Before we ever tried to have children, my husband and I had the conversations most couples hope they’ll never need. We talked about genetics, about chromosomal conditions, about what we would do if a pregnancy showed something was seriously wrong. I’m a paediatric nurse, so I’ve seen firsthand the lifelong impact severe disability can have — not just on the child, but on parents, siblings, marriages, and mental health. We knew, quietly but clearly, what our boundaries were. It might sound selfish to some, but it was honest and it was ours.
Our first pregnancy in 2022 was uncomplicated and blissfully uneventful. In February 2023, our first son was born healthy and thriving. We felt so lucky. So when we decided to try for another baby, we truly never imagined anything could go wrong.
I fell pregnant again in January 2024. The shock came quickly: our NIPT returned “high risk.” We went from happy anticipation to Googling in the middle of the night, falling down rabbit holes we never wanted to be in. A CVS confirmed our worst fears.
Ultrasounds also showed abnormalities that were incompatible with life. At 13 weeks, in April, we made the hardest decision of our lives and terminated that pregnancy. The oral medication didn’t work for me, so I required a D&C. We were devastated, but we were told it was likely just terrible luck- lightning that wouldn’t strike twice.
But grief has a way of ignoring statistics.
In August, I fell pregnant again, only to lose that pregnancy in a chemical pregnancy. Then, unbelievably, I conceived again the very next cycle in September 2024. For a moment, hope crept back in. We made it to 10 weeks and waited, the NIPT once again came back high risk. My heart sank in a way I now recognise all too well.
We went through the same process again: scans, another CVS, weeks of waiting for results. This time the baby didn’t look as unwell on ultrasound, so we let ourselves hope — just a little. But once again our fears were confirmed. The maternal–fetal medicine specialist told us this was only the second time in his 30+ year career he’d seen this happen to a genetically normal couple. My husband and I had both had extensive genetic testing. There were no deletions, no known risks. It was, once again, just “very, very bad luck.” In November 2024, at 14 weeks, we had our second TFMR in six months. Once again the oral medication failed and for the second time I woke up from a D&C without the baby I had been carrying. We were shattered. If it hadn’t been for our little boy at home - his laughter, his needs, his beautiful grounding presence for distraction - I don’t know how we would have survived that period.
One of the deepest, quietest griefs of that time was the time I lost with him. Both of the babies we lost were girls, and the old wives’ tale about girls making you sicker rang painfully true for me. I was so unwell in both pregnancies that I struggled to be present for my son. I wasn’t the mum I wanted to be. Looking back, that hurts almost as much as everything else.
Fast forward to February 2025, I fell pregnant again. Instant anxiety - though this time, all the early tests came back normal. I don’t think relief quite covers what we felt — it was more like cautious, fragile hope. That pregnancy was physically and emotionally hard. Loss changes you. It robs you of innocence and naivety. It wasn’t until the 20-week scan that I finally let myself believe that this baby might really come home.
In November 2025, almost exactly one year after my second D&C, our second son was born. He was perfection. He feels like a gift sent to us by the two babies we lost. He is pure joy. I tell my husband all the time that I wouldn’t change him for the world — I just wish we didn’t have to walk such a painful road to get to him.
TFMR changes you forever. Every time a friend announces a pregnancy, my first feeling is anxiety, not excitement. I wait for scans. I wait for reassurance. I wouldn’t wish what we went through on anyone. And yet, here we are - two little boys, a house full of noise and mess and laughter, and more love than I ever imagined possible. We carry our grief with us, but we also carry immense gratitude. Our family was shaped by loss, but it is sustained by love, and by the two beautiful children who are here with us now.
We also want to honour our two beautiful baby girls, who were so deeply loved and so deeply wanted. They were sent to heaven on 25 April 2024 and 4 November 2024, and they will forever be part of our family. They shaped our outlook on pregnancy and parenthood, they changed the course of our lives, and they will never be forgotten. To every other TFMR parent reading this: we see you. Your grief is real, your love is real, and your babies mattered. Our hope in sharing our story is that you feel a little less alone, a little more understood, and reminded that even in the deepest loss, your experience deserves compassion, respect, and space to be held.
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