Post-loss Motherhood: Where Gratitude and Grief Co-exist

Written by Seetal Savla. Reviewed by Jenny Wordsworth.

Seetal Savla is fertility patient advocate, writer and speaker. Having experienced multiple failed IVFs and losses before becoming mum to a daughter, she is passionate about sharing her story to support, educate and empower others, as well as challenging stigma - particularly within South Asian communities. Seetal is dedicated to creating space for honest, compassionate conversations around fertility, loss and hope. Through her writing and advocacy, which includes numerous articles (Times Weekend, HuffPost, Women’s Health, Metro UK), book contributions (No One Talks About This Stuff), a video diary series with Ferring Pharmaceuticals, brand campaigns (Stylist, Tommy’s, Plum & Ashby), speaking engagements (The Fertility Show, Make Birth Better) and online support groups (Fertility Network UK), she helps others feel less alone in their journeys. Follow Seetal's story and work on Instagram (@seetalsavla).

Content Warning: Pregnancy loss and grief.

If you’re fortunate enough to have a baby after experiencing loss, there’s a very strong expectation from others to count your blessings and never complain.

The bundle of joy you prayed for is now in your arms, safe and snug, so let’s leave the past where it belongs and embrace the future. While I agree that dwelling on the events leading up to this magical moment can be unhealthy, the painful memories and feelings don’t vanish when you become a parent.

The pregnancy that resulted in my daughter’s birth was my third. My first was a chemical pregnancy, an early loss before the fifth week, over before I had a chance to recover from the shock of seeing a positive test. My husband and I hadn’t been trying to conceive, but it was a pleasant surprise, nonetheless. My second was achieved using an egg donor following four rounds of failed IVF with my eggs. We held our breath during each scan, fearing the worst yet hoping for the best.

The day we were told that our much-wanted baby’s heart had stopped beating will be forever etched in our minds. Digesting the devastating words. Walking out into a waiting room with pregnant women caressing their bellies. Standing in the sun, not knowing what to do with ourselves now.

It took two months for my miscarriage to clear. Having spent six years trying and failing to grow our family, we were emotionally spent. We had two frozen embryos left, but couldn’t face more IVF and another possible loss.

They say life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. A few months after I miscarried, I discovered I’d conceived without IVF support. With zero expectations of a successful pregnancy, I tried to protect my fragile heart by distancing myself from it and seeing it as a temporary situation. But when it looks like your dream might finally come true, it’s virtually impossible to avoid getting attached.

As before, the days between scans were full of anxiety. The only time I felt calm and confident was when I could see my baby on a screen and hear her precious heartbeat. It was the sweetest, most reassuring sound. Once I left the clinic, my fear would be waiting for me, and I’d have to keep reminding myself of what I knew to be true: “Today, I’m pregnant. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”

Everyone told me not to worry, but as nervous system practitioner Lottie King explained in a recent LinkedIn post,

“The fear in pregnancy after loss is not a conscious choice. It is not “just worry.” It is the nervous system remembering, protecting and responding to prior trauma in its ongoing effort to keep both you – and this baby – safe.”

In the end, I had a textbook pregnancy followed by a textbook C-section. Having pictured the scene for so long, the moment we met our daughter felt surreal. Even though I’d had nine months to get my head around it, I still struggled to reconcile my dream with my reality. Although I felt an instant bond with my baby, I needed time to process the entire journey, from the birth back to the first loss and everything we’d endured in between.

Unfortunately, the fourth trimester isn’t the most ideal time for deep reflection, especially when you live in a foreign country far from family and have to fend for yourselves. In the quieter moments, though, I’d replay our TTC (Trying to Conceive) reel in my mind, switching between intense gratitude for my gorgeous girl and grief for what we’d lived through and lost. Guilt was also an uninvited guest at this party, showing up whenever anyone told me to “Enjoy every moment!”. How was I supposed to do this with a battered body and exhausted mind?

I also felt guilty about not defending myself against an abusive nurse who didn’t believe me when I said my milk hadn’t come in yet. Instead of gently guiding me, she thought it best to pinch my nipples hard to check for herself. I was so shocked by her actions that I froze, unable to say a word through my tears. Although I later lodged a complaint, it took me months to make peace with my reaction. I’m a fertility patient advocate who failed to advocate for herself.

Looking back, I wish I’d worked with a doula before and after the birth. She would have helped me to better prepare for pregnancy and parenthood (I didn’t have the capacity to read much about either), supported me in the hospital and made early postpartum challenges easier with her expertise.

Breastfeeding was one of these challenges. The hospital lactation consultant was away during my stay, which meant I didn’t get the advice I needed until I saw a private one a fortnight later. For three months, I took pills to boost my supply while feeding my daughter formula through tiny tubes taped to my breasts. Despite wanting to give up daily, I somehow persevered, desperate to be able to breastfeed myself. I may have conceived without medical assistance, but I still felt like I needed to prove myself.

These behaviours are all typical symptoms of fertility trauma. Writing for Rescripted, perinatal psychologist Julianne Boutaleb describes this as “the psychological impact of a range of experiences, such as infertility diagnosis, recurrent pregnancy loss, reproductive injury and fertility treatment on individuals and couples.” Reliving these painful memories made me want to simultaneously run away from my newborn and hold her tight against my heart.

Being overprotective is another consequence of experiencing a lengthy route to parenthood. When my daughter was learning to walk, I was petrified of fatal injuries. Knowing that this was highly unlikely was of little comfort. Every time someone told me that she’s learning to stabilise herself with each fall, I’d reply, “She won’t learn much if she’s dead.” An extreme reaction, but understandable given our heavy history.

Trusting others to take care of my baby was also extremely different for me. She was 11 months old when I left her with her father for the weekend for the first time to work abroad. As I walked away, I felt like I was abandoning her. Similarly, settling her into a nursery was tough. Seeing her obvious distress and hearing her piercing screams broke my heart. It took every ounce of strength to force myself out of the building and stay out. Years later, my body still tenses up whenever I hear a child screaming.

During that first year, every new parent I met seemed to take things in their stride. I was staying afloat, and they were swimming. I constantly blamed myself for not being ‘better’ at parenting. With the help of a therapist, I gradually understood the root of my negative emotions, worked on being more self-compassionate and learned to accept the lack of control in my new role.

The pain of failed IVFs and loss will never leave me, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Alongside the anxiety, I’m also “more emotionally connected and grateful,” as Julianne concludes. That said, I’ll always feel sad about my baby’s ‘firsts’ being my ‘lasts’. Our remaining embryos have been donated and the chances of another conception without IVF support are low, so gratitude and grief are lifelong partners.