Navigating Fertility Trauma: Holding Hope Through Grief

The weight of loss is something I have carried not just as a reproductive mental health therapist, but as a mother whose own journey has been marked by grief, resilience, and transformation.

In 2018, I lost my daughter. There are no words to describe the hollowness that follows losing a child you have longed for, dreamed about, and already loved with every fiber of your being. The world kept moving, but mine stopped. And as I worked to help other women process their reproductive trauma, I found myself navigating my own.

The following year was a haze of trying and waiting—each month another letdown, another heartbreak. When I finally conceived, hope flickered to life, only to be extinguished by a chemical pregnancy. The emotional whiplash was unbearable. Shortly after, I conceived again. This time, a son. But instead of joy, anxiety took root. Every appointment felt like a battlefield, hypervigilance my only armor. I held my breath between scans, expecting the worst, unable to trust my body or fate.

Then, at 35 weeks, the world turned upside down. The pandemic was raging, and an emergency C-section brought my son into the world sooner than expected. He was rushed to the NICU, where only I was allowed to visit due to COVID restrictions. I spent those long, lonely hours by his side, aching for the presence of my partner, for the comfort of normalcy that no longer existed. Bringing him home should have been a relief, but the trauma of his early arrival lingered.

A year later, another pregnancy. Another loss. This one stretched over a grueling month, my body clinging to what my heart already knew was gone. The miscarriage ended with a D&C, and I was left shattered once more.

And yet, I kept going. I conceived again—another son. This time, the first 16 weeks were clouded by bleeding and fear. I held my breath, waiting for the worst. My body, my mind, everything felt fragile. But he made it. Born at 37 weeks via C-section after my water broke, he arrived safely in my arms, and for the first time in a long time, I exhaled.

Two and a half years passed before I conceived again. This pregnancy, I knew, would be my last. My body struggled under the weight of it—severe fatigue, relentless morning sickness, pneumonia, a dislocated knee, multiple falls. Each setback a reminder that this journey had taken its toll. On top of it all, anxiety gripped me tightly as doctors were uncertain if this pregnancy would continue. During my pregnancy with my daughter Ellie, I was diagnosed with a bicornuate uterus. This time, the baby attached in the middle of the heart-shaped uterus, creating an irregularly shaped gestational sac. The uncertainty was overwhelming, making every scan and appointment feel like a precarious moment between hope and heartbreak.

I found out I was carrying another boy through NIPT testing. The 20-week ultrasound is coming up, and I feel the weight of this appointment. Joy and grief intertwined as I processed the reality of never having another daughter. The gender disappointment was real, and alongside it, the bittersweet recognition that this was the final chapter of my fertility journey. No more trying, no more hoping, no more devastating losses. Just closure.

Holding Space for Healing and Hope

If you are navigating a scary and traumatic fertility journey, know that your story matters. You are not alone. Whether you have experienced pregnancy loss, struggled with infertility, or faced high-risk pregnancies, your feelings are valid. Pushing through to have the family you dream of—no matter how that family looks—requires immense strength. Here are some ways to cope along the way:

1. Allow Yourself to Grieve

Grief is not linear, and healing doesn’t come with a timeline. Honor the losses, the setbacks, and the expectations that were not met. It’s okay to feel anger, sadness, or even numbness. Give yourself permission to feel it all.

2. Seek Support

Lean on a therapist, a support group, or a trusted friend who understands. Fertility trauma is deeply isolating, but you don’t have to carry it alone. Community can be a lifeline.

3. Find Meaning in Your Journey

Your story may not look like what you first envisioned, but that doesn’t mean it is any less beautiful. Find ways to honor your journey—whether through journaling, creating rituals of remembrance, or advocating for others experiencing similar struggles.

4. Release the Idea of Control

One of the hardest aspects of fertility struggles is the lack of control. Acknowledge what is beyond your power, and focus on what you can do: nurture your body, protect your mental health, and make informed choices with your medical team.

5. Give Yourself Grace

You are surviving something profoundly difficult. Be gentle with yourself. There is no “right” way to navigate this process. Do what feels best for you, even if it changes from one day to the next.

6. Redefine Hope

Hope isn’t always about a specific outcome—it’s about believing in the possibility of joy again, in whatever form it takes. Maybe that means continuing to try, exploring alternative paths to parenthood, or finding peace with where your journey has led you.

As I sit with the enormity of this ending, I hold space for myself the way I have held space for so many others. I honor the children I have lost, the ones I have brought earthside, and the woman I have become through it all. This journey has been brutal, beautiful, and everything in between. And as I prepare to close this chapter, I do so with intentionality, gratitude, and a heart forever shaped by the lives that have touched it.

No matter where you are in your fertility journey, I hope you hold on to the truth that your story is still unfolding—and that there is light ahead, even in the darkest moments.

Kate Springer, LMFT