PJ’s Story
Untold was lovingly weaved into fruition after I experienced my first pregnancy loss in 2020. Within one year, I went on to experience four pregnancy losses in total. Each carried its own story, grief, and heartache. Initially, I kept my loss private, telling co-workers I had been “sick” when in fact I had lost a baby and undergone multiple procedures — one of which resulted in the loss of a fallopian tube due to an ectopic pregnancy.
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After my second loss — a miscarriage — I felt an overwhelming urge to share. I no longer wanted to write it off as illness. The reality was: I was grieving. I found profound healing in sharing my story, in raising awareness (through Sands Australia), and in challenging what I came to realise was a deep stigma surrounding pregnancy loss.
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As a woman who has experienced pregnancy loss, it is the most intimate form of death — one that literally passes through you. The grief and loss are visceral, and at times, you can feel profoundly isolated in your experience. That’s how I felt until I began sharing my story publicly. It was only then that friends and strangers reached out to share their own. I felt heard and understood — though many of those conversations remained private, one-on-one moments.
The trauma I endured during this time was deeply debilitating. While grieving the loss of my babies, I also faced negligence within the healthcare system, layered with the harshness of COVID restrictions. Due to those restrictions, my partner at the time was only permitted to drop me at the Emergency Department. I wasn’t allowed a support person during any of my admissions. Once triaged and moved to a ward, I was allowed just one visitor every 24 hours — and only for an hour. This hour was closely monitored, and we were even reprimanded for holding hands, as physical contact was strictly prohibited. When I told the nurse we had just lost our baby and were seeking comfort from one another, she stated that it didn’t matter. In our deepest moments of need, even physical comfort was not allowed.
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This disconnect came on the back of being administered methotrexate to try and save my fallopian tube — which sadly, it didn’t. During that time, I was told I couldn’t kiss or touch anyone, and every trip to the toilet required gloves, for a week.
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During our second pregnancy loss, I was told there was no heartbeat — alone — while he waited outside in the waiting room. I was then allowed to inform him, but not in private. I had to walk into a communal waiting room, in tears, and break the news to him in front of strangers. Just two minutes later, we were brought back into the scanning room, where staff had now changed their minds about the restrictions — but it was all too late. Shortly after, he was sent home again, as I was admitted to have the baby removed.
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Our third pregnancy also ended in miscarriage. Alone on the ward once again, I was initially told it likely wasn’t a miscarriage and that I should stay overnight for monitoring. Wanting him to get some rest, I encouraged him to go home and turn his phone off, planning to speak in the morning. Just past midnight, sharing a room with a distressed, suicidal woman, I was told we had lost our third baby. I was only allowed to go home if someone could pick me up from the hospital. With him asleep and unreachable, I had to call my mum and, in the same breath, tell her I had been pregnant — and that I had lost the baby.
She met me outside the hospital. It was pouring rain. She stood hugging me as I cried — lost, overwhelmed, and unsure of what to do next. She drove me home. I went into our bedroom and stood at the bedside, crying — and that’s how he woke. I shared the news.
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By this stage — a third pregnancy loss in a single year — I had no leave left. To heal, I had to use my annual leave. It was frustrating beyond words, because this was not a holiday. It was not rest.
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Our fourth pregnancy loss was another miscarriage. I was told by the doctor on shift that I “might not even be pregnant.” To dismiss a woman’s lived experience — when she knows she is losing her child — is appalling. I offered to show him the pregnancy test I had in my bag, and only then did he say, “It’s OK, I believe you.” Seconds earlier, it hadn’t felt that way at all.
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I have also experienced a fifth pregnancy loss — this time with my current partner. While the relationship and circumstances were different, the grief remained achingly familiar. This loss brought with it a new layer of pain, but also a quiet strength. My current partner's support looked and felt different — more present, more emotionally available — which offered a sense of safety I hadn’t known during previous experiences. Still, it was another goodbye. Another spirit I had to let go of before I ever got to hold them in my arms.
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Cue a perpetual healing journey, one that for a time coincided with four rounds of IVF.
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Motherhood for me means I have empty arms with a heart full of spirit. Not only the spirit of self but that too of my spirit babies. Babies that had a heartbeat in unison with mine until they had to leave. By taking a deep dive into self and feeling my emotions and experience to completion, I now embrace myself each day for who I am without the need to control a desired outcome. I have found peace in the knowing in this lifetime Motherhood will not be a physical experience (apart from my furry children!) but a spiritual one instead.
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I found transformational healing came when I went to a women’s circle and I was heard, fully, for the first time. With no suggestion, no toxic positivity. Simply heard by women. This circled fuelled a desire to hold space for other women to experience the same healing I felt in this moment. Supported by women with shared experience. Allowing the revolution of sharing our babies' stories, our stories therefore normalising the conversation, removing stigma for women to come.
