When Hopes Hurt: My Story of Pregnancy with IUD and Loss

Not My Usual Blog Post — A Bit More Heart, A Lot More Hurt

Most of my blogs are light, funny, and sprinkled with wit — because that’s how I’ve learned to survive motherhood, marriage, and the chaos in between. Humor is my shield, my comfort food. But today, I write not with a smile, but with a lump in my throat.

This blog is different.

It’s raw. It’s real. And it hurts.

A few weeks ago, my body started sending signs — late periods, nausea, breast pain, mood swings that could rival a Bollywood villain. I brushed it off. After all, I had an IUD. Pregnancy was supposed to be off the table.

But life doesn’t always follow plans. Or prescriptions.

Two home tests later, I found out I was pregnant. Shocked? Yes. Scared? Absolutely. Hopeful? Secretly… yes.

I hadn’t planned for another baby. I wasn’t sure I was ready. But slowly, as I imagined a little heartbeat again, a new chapter, and maybe even another kid I’d once dreamed of — my heart dared to open.

Then came the pain. The bleeding. The dread.

First it was light — enough to hope. Then came the cramps, the loose motions, the kind of fatigue no amount of naps could fix. I wanted it to be implantation bleeding. But deep down, I knew.

It was a miscarriage.

Even saying it feels heavy. Like something I should whisper, not write. But I’m choosing to speak about it — because not every loss fits into a neat medical definition. Some break your body, yes. But more than that — they break your silence.

This wasn’t just about biology. It was about hope. About attachment. About the silent dreams I started spinning in the quiet moments of fatigue and nausea.

Pregnancy with an IUD is rare. I didn’t think it could happen. I also didn’t know how quickly I’d fall in love with the idea — or how much it would hurt to say goodbye before I even said hello.

I’ll return to my funny stories soon. I’ll make jokes again, probably about toddler tantrums or food cravings that turn into identity crises. But today, I needed to share this truth.

If you’ve gone through something like this — or are going through it right now — I see you. I’m sorry. And you are not alone.

Grief doesn’t always wear black or white. Sometimes it wears pajamas, holds a cup of ginger tea, and writes incomplete blog posts at 2 a.m. and try to complete it next morning!

And sometimes… it heals. Slowly, tenderly, quietly.

I’m holding space for that healing — for me, and maybe, for you too.

With love,

Aruneeta