This is a story I never thought I’d tell. 

I once left work an hour early after finding out that I’d had a miscarriage. An early one, they said. Barely six weeks in. I wanted to leave work after completing the mandatory 8 hours at the desk and skip my one-hour lunch, just for a couple of days. 

I remember typing out the horrifying details of my ordeal over Skype, asking the HR if I needed to fill out a form or submit anything. “Just send proof,” she replied.

I wondered what kind of proof I was supposed to give. A discharge summary? A prescription? The hollow outline of an empty gestational sac?

Over the next few days, I mentioned it to a handful of close people. Some looked down awkwardly and walked on eggshells around me for days after that. Others greeted me with silence. A colleague who had once lost a pregnancy at five months said gently, “Oh, but yours was so early.” It wasn’t meant to be cruel at all, but it was invalidating.

The things we’re told (and not told)

This is the thing about early miscarriages. They come with grief, confusion, and physical pain, but very little permission to feel them. And even less space to talk about them.

Miscarriage is one of the most common reproductive health experiences in the world, and still, one of the most silently endured.

According to a study published in The Lancet, nearly 1 in 10 women who experience a miscarriage show signs of post-traumatic stress disorder even three months after the loss.

Others face anxiety, depression, and a complex sense of isolation, often with no structured support or acknowledgment. Particularly in a culturally complex country like India, where the words “miscarriage,” “postpartum depression,” and “mental health” are still only whispered, layered with judgment and guilt. Where women are questioned and blamed even as they are grieving and are often told to keep trying without giving them space to heal and recover.

And yet, the grief remains largely invisible. Not just because it’s hidden, but because it’s dismissed – especially when the pregnancy was early, or when the loss doesn’t fit neatly into a socially acceptable definition of tragedy. Why does this loss cut so hard? 

“It happened in the middle of the night,” says Ananya*, who was six weeks pregnant when she started bleeding. “There was no buildup. Just shock. And then guilt. I remember sitting on the bathroom floor Googling if stress could cause a miscarriage. I hadn’t even told anyone yet—I didn’t want to say I was pregnant until I was sure.”

When she went to the hospital the next morning, the nurse told her it was “very common” and that there was “nothing to worry about.”

“But I was worried. Not medically—I knew they were right. I was grieving something I hadn’t yet celebrated. And I didn’t know how to say that out loud without sounding dramatic.”

The grief you can’t see on a scan

“Miscarriage isn’t just a medical event—it’s an emotional and psychological upheaval,” says Dr. Malika Narang, a therapist. “My job isn’t to rush people through it; it’s to help them process it in their own time.”

Dr. Malika says many women internalize guilt or feel they must ‘move on’ quickly. Others retreat into silence because they don’t want to appear dramatic or weak. “In India, women are rarely given space to grieve a miscarriage. People say, ‘Move on, it happens’, or worse, they blame her, ‘Maybe you didn’t take care of yourself’, or ‘It’s past karma’. She’s not just mourning a loss; she’s also fighting for the right to grieve.”

“I didn’t tell my friends. I didn’t tell my parents,” Ananya says. “Even my partner didn’t know what to do with it. I just carried on.”

A miscarriage doesn’t always arrive with clear warnings. Sometimes there’s bleeding. Sometimes there isn’t. For many women, especially in early pregnancies, it can look like just another painful period. What’s happening inside, though, can feel far from ordinary.

“You’re not just treating a uterus. You’re holding someone’s broken hope. And sometimes, they don’t even have words for what they’re feeling yet,” says Dr. Anjani Dixit, a practicing gynecologist and fertility specialist.

She further adds, “There are moments when the best thing a doctor can do is to stop talking and just be present. Sit next to them. Let them cry. Don’t interrupt their pain with logic.”

The body remembers – the cramps, the sudden emptiness, the hormonal shifts. But the world expects a quiet return to normal. Often within days.

Udita recalls, “It was April 2020. I was four months pregnant. I didn’t know I was going to lose the baby until it had already happened.”

She was 36 when she miscarried during the early weeks of the pandemic, just as the world was shutting down. The pregnancy was unplanned but welcome. But it was followed by a shock of loss, and a prolonged physical and emotional trauma that no one had prepared her for.

“The actual miscarriage happened quietly, where I knew something was wrong, but was distracted by my mother taking ill suddenly.” 

She describes how she went for her ultrasound appointment, for the technician to tell her that she had miscarried. Since it was COVID times, she had no one with her to process what had just happened. 

The room with two realities

The medical staff was very matter-of-fact, even after she told them that she was in the process of miscarrying, she had to wait for her turn for more than half an hour in the waiting room, where happily pregnant women and women with their newborns were sitting. 

The doctor tried to express some concern, but ended up saying something like, “Oh, I thought you would be all good. Everything was fine, no!” Udita remembers feeling numb as she was given the medication to help complete her miscarriage and sent home.

“The pain was unimaginable, and I have a very high tolerance for pain. I was literally banging my head against walls and furniture,” remembers Udita. “There was no counselling, not even a word about the kind of pain I was sure to experience.”

Udita had to take the medication twice and still had to go through a D&C before she was given a green flag by her gynaecologist.

She recalls the medical care with a sharp clarity—not because it helped, but because of how much it hurt. The doctors were clinical, rushed, and detached. “Right after the procedure, they put me in a ward where there were women in labour or who had just given birth.” I wanted to scream. I hated how happy and hopeful everyone there was!

At discharge, “No one had a kind word to say. No one explained what was happening to my body or what I might feel after. I was just told to ‘come back for a follow-up.’”

