What It Really Feels Like to Try Again After Loss
Trying again after loss is one of the most delicate, dizzying things I’ve ever done.
By Jenn Sinrich, co-founder of Miscarriage Movement
No one tells you how complicated it will feel to hold a positive pregnancy test in your hands after a miscarriage. The world tells you to be happy. Grateful. Hopeful. But my first reaction was none of those. It was fear. Full-body, heart-racing, gut-sinking fear.
I remember sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at those two pink lines and feeling like I was watching someone else’s life. I had been here before—excited, expectant, already daydreaming about due dates and baby names. That ended in heartbreak. So this time, I didn’t let myself go there.
I didn’t tell many people. I didn’t journal the milestones. I didn’t buy the cute onesies or track the baby’s fruit size week by week.
I held my breath.
Because trying again after loss is not just about hoping for a baby. It’s about protecting your heart while doing the most vulnerable thing you’ll ever do.
Every twinge made me panic. Every ultrasound felt like a dare. I didn’t want to get too attached, but I already was. That’s the cruel magic of pregnancy after loss—your body remembers what it means to grow love, and your mind remembers what it means to lose it.
It’s isolating. Even well-meaning support can feel sharp. When someone says, "This one will be different," you want to believe them, but you’ve lived what it means when it’s not. You nod politely and carry the weight of the what-ifs alone.
I clung to my breath during every appointment. I prepared myself for bad news, even when there was no sign of it. I replayed the trauma of the past, waiting for it to interrupt my present.
And yet—there was also joy.
Quiet, cautious joy. The kind that sneaks in late at night when you feel a flutter that wasn’t gas. The kind that makes you talk to your belly in a whisper, just in case someone is listening. The kind that allows a sliver of hope to live beside your fear.
That’s the thing no one tells you: You never stop being afraid. But you also never stop loving.
Trying again after loss is a messy act of courage. It’s holding space for both grief and gratitude. It’s learning to trust your body again, even when you’re still a little angry with it. It’s accepting that you can be heartbroken and hopeful at the same time.
It’s not linear. There will be days when the fear wins. When you’re convinced it will all fall apart again. When you spiral after reading a story online that feels too close to home. And there will be days when you let yourself believe. When you smile during an ultrasound. When you let your partner touch your belly. When you imagine this baby making it.
If you’re in this place—in the messy middle of trying again—I want you to know that what you’re feeling is normal. Necessary. Real.
You’re not alone. And you’re not broken.
You’re just someone who knows how quickly joy can turn into grief—and how brave it is to go back and try again anyway.
That, to me, is the definition of strength.
Not the absence of fear, but the willingness to move forward despite it.
I see you. I honor your courage. And I’m right there with you.