Speaking the Unspeakable: Two Losses, Twenty Years of Silence

I had my first miscarriage twenty years ago. And if I’m honest, it was my first real, prolonged mental health experience. It was the black dog, the one you don’t shift with fresh air or a brave face. It stayed. It sat with me. It swallowed me whole.

I was in a long-distance relationship at the time. He was toxic, but I didn’t have the language or the courage to say that out loud back then. Instead, I created an escape plan. I took a job that involved travel, the kind of opportunity people dream about. But for me, it wasn’t adventure. It was avoidance. It was running. And I was failing at that too, because grief travels with you.

Eventually, with a lot of time and a lot of survival, I came through the other side.

Or at least I thought I had.

Eight years later, I lost another baby, this time with the man who is now my husband.

This loss hit differently. It was quieter, more clinical, more isolating.

I remember sitting in the hospital, listening as doctors spoke about eggs, yolks, sacs, and poles. Medical language designed to create distance from emotion. They explained I had a blighted ovum. A pregnancy that had started but never developed. When I finally miscarried, it wasn’t just emotional pain, it was violent. It was like a murder scene. And I was alone.

The hospital told me I only needed to come back in if the pain became unbearable.

But what kind of pain were they talking about?

The kind in your abdomen or the kind in your chest? The kind in your body or the kind that feels like your heart has split in two?

I did what many of us do. I minimised it. I told myself, “People go through this all the time.” As if frequency makes it easier. As if pain becomes smaller just because it’s common.

My work was understanding at first. Then I sent in a fit note to extend my leave, and everything shifted. My support started to feel conditional. Suspicious. Cold.

That note ended on a Monday, not because I was ready, but because that’s how dates work on paper.

The weekend before I was due back, I went to a wellness retreat. I needed air. I needed to not be where I’d been. I posted on Facebook that I’d arrived at my “big comfy bed.” Someone from work noticed the location tag and saw I wasn’t in the UK.

I knew then what it looked like.

My return to work wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t eased back. Instead, I was placed beside a heavily pregnant colleague, with the area manager present, waiting to discipline or dismiss me.

Grief on my left. Authority on my right.

That moment broke something in me.

And that’s when my mental health truly collapsed.

It’s been almost ten years since that time. And I’m only now finding the courage to speak about it properly. I am still angry. Still hurt. Still sad. Not just because of my babies, but because of how unsupported I was, how quickly compassion faded once paperwork got involved.

Back then, there was no support.

And if I’m honest, I’m not convinced there is enough support now either.

The statistics tell us how common miscarriage is. But where is the system that catches people when they fall?

I know women who have had multiple losses. Repeated losses. And still struggle to access meaningful counselling or appropriate emotional support.

We talk about miscarriage more openly now and that’s progress. But talking isn’t enough if it doesn’t come with care.

This isn’t just a story about pregnancy loss.

It’s about the mental health aftermath. The silence. The professional consequences. The isolation. The way grief lingers in the body and nervous system long after everyone else expects you to move on.

I don’t need sympathy. I need space. And I need people to understand that loss doesn’t fade because time passes.

Sometimes it just gets quieter, until you’re finally ready to speak.

And maybe… this is me doing exactly that.