’t just a “story” coming to a close.
Chris and I are lamenting and grieving the loss of our baby, and we are unsure of what is next for us. We don’t know whether our family will expand or if it will be just the two of us, and our furball Flicker. But what we do know is that our heavenly Father will guide us and love us every single step of the way.
I remember sharing with a loved one about our miscarriage and in the same breath as our loss telling of how God had provided, and she was a bit shocked we could speak of good so quickly. Here is why I do, and why it was so important to me to include this pivotal piece of our story: there is always space to praise the who (our God who is good and present with us helping us navigate each and every moment), even while we lament the what.
If there’s one thing you walk away from our story with, may it be that. God is good, even when the worst things happen. He is there and will not abandon us; He will always redeem it for good.
If you think of us, please pray for us. It is not easy to pass our due date and be empty wombed and empty handed. We are trusting the Lord with our future, and that is all we can do.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read our story. It means a lot to be able to share the life and death of our baby with you, and to be able to highlight the goodness of God in the midst of it.
For my fellow mamas who never got to hold their baby
I am so sorry for your loss.
I am sorry you experienced death — not just of a hope and a dream as the world so easily categorizes it, but of a beloved baby that you carried.
I see you.
Your baby may have been small, but the grief you carry is not.