The Minnows I Never Got to Raise

Gentle Reminder: The story below shares my personal experience with miscarriage and loss. If this topic is heavy for you, please read when you feel ready. Sending love to anyone who’s walked this path. 💜

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The room was freezing. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones no matter how tightly you wrap the thin hospital blanket around your legs. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, too sterile, washing all warmth from the space. The air smelled like antiseptic and bleach, sharp enough to sting my nose.

The monitor beside me beeped steadily, a mechanical heartbeat trying to mimic the one inside me that was racing far too fast. I stared at the pale walls, tracing cracks in the paint just to keep my mind from spiraling. But the pain came in waves, deep and twisting, starting in my abdomen and wrapping like fire around my back. I could feel the warmth of my own blood soaking into the stiff, white sheets beneath me.

I was alone.

No hand to hold.

No voice to calm me.

Just the rhythm of the machine, the sting of tears sliding down my cheeks, and the sound of my own shallow breathing echoing in the silence.

My thoughts tumbled into the worst places, the “what ifs” that you never want to imagine. I told myself to stay calm. I whispered it over and over, a mantra that wasn’t working. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

Then I heard it….footsteps. Two sets, echoing down the hall. They stopped right outside my door. A firm knock broke the silence, snapping me out of my trance.

“Come in,” I managed to say, my voice trembling.

The door opened slowly. I saw black Crocs first, then blue scrubs, then a white coat embroidered neatly with her name. Her long, wavy blonde hair brushed her shoulders, she looked too calm, too kind for what I already knew was coming. Behind her shuffled a man with wrinkled scrubs, black tennis shoes so worn they looked soft, his hair messy and eyes tired. He didn’t say a word.

My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. My palms were damp, gripping the blanket like it could hold me together.

The woman stepped closer, the scent of her shampoo drifting toward me, fresh, herbal, clean. For a split second, I was transported somewhere else: my childhood home, the smell of my dad’s hair before chemo took it all. Herbal Essences. I hadn’t thought about that scent in years, and suddenly it was all I could smell.

Then her hand found my shoulder, warm, firm, grounding. I snapped back to the cold room, the harsh light, the beeping monitor. My skin prickled with goosebumps as she took a deep breath.

Her eyes softened.

Her voice was quiet but heavy, the kind of tone people use when they wish they didn’t have to speak.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “There’s no heartbeat.”

The world fell silent.

The air left my lungs.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. I folded into her arms and sobbed, the kind of deep, uncontrollable crying that comes from the pit of your soul. My chest burned, my throat ached, and all I could think was please, no. I tried to be quiet so the people in the next room wouldn’t hear me breaking.

In that moment, everything inside me shattered.

The world shifted.

I had lost something I never even got to hold.

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This moment was a snippet from one of the books I’ve been writing  but it’s also my real life.

My truth. My story.

I’ve had eight miscarriages in my lifetime.

Six were early, natural losses that passed on their own.

One required a D&C.

And one, my baby, I carried for 20 weeks before I had to deliver at home.

It took me years to even say that out loud.For a long time, I blamed myself. I kept thinking maybe it was something I did wrong, or something my body couldn’t do right. There was so much anger and guilt and honestly, darkness. I blamed myself. I blamed my ex. I blamed everything.

It took me a long time to finally let that go.To forgive myself.To realize that maybe… it wasn’t meant to be.

Then, my miracle came A. Kove. My rainbow baby.His heartbeat became my reminder that there was still light after the storm.Then came A. Bay and J. Kai, my other miracles who filled spaces I didn’t even know were empty.

Still, I never forget.

Not one of them.

The ones I carried.

The ones I lost.

The ones I never got to meet.

They’ll always be my Minnows, the babies I never got to raise.

Even though I’m a mom of four, three biological and one amazing bonus son, there will always be a part of me that aches for the babies I couldn’t keep. And that’s okay. Grief and gratitude can live together.

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.It’s a day and a month that always hits heavy, but also one that reminds me I’m not alone.Because I’m not. And neither are you.

So if you’ve ever carried this kind of pain if you’ve ever had to say goodbye before you got to say hello,  I see you. I feel you. And I stand with you.

I am 1 in 4.

And I’ll always honor the Minnows I never got to raise. 💜

“Even the smallest footprints can leave the deepest imprints on our hearts.”— Unknown

Waves of Love,

Tiffany | Mermaid Kove