Pregnancy, Isolation, and Quiet Trust

Before Luke, there was another baby.

A chemical pregnancy.

It passed quickly, quietly—but not without pain. And when I got pregnant again just three months later, I carried that grief into the hope of this new beginning.

We found out we were expecting just before a long-awaited family vacation to Mexico. My mom was nervous. So was I. But both of us had this quiet, shared confidence—like God was whispering: “It’s going to be okay.”

So we went. And four days in… I started bleeding.

Heavily.

I was at the pool when it started. I ran back to our room, and by the time Jeff found me, I was collapsed on the bathroom floor, screaming through sobs, “Please don’t take my baby.”

The bleeding stopped after a few hours, but the fear didn’t.

We were in another country. There was no clear answer. No safe next step. So we chose not to go to the hospital and instead moved my first ultrasound to 12 hours after we landed home.

The heartbeat changed everything.

I walked into that clinic shaking. Crying. I was prepared for the worst.

And then the tech said, “Heart rate of 120.”

I broke.

There was still a heartbeat.

Still a baby.

Still a chance.

I was diagnosed with a subchorionic hematoma. Because of my history and the uncertainty, my family doctor took me off work until I could see an OB. I didn’t mind. I was willing to sit still for months if it meant protecting the life inside me.

But that was just the beginning.

The world shut down

We came home from Mexico on March 8, 2020.

Six days later, the world shut down. COVID. Isolation. Unknowns everywhere.

I was already off work when it began, so it felt okay at first. I’d do anything to keep the baby safe. But just as my OB gave me the green light to return… I woke up sick. A sore throat. In 2020, that meant COVID testing and two more weeks at home.

And then, the night before I was finally supposed to go back to work…

Another bleed.

Alone in the ER

We rushed to the hospital.

According to the last ultrasound, the subchorionic hematoma had already resolved—this bleeding had no known cause.

Because of COVID restrictions, Jeff wasn’t allowed to come with me. I sat alone in a corner of the ER, convinced I was losing my baby, again. It took hours before someone was available to scan me.

But when they finally did, there it was:

A heartbeat. Again.

I cried. Again. And was placed on bedrest again.

Isolation that ran deep

The physical isolation of pregnancy during COVID was real.

But it was the emotional kind that sat heavier.

I spent months on the couch. Bible open. Worship music playing. Quiet prayers whispered. It was a season of waiting, uncertainty, and deep spiritual dependence.

I was re-learning how to trust, not because everything felt safe—but because it didn’t.

Joy + Grief, side by side - pregnancy and end-of-life

Luke's baby shower was held in “shifts”—small outdoor gatherings to keep everyone safe. One of my closest friends made onesies for him. One of them said:

“For this little boy we have prayed.”

And I cried.

At the same time we were preparing for Luke’s arrival, Jeff’s mom was declining in the hospital. She had developed Guillain-Barré Syndrome—a rare and devastating condition. She passed away three days after Luke was born.

They did meet. Just briefly.

A moment we will always cherish.

And still… God was present.

In every scan.

In every bleed.

In every quiet morning on the couch.

In every grief we didn’t know how to hold alongside our joy.

I’ll never forget how fragile it all felt.

But I’ll also never forget the quiet voice I kept hearing:

“Even this—I will carry you through.”