Hello, beautiful souls. It’s your girl Tina here, and today, I’m peeling back the layers of my heart to share something deeply personal—a story that’s as raw and real as it gets. Grab your favorite snack, maybe a box of tissues, and let’s dive into this emotional rollercoaster together. Trust me, I promise you’re not alone in this journey.

Let’s address the elephant in the room—my mental health has been on a wild ride lately. When I say “wild ride,” I mean more like a rollercoaster that’s been struck by lightning and is now careening off the tracks. This year has brought me to my knees, and it all began with the heartbreaking loss of my unborn baby.

Now, I’ve had my fair share of heartache before. Miscarriages are a cruel part of my story, and losing babies before they could take their first breath is a grief that’s hard to describe. It’s like holding a fragile dream in your hands, only to watch it slip away, leaving you with nothing but a cold emptiness. After my last marriage, I was told that I might never have kids again. Can you imagine? I was a warrior, determined to fight for my dreams. I went through IVF, clinging to hope like it was a lifeline thrown to me in stormy seas.

When I finally got that glorious confirmation that I was pregnant, it felt like the universe had finally decided to smile at me. I jumped into planning mode—baby showers, registries, names, you name it. I was ready to welcome a tiny human into my life, someone I could love fiercely. The due date was in August, and I was counting down the days like a kid counting down to Christmas morning. But then, on Christmas Day, when I was supposed to be celebrating joy with my family, I received the news that shattered my world. I lost my baby, and with it, a piece of my soul.

I mean, who does that? Talk about a cruel twist of fate. I broke down in that sterile examination room, feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. All that anticipation, all those dreams—gone in an instant. I gained weight—not just from the pregnancy but from the emotional eating that followed. Comfort food became my best friend, and my couch turned into my fortress of solitude, where I could hide from the world.

Now, let’s talk about the mental health struggle that came crashing in like an uninvited guest. I found myself on a cocktail of medications, desperately trying to keep my sanity intact. Three days before I was scheduled for a procedure to remove my dead unborn child, I did something drastic. I got three piercings in my nose—a septum piercing and two others. I thought maybe, just maybe, some shiny metal could distract me from the grief consuming me. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

In the depths of this grief, I also found myself grappling with dark thoughts. There were moments when I felt like I was drowning, and the only way to surface was to consider taking my own life. I lost the will to clean my house, let alone go to work. I was in survival mode, just trying to exist day by day, struggling to balance the weight of my sorrow with the demands of life.

And oh, the irony of it all! I would look around and see pregnant women everywhere, their bellies round and radiant. I’d calculate how far along I would have been, how many more months I had to wait to hold my baby. It was like a cruel game, and I was always losing. Going to work became a challenge. I was messing up everything, not because I wanted to, but because I was just… so lost. I needed that paycheck, but every day felt like I was walking through a fog, barely able to function.

Then came the chatter. You know the kind—the whispers and the judgments from people who have never been in my shoes. “You deserved to lose your baby,” they said, as if they had any idea of the pain I was enduring. “It’s karma,” they claimed, throwing around words like confetti. I wanted to scream, “You don’t know me! You don’t know my struggles!” I mean, come on, judging a mother’s heartache without even a hint of empathy? That’s a special kind of cruel.

And let’s talk about the double standards and hypocrisy that seemed to permeate my life. I was accused of copying someone else’s parenting style just because I decided to get piercings. Seriously? It felt like I was living in a soap opera, where everyone was looking for drama and conflict. I was just trying to keep my head above water, and yet, here came the critics, poking and prodding, trying to provoke a reaction.

Every day, I reminded myself to stay calm, to avoid the chaos. I was battling my own demons, and engaging in petty games felt like stepping back into the darkness I was desperately trying to escape. I wanted to shout, “Can’t you see that I’m just trying to survive?” But instead, I chose silence, hoping that by ignoring the noise, it would fade away. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

In the midst of this turmoil, I began to realize that I was also grieving the loss of the person I used to be. I used to be vibrant, full of life, the one who would light up a room with laughter. Now, I felt like a shadow of myself, wandering through life like a ghost, haunted by what could have been. I missed the old Tina—the one who could dance in the rain, who could find joy in the little things.

I started to take small steps toward reclaiming that part of me. First, I decided to channel my grief into something productive. I took up journaling, pouring my heart onto the pages. It was therapeutic, like having an intimate conversation with myself. I wrote about my dreams, my fears, and yes, my anger. I wrote letters to my unborn child, telling them how much I loved them and how precious they were to me, even if they were never able to take a breath in this world.

Then there were the moments of clarity—those fleeting instances when I would catch a glimpse of hope. I started to connect with other women who had gone through similar losses. It was like finding a tribe of warriors, each of us carrying our scars and stories. We shared our grief, our anger, and our triumphs, and for the first time, I didn’t feel alone. I started to understand that my pain didn’t define me; it was just a part of my journey.

I also began to practice self-care. I know, I know—everyone says that, but hear me out. I started small. I would light a candle, take a long bath, or go for a walk. I even tried meditation (which, let’s be honest, was a little like trying to wrangle a bunch of hyper puppies). But with time, I found moments of peace amidst the chaos. I learned to breathe again, to appreciate the beauty that still existed in the world, even if it felt dimmer than before.

And guess what? I joined a support group. I know, it sounds cliché, but it was one of the best decisions I ever made. Sitting in a circle with women who understood my pain was like finding a lifeline. We would share our stories, our laughter, and sometimes, our tears. It felt like a safe space where I could let down my guard and just be. We often joked that we should start a podcast called “The Miscarriage Diaries,” because if there’s one thing we all had in common, it was the ability to turn our grief into something relatable—often with a side of humor.

