Carrying Aurora, Welcoming My Rainbow: A Love Letter to Pregnancy After Loss

This is not a post full of advice. It’s not a how-to guide, and it won’t wrap up neatly with five steps to healing. This is simply my story. A raw, honest glimpse into the ache, the hope, the terror, and the transformation that is pregnancy after loss. I wrote this for the ones who are in it now—the ones holding grief in one hand and possibility in the other. You are not alone. This is sacred, this is messy, and above all, this is love.

There is no one right way to walk through pregnancy after loss. I know this deeply. Ten years ago, when I found myself on that path—part of the club no one ever wants to join—I wished I had done it differently.

I was a broken woman after Aurora died.

My pregnancy with her was a rollercoaster. It wasn’t planned, and I was completely overwhelmed when I realised I was going to have three kids under the age of four. I cried overwhelmed tears the day I found out. But that changed quickly. I leaned into joy. I let myself be excited.

We found out she was a girl. And as the oldest of three sisters myself, I was stoked that my two little girls were getting another sister. It felt full circle. It felt magical.

But then came the scans. The bloods. The doctors. The small chances of something not being quite right. We kept being told it was likely nothing… and then we kept landing on the wrong side of those 0.01% odds. Again and again.

Hope. Fear. Hope. Fear.

Just shy of 20 weeks pregnant, we had to make this heartbreaking decision to terminate the pregnancy for medical reasons. Aurora’s brain and body were riddled with Trisomy 16. When you search it, the layman’s term is: “not compatible with life.”

I birthed my baby girl knowing she would not come home with us.

I carried her in my belly for 19 weeks and 5 days.

I held her in my arms for hours.

And now, I carry her in my heart forever.

I knew immediately—this is not how my story ends.

I know not everyone feels this way, and that’s okay. But three months later, I sat down with my husband and told him: I want to try again.

Some people said we should wait a year.

But I knew my body was holding on to so much trauma. I didn’t want to keep living in that space. I wanted to fill myself with joy again. With hope.

We had another early miscarriage while we were trying.

I asked myself: Can I do this? Am I strong enough to do this?

And then—six months after Aurora’s death—I was pregnant again.

And I put on the happiest face I could. Told the world everything was fine.

God, I wish I hadn’t done that.

I wish I hadn’t felt guilty for being so sad about Aurora, just because I already had two living children.I wish I had talked about how terrified I was that something would go wrong again.

I cried alone in the shower for months.

I felt guilty every time I lost patience with my girls, because I had made this silent, impossible promise:

I will be the perfect mother from now on.

But I was so hard on myself.

And honestly—I was really lonely in my grief.

I’ve always been the sunshine-unicorn girl.

And I didn’t want to admit that I had changed.

But I have changed.

And now? I actually love this about me.

Because how could I not be changed by my daughter’s death?

Of course I’m different. Aurora changed me.

And fuck me—she should have changed me.

That doesn’t mean I lost my light. It just means I’ve stopped being afraid of the dark.

I can speak about the shadow places now. The scary, the ugly, the invisible ache that comes with walking through grief—especially while growing new life.

And now I’ve had the honour of walking alongside other incredible women, each on their own path through pregnancy after loss.

I tell them:

Feel the fear.

Face it.

And still—keep hope in your heart.

Remind yourself: this is a different story, a different pregnancy, a different baby.

And you are different now, too. And that is more than okay.

My beautiful rainbow boy has healed so many parts of my heart.

And Aurora—she keeps teaching me, over and over.

I’m so grateful she chose me… even though she couldn’t stay.