Love Letter No. 010: To My Miscarriage

September 15, 2026

There are certain dates that quietly stay with you.

You continue living your life. You celebrate birthdays, accomplish goals, laugh with friends, and create new memories. Yet every year, when that particular time comes around, your mind gently returns to a chapter you thought you had already made peace with.

This is one of mine.

Seven years have passed, and there are still moments when I think about you.

I think about the excitement I felt the day I found out I was pregnant. I think about sitting in the exam room, hearing your heartbeat for the very first time and watching your tiny body appear on a screen. It was such a small moment, yet it carried so much hope. In an instant, my world became bigger because it now included you.

Then things changed.

What started as light spotting slowly became something I could no longer convince myself was normal. I remember the uncertainty more than anything. Wanting reassurance. Wanting someone to tell me everything was going to be okay. Instead, I received news that changed my life in a matter of minutes.

I left that appointment carrying a grief I had never experienced before.

A few days later, my body said goodbye before my heart was ready.

I remember returning for another ultrasound. The room looked the same, but everything felt different. The place where I had once seen your heartbeat was now empty, and suddenly I understood that life could change far more quickly than I had ever imagined.

There are moments from that season that I will probably remember forever. Not because I want to relive them, but because grief has a way of preserving certain memories with incredible detail. They become part of your story whether you ask them to or not.

Looking back, one of the greatest gifts I received during that time was the people who refused to let me carry that grief alone. They didn’t have the perfect words, and they didn’t need to. They showed up. They checked on me. They sat with me in the silence when there was nothing left to say. I don’t think they will ever fully understand how much that meant to me.

Losing you changed me.

It taught me that grief doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it appears quietly, years later, when you pass a due date that never came or wonder who someone might have become. Sometimes it arrives as gratitude for the people who carried you through your darkest days. Sometimes it simply exists beside you, no longer consuming your life but never completely disappearing either.

For a long time, I wondered if I would always remember this chapter with nothing but pain.

Now, seven years later, I realize I remember it with love, too.

Love for the life I briefly carried.

Love for the people who carried me.

Love for the version of myself who somehow found the strength to keep going, even when she wasn’t sure she could.

You will always be a part of my story.

Seven years later, I carry more peace than pain, more gratitude than grief, and a love that time could never erase.

With love,

Chandler