Pregnant After Loss — How Do I Feel Safe Again?

This Journal entry is available in two ways: you can read it below, or press play to hear me sharing it in my own voice.

Before I go any further, I just need to let you know that if you listen to the voice note above, you will hear that I do cry at least once whilst I was recording this. It’s such a sensitive subject and incredibly close to my heart. And if you’re reading this, there’s a good chance you’re where I once was — and that’s a really hard place to be. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But I really, really hope this helps.

Pregnant after loss. How do I feel safe again?
That question hit me so much harder than I expected it to.

Before I had Paisley, I had four miscarriages, all at different stages. And without ranking one loss above another, because all losses hit hard, but two of them were traumatic. Really, really traumatic. I don’t think pregnancy was ever going to feel the same after that. Even knowing it would be different, I wasn’t prepared for how it actually felt.

When I saw the two lines on the test with Paisley, I was terrified. Looking back now, I know this was the pregnancy where I got my baby. It was healing in so many ways. But at the time, all I felt was fear. My mind spiralled instantly. Here we go again. How far will I get this time? Will I end up in hospital again? Will the tablets work this time, or will I need surgery again? That devastating spiral hit hard.

And then came the guilt. I should be grateful. I can get pregnant. We have friends who tried for years and years. And here I was, pregnant for the fifth time, pregnant after four losses, unable to feel joy. I remember going to tell Liam and just crying. I desperately wanted to be happy. I didn’t want to miss out on the joy and the excitement. But at the same time, I needed to protect myself. I wasn’t expecting to feel so overwhelmed and so guilty all at once.

I knew pregnancy would feel different — that made sense to me. I’d spoken to friends who had babies before my losses and babies after, and they said the same thing. Loss doesn’t just impact the person who experiences it. It ripples outwards. Once loss becomes real, you can’t unknow it. You’re no longer starting from a neutral place. You’re starting from memory. And often, a really painful one.

If I’m being completely honest, I hadn’t really grieved. As soon as I was discharged from hospital and had a period, that was it. Straight back into tracking cycles, tracking ovulation, focusing on when my next period would be and when I was most fertile. I needed something to focus on, something to distract me. I didn’t stop and grieve the babies I’d lost. That didn’t really happen until much later, but that’s another story.

Every symptom in that pregnancy came with a flashback. I’ve had this before. Nothing felt new. Nothing felt exciting. Sometimes it felt like relief — okay, something’s happening, my hormones must be increasing — but it always felt fragile. Because in the back of my mind was the memory of my 12-week scan, being told there was no heartbeat, that my baby had stopped growing at ten weeks. I’d carried that baby for two weeks without my body knowing. My body hadn’t noticed. So how could I trust it now?

That’s when I realised I didn’t trust my body anymore. I didn’t trust myself. And the fear crept in. What if it happens again?

From that point on, I was just waiting for something to go wrong. I held my breath between scans. I paid for private scans. I checked for blood every time I went to the toilet. I’d feel this huge surge of relief during every scan, hold the pictures, cry, watch the heartbeat. And then as soon as I walked away, the fear returned. What if something’s happened already? What if it stopped on the way out?

I lived in chunks of time. I counted the weeks, but not with excitement. There were fruit sizes and milestones, and I tried to lean into them. I sent pictures to my mum, to Liam, to my dad, because I wanted so badly to feel that excitement. But underneath it all, it was survival. How long until 24 weeks? How long until viability? How long until my due date? Everything felt like a countdown.

People were trying to help. They told me to stay positive. You’re further than you were last time. This is different. And I really wanted to believe that. But honestly, it hurt. It felt dismissive, like the babies I’d lost didn’t matter. I don’t think people understood the difference between hope and pressure. I didn’t need positivity. I needed to feel safe.

I needed someone to ask me what I needed. To sit with me. To hold me emotionally. Not to fix me. Just to hold me.

I didn’t trust my body anymore, and that cuts deep. I was holding grief alongside pregnancy. I felt betrayed by my own body and completely disconnected from it. And nobody talked about this. I didn’t know anyone who had experienced pregnancy after loss in the way I had. There was nobody I could talk to who really got it.

So I stayed quiet.

I was scared to connect to the baby. I didn’t want to buy anything. I didn’t want to plan. I didn’t want to talk about names. I was terrified of committing to something I might lose. Once you’ve imagined timelines — Christmases, ages, milestones — and had them taken away with the same sentence they always use when they give you bad news, your relationship with hope changes. I believed that detaching would keep me safer.

Looking back now, I know I couldn’t control the outcome. But I could have supported my nervous system. I could have created safety in small moments. I could have focused on one day at a time, even one minute at a time, instead of the whole pregnancy. I could have celebrated the tiny milestones. Every kick. Every movement. Every moment of reassurance. I wish I’d allowed myself that.

What didn’t help was being rushed, minimised, or fixed. What would have helped was slowing down. Breathing. Being held emotionally. Tools that worked with my fear, not against it. Support that helped me come back into my body, instead of trying to override my feelings with forced positivity.

This experience is also what led me to create Holding Hope. Not as therapy. Not as fixing. But as something steady to return to when fear spikes. A way to soften the body, breathe, and feel a little safer in the moment. Holding Hope exists because I know how lonely this can feel. It’s what I needed back then, and I wish it had existed.

Fear after loss isn’t failure. It’s love. It’s memory. It’s protection. You’re not failing at pregnancy. You’re navigating something incredibly complex that not many people truly understand.

If you’re reading this, you are not alone. Your experience makes sense. It’s okay to feel pain alongside hope. It’s okay to grieve while creating new life. It’s okay to remember the baby you lost — they are part of your journey, and part of this baby’s story too.

You don’t have to do pregnancy all at once. Safety can come back slowly. Support can be quiet and steady. And if this pregnancy feels heavier than you expected, that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.

It just means you’ve loved before. And that’s okay. That really is okay.

I’m here. I’m always here. My inbox is open. If you need somewhere to land… judgement-free, positivity-free… I’m here.