Miscarriage: The Ultrasound that Ended with No Heartbeat

A personal reflection of pregnancy loss, the silence in the ultrasound room and the moment you hear, “There’s no heartbeat.”

In a dimly lit room, an empty crib quietly stands with toy bears gently hanging above, symbolising a poignant reminder of miscarriage, pregnancy loss and unfulfilled dreams of parenthood.

Miscarriage is one of those moments in life that quietly yet profoundly divides us into before and after.

For me, this happened in a cramped ultrasound room. I remember the cold gel on my stomach, the dim lights overhead, the sterile clicking of buttons, the sonographer’s quiet eyes and then… silence. The kind of silence that speaks volumes, wrapping itself around the air and refusing to let go.

I don’t remember exactly how long it lasted. Time folded in on itself, the way it does when you’re about to receive life-altering news. I kept staring at the screen, waiting to glimpse the flutter I’d seen at other ultrasounds and hear the quick thump-thump-thump I’d imagined for weeks.

But there was no movement. No sound.

The sonographer slowly turned towards me, and in that moment, I already knew.

The Moment You Know

The stinging words, “I’m so sorry—there’s no heartbeat,” abruptly ended the silence and the pregnancy.

When you hear those words, it doesn’t feel like a sentence. It feels like your heart has been pierced, before the words have even been spoken.

It’s a phrase that changes everything and one that nobody ever prepares you to hear. Nothing equips you to sit on a paper-covered ultrasound bed, half-dressed, while your dreams dissolve on a screen in front of you.

“What do you mean?” I had to say it, even though I knew exactly what she meant.

“It looks like your baby stopped growing a few weeks ago,” she explained. “I’m sorry.”

Utter devastation swept through my body, and a small piece of my spirit felt as though it had floated away like smoke from a campfire on a windy day. My heart ached, and shattering waves of shock and sadness rushed through me.

For a split second, my body felt like a stranger. It had failed me. Or maybe I had failed it. I remember thinking: This can’t be. She’s made a mistake. What did I do wrong? I knew, logically, this wasn’t my fault. But logic doesn’t live in grief. Only feelings do—and they come fast.

Walking Out Empty

Leaving the clinic, having been told I was experiencing a missed miscarriage, was surreal. The world outside hadn’t changed, but I had.

I remember looking around at people going about their day—drinking coffee, checking their phones, laughing—and feeling as though I was trapped behind a glass wall. I wanted to scream, “I just lost my baby. Doesn’t anyone see that?”

But no one did. I walked out with no sign of life inside me, no bandage, no visible wound, just silence and an appointment at the hospital the following week for a D&C.

I returned to work and asked to speak to my boss. After I told her what was happening, I was met with only kindness and grace. I was lucky, so many other women aren’t. Later that day, I went home, curled up in bed and cried so hard I thought my chest would split open. I didn’t know how to tell people. I didn’t know if I should. Part of me wanted to disappear until I could “get over it”—as if grief was something I needed to rush past.

What No One Tells You

• No one tells you that after a missed miscarriage, your body may still feel pregnant.

• That your hormones may not crash like a tidal wave.

• Your bump will continue to grow.

• You will still suffer morning sickness.

• Seeing a baby product advert online will feel like a gut punch.

• People will say things like “At least it was early” or “You can try again” and think it’s helpful.

• No one tells you how lonely miscarriage can be. And how loud that silence is.

The Silence

Despite 1 in 4 pregnancies ending in miscarriage, so few of us talk about it. And when we do, it’s often in hushed tones, behind closed doors, as if loss should be hidden. But the truth is, grief needs space. Healing needs time. And our stories need to be told. That’s why I tell mine in “Infertility Saved My Life: Healing PCOS from the Inside Out.” I don’t want anyone to suffer the same guilt and shame I did. If you have walked this path or are a loved one who wants to understand and support them, let’s talk about it and help break the silence.

Looking Back Now

Looking back, I wish I could hold that version of myself—the one sitting in the car, completely overwhelmed and numb. The one who woke up each morning for months, praying it had all been a mistake. I would tell her:

You are allowed to grieve. You are not broken. You are not alone. You don’t have to move on quickly to make others more comfortable.

Miscarriage is a real loss. And loss deserves mourning, no matter how early it happens and no matter who knows about it.

If You’re in That Space Right Now

If you’ve recently heard those words— “there’s no heartbeat”—I want you to know I see you.

You don’t have to have the right words. You don’t have to explain. Just know that your pain is valid, and you don’t have to carry it in silence.

Until then, be gentle with yourself.

You are worthy of every bit of tenderness this world can offer.

If you would like to read the rest of my story, you can order a signed copy of "Infertility Saved My Life: Healing PCOS from the Inside Out" from my website or obtain a copy from any global online retailer or bookstore.

In the second article, I’ll be sharing what it’s really like to go through a D&C or miscarry at home—because this journey deserves to be spoken, one truth at a time.