Megan Stoisits

A few weeks later, I began to experience cramps and spotting. I didn’t know what was happening—I had no idea how common miscarriage was because no one talked about it. At the hospital, I was left in limbo for hours with no answers, no support, and no compassion. I miscarried naturally in the emergency room, with congratulations texts still lighting up my phone from family and friends who had just learned the happy news.

The follow-up appointment with my doctor only deepened my despair. The ultrasound tech coldly told me, “There’s no pregnancy here,” as if it were a simple fact, not the end of the future I had already envisioned. The dismissive attitudes I encountered left me feeling small, unworthy, and ashamed for grieving so deeply.

Megan found Life Coaching & Therapy helpful during her journey. Click here to read about the key differences.

The Weight of Unexplained Infertility

After my first miscarriage, I was determined to move forward. We began trying again immediately, believing that the next pregnancy would bring us our rainbow baby. But month after month, my period came, and with it, a deepening sense of failure.

For 18 months, we faced unexplained infertility. Each negative pregnancy test chipped away at my hope and my sense of self. I began to wonder if I was broken. Was my body incapable of doing the one thing I thought it was designed to do?

What made it worse was the silence. As a healthy 27-year-old, my doctors saw no need for fertility treatment. They assured me it would “just happen,” but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The isolation of navigating this journey without answers or support was suffocating.

The Second Loss: Quiet Grief

In late 2016, I finally became pregnant again. I was thrilled but cautious. We didn’t tell anyone right away, wanting to protect ourselves in case something went wrong. And something did.

Only days after discovering the pregnancy, I miscarried again. Unlike the first loss, this one felt quieter, more internal. I hadn’t had time to share the joy with others, so I carried the grief alone. I didn’t even call my doctor—I already knew there was nothing they could do.

This loss solidified my feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness. I began to believe that I wasn’t meant to be a mother. The emotional toll of repeated losses and infertility was overwhelming, but I felt like I had no one to turn to who truly understood.

A Rainbow After the Storm

In 2018, after consulting fertility specialists and undergoing a battery of tests that all came back normal, I became pregnant with my son. This time, I was placed on progesterone and monitored closely by the fertility clinic during the first trimester. Every appointment was fraught with anxiety.

While my pregnancy was physically healthy, I struggled emotionally. I couldn’t allow myself to fully embrace the joy of carrying my child, haunted by the fear that something would go wrong. Even as I approached the end of my pregnancy, I remained hypervigilant, unable to shake the feeling that my body might betray me again.

Despite the anxiety, my son was born healthy and thriving. He is the light of my life, and I am endlessly grateful for him.

The Third Loss and Letting Go

In 2021, my husband and I decided to try for a second child. I became pregnant quickly, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that maybe the hard part was over. But shortly before Christmas, I began spotting.

Losing this pregnancy felt like losing the future I had dreamed of for my family. My husband and I had hoped to give our son a sibling, and the grief of knowing that might never happen was crushing.

We decided to pursue IUI treatments, but after four failed rounds, we knew we had reached our limit. The emotional, physical, and financial toll of trying to conceive had strained every aspect of our lives—our marriage, our mental health, and our ability to be present for the son we already had.

Making the decision to stop trying was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It felt like giving up on a dream I had carried for years. But it was also freeing. For the first time in nearly a decade, I allowed myself to focus on the life I had instead of the life I had been chasing.

Finding Healing and Purpose

Healing after loss isn’t linear, and it isn’t easy. For years, I tried to push through the pain, pretending I was okay when I wasn’t. It wasn’t until I gave myself permission to grieve fully that I began to heal.

Therapy, journaling, and spending time in nature became my lifelines. I learned to set boundaries, to say no to situations that triggered my grief, and to prioritise my well-being.

Today, I channel my experiences into supporting others as “The Miscarriage Mentor.” Sharing my story has been both cathartic and empowering. I want other women to know that they are not alone, that their grief is valid, and that there is no “right” way to heal.

A Message of Hope

If there’s one thing I want others to take away from my story, it’s that healing is possible. It doesn’t mean forgetting or moving on—it means learning to carry your grief in a way that allows you to also carry hope.

Loss changes you, but it doesn’t define you. You are so much stronger than you know, and your story is not over. Whether you’re still in the thick of your grief or beginning to find your way forward, I hope my story reminds you that you’re not alone.

With love,

Megan

To read about 7 lessons from Megan's story, click here.