As I navigated this new reality, I also began to set boundaries. It was hard, but I started to distance myself from the negativity. I realized that I didn’t owe anyone an explanation for my pain. I chose to surround myself with people who lifted me up, who made me feel seen and heard. I embraced the notion that it’s okay to prioritize my well-being, even if it meant stepping away from toxic relationships.

I started to find joy in the little things again—the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the warmth of the sun on my skin, and even the sound of laughter. It took time, but slowly, I began to reclaim parts of myself that I thought were lost forever. I realized that it was okay to laugh, to find happiness amidst sorrow. It didn’t mean I had forgotten my baby; it meant I was learning to live with the memory.

And, let me tell you, I still have my tough days. Days when the grief feels heavy and suffocating, when I look at the empty nursery we had prepared and feel that familiar ache. I remember the little things we had planned—the soft lullabies I would sing, the tiny clothes that would fill the drawers, the joy of first steps and first words that now seemed so far away. But I’ve learned to honor those feelings instead of pushing them away. I allow myself to cry, to feel the weight of my loss, and then I remind myself that it’s okay to take small steps forward.

There were nights when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down my face as I replayed memories of happier times. It was in those quiet moments, when the world was asleep, that the pain felt the most unbearable. I would clutch my pillow as if it could somehow absorb my anguish, wishing it could take away the heartache that felt like a vice around my chest. I would think about the future that now seemed so uncertain, filled with “what ifs” and “if onlys.” 

I would often find myself daydreaming about what my baby would look like, the laughter we would share, the milestones I would get to witness. I imagined the messy moments—food smeared across tiny faces, the chaos of toddler tantrums, and the pure joy of watching them grow. It’s a bittersweet kind of dreaming, one that brought both comfort and pain. And I often found myself wondering if I’d ever feel that joy again.

But amidst the darkness, I began to discover the power of resilience. It started as a whisper, a faint glimmer of hope that began to grow louder over time. I realized that while I couldn’t change the past, I had the power to shape my future. I started to envision a life where I could carry my baby’s memory with me while still allowing myself to hope for new beginnings. It was a delicate balance, but one that I grew determined to find.

I began to seek out experiences that brought me joy, even in small doses. I rediscovered my love for painting. It started as a way to fill the silence in my home, but soon it became a way to express the emotions I couldn’t verbalize. I would set up my easel in the corner of my living room, splashing colors onto the canvas, letting my emotions flow freely. The brush became my voice, and every stroke felt like a release. I painted sunsets and flowers, abstract expressions of my sorrow and hope, and with each piece, I felt a little lighter.

I also turned back to music, which had always been a source of comfort for me. I created playlists filled with songs that resonated with my emotions. I would sit in my room, headphones on, singing along to the lyrics that spoke to my heart. Music became a healing balm, reminding me that even in the darkest moments, there was beauty to be found. I would dance in my living room, allowing the rhythm to carry me away, even if just for a moment.

And I found solace in nature. There’s something incredibly grounding about stepping outside, feeling the cool breeze against my skin, and listening to the rustle of leaves. I started taking long walks in the park, allowing the fresh air to fill my lungs and the beauty of the world to seep into my soul. It was during one of these walks that I realized how important it is to connect with ourselves and our surroundings. Nature has a way of reminding us that life continues, even when we feel stuck in our grief.

As I slowly began to heal, I started to embrace the notion of hope. It’s a concept that felt foreign to me at first, like trying to grasp a slippery fish. But I began to see glimpses of it, like sunlight peeking through dark clouds. I started to believe that one day, I would be able to hold my baby. Maybe not in this moment, but in the future, there was still a possibility. This thought became my mantra, my guiding light in the darkness.

And, let’s be real—there were still moments of anger and frustration. I would find myself daydreaming about what could have been and wishing I could turn back time. I would get angry at the universe for its unfairness, and I found myself questioning everything—my worth, my choices, and my ability to be a mother. But through it all, I learned that anger is a part of the healing process. It’s okay to feel it, to scream into a pillow, to let it out in whatever way feels right. Holding onto it only prolongs the pain, and releasing it allows us to make space for healing.

As the months passed, I started to see the world with a different lens. I began to appreciate the beauty in small moments—the laughter of friends, the warmth of a hug, the kindness of strangers. I realized that while my loss would always be a part of me, it didn’t have to define my entire existence. I could still find joy, still make memories, and still love fiercely, even amidst the heartache.

And through this journey, I found strength in vulnerability. I learned to be open about my struggles and to share my story with others. I started to realize that by speaking my truth, I could help others who were going through similar experiences. I began sharing my journey on social media, not for sympathy, but to connect, to show others that they’re not alone. I received messages from women all over the world, sharing their own stories of loss and resilience. It was a powerful reminder that we are all in this together, supporting one another through the darkness.

So here I am, sharing my story not for pity, but to connect. To say, “Hey, I see you. I hear you. I feel you.” Life can be messy, and sometimes it feels like we’re just trying to keep our heads above water. But together, we can find strength in our vulnerability. We can support each other through the storms and find light in the shadows.

In closing, I want to encourage anyone who’s reading this to embrace your journey, however messy it may be. It’s okay to grieve, to feel lost, to seek help, and to find joy again. We are all fighting battles that others can’t see, and it’s essential to be gentle with ourselves.

Thank you for coming along on this journey with me. Let’s keep sharing our stories, supporting one another, and lifting each other up—because in this beautiful, messy life, we’re all just trying to find our way back to the light.

With love and a sprinkle of humor (because we all need some laughter in the dark),  

Tina