I’ve always been plus-sized and struggled with heavy cycles, pain, and cramping, but for years doctors only offered birth control instead of looking deeper.
By my late 20s, my husband and I were trying to conceive. After three years of heartbreak, I finally saw my very first positive pregnancy test on February 13, 2017—just shy of my 30th birthday. I was in shock, excited, nervous, and hopeful. I told my husband the next day as a Valentine’s Day surprise. We were overjoyed, already making plans, and set up my first appointment. We wanted to announce on my 30th birthday.
But just four days later, on February 17th, my world shattered. While at work, I began spotting. By late afternoon, I miscarried and saw my baby still in the sac. In shock, I finished my workday before rushing to the ER. The staff confirmed the loss. At my follow-up, instead of compassion, I was met with cruelty—a nurse scolding me for not canceling and a doctor coldly saying, *“It happens. You’re overweight.”* I felt utterly alone, dismissed, and broken.
We tried again. I conceived in December 2017, but the pregnancy ended quickly. In July 2018, I conceived once more, and this time I found a new doctor who truly cared. Sadly, I miscarried again before my appointment, but for the first time, I felt supported. He ran tests, and I was diagnosed with PCOS and low progesterone.
In December 2018, I conceived our fourth baby. This pregnancy lasted longer, but I ultimately lost that baby too. I was even hospitalized for a suspected ectopic. Though my doctor didn’t have rights at that hospital, he still called me personally at night to check in. I didn’t know doctors like that existed.
Over the years, we endured seven losses. Some happened before I even knew I was pregnant, and we never got progesterone in time to try to save them. By 2023, I was mentally and physically exhausted.
In March 2024, I decided I could not face another loss. I started the process for a tubal ligation, only to discover during testing that I was pregnant again. For a moment, I thought—maybe this is my rainbow. But the ultrasound showed there was no baby. I waited for my body to heal, and in June 2024, I went through with the procedure.
It was one of the hardest choices I’ve ever made—to close the door on carrying a child of my own. My biggest dream since childhood was to be a mom. While I’ll never hold my rainbow baby in my arms, I carry all my Sweetpea Babies in my heart. They are with me every day, and one day, I’ll see them again.
My rainbow now is in sharing my story, wearing this skirt, and letting others know they are not alone. Some may suggest IVF or adoption, and maybe someday those paths will be possible. But for now, I’ve found peace.
I am an angel mom. I am a furbaby mom. I am an aunt. I’ve helped raise the babies of friends I love dearly. And while my story may not look the way I once imagined, it is mine.
To my 8 Sweetpea Babies—Mommy loves you forever.
Listen to Mel on the Finding Hope After Loss Podcast!
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Listen to the Finding Hope After Loss Podcast!