Dr. Shruti Agarwal, a therapist, agrees: “When I talk to someone who’s had a miscarriage, I make sure to acknowledge the emotional side first. Yeah, the medical part is important, but grief isn’t something you just ‘fix.” […] A lot of times, people just need someone to tell them it’s okay to feel what they’re feeling, that they don’t have to move on right away.”

In the weeks that followed, Udita’s mother fell seriously ill and passed away. The grief collided, tangled. One loss made space for another, until neither could be processed.

“There was no time to grieve. I had to keep going. For my family. For my sanity. And maybe because I didn’t know how to stop.”

Depression came quietly—loss of interest, insomnia, moments of detachment. But she didn’t seek therapy. “I didn’t even realise I was in depression. I thought I was just tired, overwhelmed. In hindsight, maybe therapy would have helped.”

What did help, unexpectedly, was talking. Not to fix things, but to be heard.

“I was lucky to have friends who just listened. They didn’t say ‘you’ll have another one’ or ‘it’s God’s will.’ She just said, ‘Tell me what happened.’ That helped more than anything else.”

Healing came in small, scattered ways. The arrival of Cooper, her pet Labrador, she treats as her elder child. “I still grieve for my mother. That’s a deeper wound. But the miscarriage… it’s not front and center anymore. It comes and goes like a shadow.”

What stays with her, even now, is the invisibility of the pain.

“People came and said things like ‘even if it was a miscarriage, there is a silver lining. It means you can get pregnant now.’ They said it because we hadn’t conceived in the 8 years we had been married.” I felt invalidated, even if it came from a place of good intention.

And yet, years later, she speaks about it. Because silence never helped. Because grief needs witnesses. “There’s no shame in talking about it. The only shame is that no one ever asked me how I really felt.”

I gave birth knowing I wouldn’t take him home

Shreya, who miscarried at 22 weeks in 2024 due to placental issues, remembers her experience with searing clarity. This was a planned pregnancy, one she had longed for. And yet, at the peak of anticipation, she was told the baby wasn’t growing, wasn’t thriving. She held on for as long as she could—until her body and the baby could no longer keep up.
“I was induced. I went into labour knowing full well that I would be delivering a child who would never breathe,” she says. “I could hear babies crying in the adjacent rooms. I was in labour for hours. Every contraction reminded me that the baby I was pushing out wouldn’t survive.”

The emotional devastation was compounded by insensitivity. “A nurse told me, ‘It’s not even that big, why are you crying so much?’ I still can’t forget those words.”

Shreya’s husband, her parents, and her dog Oscar became her anchors. “I returned to work just a week later—not because I had healed, but because I needed to feel like something made sense again.”

She still feels the pain. It no longer shows as tears, but it’s there—in her silences, in the invisible heaviness. “I feel envy when others share their baby news. I feel anger. But I also feel stronger. I don’t sugarcoat things anymore. I don’t say yes when I mean no.”

What the system doesn’t see

Dr. Dixit admits that the medical system may often fall short. “When I worked in government hospitals, we didn’t even have the time or energy to acknowledge emotional needs. Now in private practice, I see how important that emotional space is—but not every hospital is built to offer it.”

She notes that patients are often assigned to general wards due to cost constraints, not realizing the emotional damage it can cause. “It’s not always the doctor’s decision. But yes, it happens. And it hurts. That’s why newer hospitals are phasing out general wards altogether—privacy and dignity matter.”

Dr. Dixit emphasizes the role of ground staff too. “Senior nurses are often sensitive and experienced. But junior staff, who change frequently, may not have that empathy. Feedback helps—when I operate in new hospitals, I always ask patients about their experience and share any concerns with the administration.”

“There’s no roadmap for grieving a miscarriage,” Dr. Malika says. “No one-size-fits-all script for what to say, how to support, or how to cope.”

But we can do better.

What healing actually looks like

Grief shouldn’t be measured in trimesters or weeks. It’s measured by emotional connection and the invisible dreams that vanish with the loss. Dr. Malika believes the healthcare system must shift from symptom management to compassionate care. Every gynaecology ward should offer access to emotional support, not as an extra, but as a necessity.

“We always focus on the physical healing—bleeding stopped, scan is clear, all good. But emotional recovery isn’t on any checklist. A simple 15-minute session with a counsellor at discharge could change that,” says Dr. Dixit.

Dr. Shruti adds, “For me, the biggest thing is making sure my sessions feel like a safe space, where people can grieve however they need to. I tell them that their loss is real, that they don’t have to justify their feelings to anyone, and I help them figure out how to process it in a way that makes sense to them. Sometimes it’s talking, sometimes it’s art, sometimes it’s just sitting with their feelings. The world moves on too fast, but grief doesn’t work like that, and I try to make sure they have the time and space they need.”

Listen. Stay. Don’t explain.

Beyond medicine, what people need is permission to not be okay. To not bounce back. To name their pain without being told it’s too small, or too early.

Support doesn’t always require the right words. Sometimes it’s just staying. Sometimes it’s asking, “Do you want to talk about it?” and holding space for whatever follows.

I never sent that “proof” to HR. I forwarded a doctor’s note eventually – more for protocol than anything else. No one followed up, and I don’t really blame them. There’s no line item in an employee handbook that tells you what to say to someone who’s just lost something no one else saw.

But I now understand that grief doesn’t ask for permission. It arrives, even in the earliest of losses. It sits quietly in the body. It lingers in language, or the lack of it. And it deserves more than silence.

The women who shared their stories for this piece didn’t do so lightly. They did it to open the door for others who may still be sitting with a loss they were told didn’t count.

Maybe the way forward isn’t to talk louder, but to listen better.

To ask gently.
To stay a little longer when someone says, “I lost something, but I’m not sure how to talk about it.”

And to understand that even the smallest of absences can leave behind the loudest kind of silence.