When my partner, Sarah, announced her pregnancy in December 2017, I was filled with a whirlwind of emotions—anticipation, joy, and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. I was about to become a father for the first time in August 2018, and while the thought excited me, it also left me feeling daunted.
Being someone who has always struggled with expressing my feelings, I found myself grappling with the enormity of the situation. It took me years to propose to Sarah and even longer to confess my love for her. Now, I was expected to embrace a baby I had yet to meet with a depth of love that felt foreign to me. Could I really rise to the occasion of fatherhood?
Tragically, we lost the pregnancy, and I found myself questioning if I would ever get to experience that journey.
For mothers, pregnancy is a deeply personal and immediate experience from the moment of conception. For me, the concept of impending parenthood felt abstract. I understood that Sarah was pregnant, but the reality of it didn’t fully register. Meanwhile, Sarah was already enveloped in the maternal instinct, filled with hopes and fears about how she would be able to love this new life.
As we approached the due date, I hoped that my apprehensions would fade. Perhaps when I felt the baby kick or saw the ultrasound images, I’d feel more prepared. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
On April 13, 2018, we went for the 20-week anatomy scan. I wouldn’t say I was entirely at ease—especially considering the date—but we had undergone IVF with PGS testing to mitigate our previous losses. We thought we were safe.
Then came the words no expectant parent ever wants to hear: “We have a problem.” Our baby had a lethal genetic abnormality unrelated to anything we had done. It was a cruel twist of fate, a mutation so rare that it occurs in only 1 in 35,000 pregnancies. And we were that one.
This loss felt like a multitude of heartbreaks: the joy we had envisioned, the purpose we had anticipated, and the future we had started to build. Initially, I didn’t feel the loss of a child so much as the loss of a dream. My emotions were barricaded, a defense mechanism I had relied on too often.
Three months later, on July 13, 2018, Sarah and I planted two memorial flowers at our front door. Each bulb represented a lost child, alongside one for hope. We had intended to wait until the birth to learn the baby’s gender, but with the sobering reality of our situation, we asked the IVF doctor for that information, which we kept in an envelope with our ultrasound photos.
As we planted those bulbs, we opened the envelope together. In a painful twist, we learned we would have had a daughter.
It’s easy to dwell on what could have been—teaching her to ride a bike, attending her milestones, or simply being there for her. It often feels unbearable, and I find myself overwhelmed with grief, even now. Yet, as time passes, my perspective shifts. That little girl existed in our lives for 20 weeks. She was part of our everyday moments, from Barre classes with her mother to March Madness basketball games with me. She brought us joy, love, and hope—qualities children are meant to inspire.
While we may never meet in this life, she will always be my daughter, and I will always be her father.
If you’re navigating your own journey through pregnancy and loss, check out this excellent resource for understanding the IVF process. And for those interested in home insemination, you can learn more about the process at our other blog, the home insemination kit. If you’re considering artificial insemination, the Impregnator kit is a great option.
In summary, coping with the loss of an unborn child is a complex journey filled with heartbreak, reflection, and eventual acceptance. While I may not have had a chance to know my daughter, the impact she had on my life will resonate forever.
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