Olivia’s story: my anembryonic pregnancy
In her story, Olivia describes her experience of anembryonic pregnancy, her grief, and how she's learning to be kind to herself.
I’m learning to be kind to myself, to hold space for the grief, and to speak about it — even when it’s uncomfortable. That, too, is a form of healing. If you’ve been through something similar, I want you to know you’re not alone. Your grief is valid, no matter how early.
We found out I was pregnant very early — around four or five weeks. Even though it was early, we told a few close family members right away. It felt too big to keep to ourselves, and their excitement mirrored our own. There was joy, nerves, and the sense that everything was about to change.
Not long after, I started to feel very unwell. I had sickness all day, every day — not just in the mornings. I looked pale, felt constantly drained, and just didn’t feel like myself. It was more than just typical pregnancy symptoms. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I decided to book a private scan at seven weeks. Partly for reassurance, but partly because of that instinct that I couldn’t shift.
I remember the quiet in the room, the kind of silence that makes your heart race, the look of sympathy portrayed on the sonographer’s face. They told me it might just be too early and that I’d need to come back for another scan in a week. So I waited — trying to stay hopeful, trying to carry on as if everything was okay.
That following week was Mother’s Day. It was a surreal and painful day. I was surrounded by images of celebration and motherhood, while privately fearing that mine might be slipping away. Going into work as a teacher that week, trying to hold it together in front of others — especially children — felt almost impossible. I was waiting for answers, carrying so much uncertainty, and still having to show up like everything was fine.
I returned for a second scan, still clinging to a small thread of hope. But instead, I was told that the pregnancy was not progressing and I would need to have surgery. I had experienced an anembryonic pregnancy — something I had never heard of before. I was stunned. My HCG levels had been so high, my symptoms so intense — I felt so pregnant. How could this be happening? How could my body be showing all the signs, while inside, things had quietly come to an end? It was heartbreaking and deeply confusing. I felt like my body had betrayed me. One moment I was imagining our future, and the next, I was grieving a loss that had no name, no heartbeat, no goodbye.
What followed was a blur. I had surgery to remove the pregnancy, something I never imagined would be part of our story. Walking into hospital knowing I was saying goodbye in such a clinical, final way was something I’ll never forget. I was heartbroken, scared, and emotionally exhausted. I felt like I was moving through it all in a daze — doing what I had to do physically, while emotionally I was still trying to catch up.
After the surgery, the symptoms slowly eased—I started to feel lighter, and the colour returned to my face. But as my body began to recover, it felt strangely sad; each faded symptom was a quiet reminder that the pregnancy was truly over. My dog, usually curled up on my belly, kept her distance instead, lying close but careful, as if she knew something had changed.
Looking back, I think the hardest part was the waiting. Waiting between scans. Waiting to find out if there was still hope. And then, once I was told the pregnancy wasn’t progressing, everything moved quickly — I had surgery the very next day. It was over so suddenly, yet emotionally I was still stuck in that place of uncertainty. That time between knowing and losing — even though it was short — felt endless. I was no longer expecting a baby, but I hadn’t yet had a chance to grieve. And afterwards, I found myself waiting again — waiting to feel like myself, to feel whole, to feel anything but empty.
It’s easy to dismiss an early loss. I’ve heard the well-meaning phrases — “at least it was early,” “you can try again.” But this wasn’t just a medical event. It was my baby, even if I never got to meet them. It was our future. Our hopes. Our first steps into parenthood.
In the days after finding out, it felt like time had stopped. My world had shifted completely, but everything around me just kept going — work, conversations, everyday life. It was like I was standing still in the middle of it all, trying to make sense of something invisible to everyone else. Seeing pregnancy announcements from others due around the same time as me has been especially hard — a constant reminder of what could have been, of the future we’d started to imagine. I’ve been slowly trying to reconnect with myself, especially through my aerial practice — being back in the air has helped me feel strong again, even if just for a moment. But the truth is, I still carry it with me every day. And maybe I always will.
I’m learning to be kind to myself, to hold space for the grief, and to speak about it — even when it’s uncomfortable. That, too, is a form of healing. If you’ve been through something similar, I want you to know you’re not alone. Your grief is valid, no matter how early. Your story matters.
