Beyond The Wait...
A Newsletter for Those Navigating the Complex Emotions of Infertility
Issue #34 19th October 2026
Dear Reader,
Baby Loss Awareness Week took place just over a week ago. The wave posts have almost ended, the candles from the Wave of Light have been blown out, and the world has mostly moved on.
But you're still here. And for many of you, this week will have left you with difficult feelings.
This month I want to talk about the losses that make up this journey (some of which the world still struggles to name), and what they feel like when you have already been through so much.
Deep Dive: The Losses That Deserve to Be Counted
What Baby Loss Awareness Week Holds, and What Else Deserves Space
Baby Loss Awareness Week exists for important reasons. The visibility, the collective acknowledgement, the message that these losses matter and that the people who carry them are not alone , are all so valuable. For many people it is the one time in the year when their grief feels publicly held, and that is important.
The losses the week tends to draw attention to (stillbirth, later miscarriages, neonatal death) absolutely deserve visibility. But the fertility journey holds other losses too, ones that don't always get publicly acknowledged. And for those of you who have experienced those losses, the week can bring its own complicated feelings alongside the recognition. A sense of being almost included, but not quite.
I want to make space for those losses today.
The Losses That Often Go Uncounted
A "chemical" pregnancy (a positive test followed, days later, by bleeding) is a loss. It is brief, it may not show on a scan, and it is routinely minimised by medical professionals and the general public. But you saw that test and felt almost ALL the emotions in those days. That deserves to be acknowledged.
A very early miscarriage is a loss. It doesn't matter that it was "only" six weeks, or that you "hadn't even told anyone yet," or that you "knew it was a possibility." Grief is not measured in weeks of gestation, it is about what you hoped for, what you imagined, what you lost.
A failed embryo transfer is a loss. That embryo existed. You may have seen it on a screen. You may have had a name for it in your head, or a due date you calculated. When the test comes back negative, or when it implants and then stops, there is a grief there that is real and valid, and largely unrecognised by the world outside of infertility.
And for those of you who have experienced more than one of these (several miscarriages, multiple failed transfers, losses layered on top of losses), the weight of that is cumulative in a way that can be very hard to explain. Each loss doesn't replace the one before it. They stack up, and the grief becomes not just about one baby, but about all of them, and about the infertility journey itself.
When You've Already Been Through So Much
There is an exhaustion that comes with having an already long and painful fertility journey behind you, when a loss comes. You are not grieving from a "fresh" starting point. You are grieving from an already difficult spot. You are physically, emotionally, financially, relationally depleted. Your practically running on empty already. And you have to find a way to keep going despite knowing the pain that carrying on can bring.
The world, and sometimes even the people closest to you, can struggle to understand why this loss feels as hard as it does. Surely you are more prepared for bad news by now? But grief doesn't work like that. If anything, the accumulation means you have less capacity to manage it. You are not weak for finding it hard. You are only human, and you have been through an enormous amount.
Baby Loss Awareness Week doesn't always reach this particular experience. The person on their fourth loss, their third failed cycle, or the one who has been carrying all of it for years and is still trying. So I want to say clearly - your losses count. Every single one of them. However early, however others have responded to them.
When the Awareness Fades
The wave posts stop but you are still grieving.
Grief here doesn't have a clear endpoint, and the support the world offers tends to come in concentrated bursts that don't map onto how it actually moves. You might find the week itself was almost too much. Or the silence after it harder than the week itself. Both responses make complete sense.
What I want you to know is that the significance of what you have been through does not end when an awareness week ends. You are allowed to still be struggling on a random Monday in October. You can light a candle on whatever day it feels right to you. Your losses are no less real because the world has moved on from talking about them.
This Week's Self-Care Exercise: A Letter to the One (or Ones) You Lost
This is a grief exercise I sometimes use in therapy, and I want to offer it gently here. You do not have to do it, and if it feels like too much right now, please leave it.
If you feel ready, find a quiet moment and write a short letter to the baby, the embryo, the pregnancy you lost. It doesn't need to be long or to make sense. You might write about what you hoped for, what you wanted them to know, or simply that they were real and they mattered and you remember them.
You don't have to share it with anyone. This is about you (a way of marking something that the world may never have fully marked) and giving yourself permission to grieve it properly.
If writing feels too hard, you might simply light a candle, or take a moment of quiet. Something small that says, this happened, it mattered, and I am allowed to honour it.
Has Baby Loss Awareness Week felt complicated for you this year, or in previous years? I'd genuinely love to hear, particularly from those of you who feel your losses sit outside what tends to be acknowledged. Your experiences matter and they shape what I write here
Remember Reader: You did not choose this, it is not your fault, and you are not alone.
With compassion,
Dr. Grace π
@thenotsofertilepsychologist
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