I cannot find the words to truly explain the joy you feel when you finally see the word “Pregnant” appear on that tiny blue test. I cannot find the words to capture the gratitude and pride that come with watching your body change so quickly—transforming itself to create a safe home for growing human life. I cannot find the words to describe the giddiness of realizing you’re never alone, that you have not one, but two little buddies with you always—to talk to, sing to, dance with, and dream about. And I cannot find the words to properly explain the grief of losing first one, then shortly after, both of those little buddies—grief that completely wraps itself around you, forever changing the way you see, move through, and understand the world.
My husband, Luke, and I found out we were pregnant this past summer. That deeply prayed-for, longed-for, completely miraculous blue word on the test brought us a joy I didn’t even know was possible here on Earth.
Courtesy Kelsey Pfleiderer
I sprang out of bed at exactly 6:21 a.m. I can’t explain why, but I woke with an urgency—an undeniable pull to take a test at that very moment. Minutes later, I was sprinting out of the bathroom to wake Luke, like a child bursting into her siblings’ room on Christmas morning. Sorry, Pinterest dreams—there was absolutely no chance I was creating a perfectly styled, social-media-worthy “You’re going to be a Daddy” reveal. I was far too thrilled to hide it for even a millisecond. That overwhelming joy filled the Pfleiderer house for weeks. And then, suddenly, our home was filled with a type of mourning neither of us had ever known before.
Yes…that Luke Latte is indeed a pregnant Kelsey—sketched lovingly in frothed milk by the infamous latte artist himself.
There is life before our twins, and there is life after our twins. These two lives are not the same.
I didn’t think there were any words that could help a momma during this time. Aside from, “I am so sorry. This SUCKS. I am so, so sorry,” everything else feels like either a well-intended attempt to slap a silver lining on a cloud that cannot be lined—or worse, a painful minimization of the depth of loss. But after sharing our story with my dear friend Emily, she proved me wrong.
Through streaming tears that audibly soaked her phone, she said, “Gosh… Kel. I am just so, SO sorry you two are walking through this. But I’m so comforted in the thought of those babies getting to watch their momma and daddy from up there—getting the very best view of all you’re doing and all you will continue to do. I just know they’re up there, totally astonished at the rock stars their parents are. I know you make them proud and will do so for the rest of your days.”
When I was pregnant, I felt an overwhelming responsibility—to drink enough water, eat enough, study enough, move enough, track symptoms closely, talk to them often, and simply be everything they needed. Now, I feel a different kind of responsibility: to live in a way that honors them, to fight every day to make these babies proud, just as Emily described.
Courtesy Kelsey Pfleiderer
I will fight to celebrate their lives forever.
I will fight to say their names—despite a society that so desperately wants to hush them.
I will fight for every other parent who felt insurmountable joy followed by insurmountable grief—and then felt quietly tucked away by a world that suggests anything short of a perfect 13+ week pregnancy announcement is “too uncomfortable” to share. No. Tell your story. You are a mom now. Your spouse is a dad now. Your babies have names. Your grief is not meant to be hidden. The joy you felt for their lives is not meant to be forgotten. Say their names. Tell your story. Share your grief. Celebrate their lives.
It’s been over a month since we lost Milo and Mila, and I haven’t stopped thinking about them for a single day. And alongside thoughts of them come thoughts of other mommas—other women carrying angel babies in their hearts. I talk to our babies every day. Today, I desperately want to talk to you, Momma Who Just Miscarried.
You will grieve this deeply desired baby—or babies—forever. The world feels tilted on a different axis because it is. This is a new life now. You won’t “get over it.” And you shouldn’t. I know this because my grandma, who rarely shows emotion, still gets choked up when she speaks of her angel baby. Last Christmas, sitting in a small restaurant in Ohio, she fiddled with the stem of her martini glass as her voice cracked again and again, bravely sharing her story with my sister and me. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen my grandma cry. Fifty years after losing her baby, she sat across from her granddaughters and told the story through tears, her face glowing under Christmas lights. Fifty years later, she still grieves. And so will we.
That may sound grim—but when your babies were in your womb, you shared every moment with them. You talked to them. Smiled with them. They are no longer within you, but above you now. And if you allow it, they will guide you—toward strength, toward storytelling, toward courage, toward purpose. They will guide you to keep going, to keep becoming the warrior woman they are so proud to call Momma.
Grief is strange, isn’t it? You grieve human beings you never got to look in the eye—and yet the pain is enormous. It’s okay that the waves still come. It’s okay that one moment you feel steady, and the next you’re collapsed on the couch, crushed by grief. Sometimes it feels like an elephant sits on your chest; other times it feels like springs lift you off the ground. You are a momma aching for her babies, while also overflowing with gratitude that they will never know pain, heartbreak, or rejection—only Love. Let the waves come.
But please—don’t ride them alone. Invite your spouse into them. Invite someone you trust. They want to carry you back to shore. Let them.
As you share your story, know that most people mean well. Your grief makes them uncomfortable because they cannot fix it. In that discomfort, they may say hurtful things.
“At least you know you can get pregnant.”
“At least you weren’t further along.”
“Maybe don’t tell anyone…”
“Just try again!”
“Maybe your body couldn’t do it.”
Or worst of all—they say nothing.
These words sting, but I promise they come from love. Be gentle. Educate when you can. They want to take your pain away because they hate seeing you hurt. They don’t mean to hush you. They don’t mean to minimize your grief. Guide them, just as your babies are guiding you.
Nothing anyone says will truly make this better. But I will tell you what my friend told me:
I am so, so sorry you are walking through this. But I’m comforted knowing your babies are watching their momma and daddy from above—seeing every step you take, cheering you on, astonished by the rock stars you are. You make them proud.
As fiercely as you cared for yourself while pregnant, please be just as diligent now. Eat. Sleep. Cry. Laugh when it bubbles up unexpectedly. Speak their names. Dream about who they might have become. Share when you’re ready. Be quiet when you need to be.
And if you feel led to—
Share your story.
As I sat hysterical on crinkled white medical paper, my midwife gently said, “Kelsey, this isn’t your fault. This is so, so common. You feel alone because no one talks about it.”
“Well,” I thought, “I’m going to change that.”
Make them proud, momma. You already have—and you will continue to do so.
Big, warm, I see you and I’m so, so sorry hugs,
KP
