The Physical Realities of Miscarriage: A Personal Story of Dilation and Curettage (D&C) and Pregnancy Loss at Home

What We Don’t Talk About: Making Space for the Raw, Physical Experience of Miscarriage

A woman lies in a hospital bed after a Dilation and Curettage (D&C) procedure following a miscarriage.

When people talk about miscarriage, it’s often in hushed tones. A word dropped into conversation like a whisper, quickly followed by a pause or a change of subject. But what we speak about rarely are the physical realities of what a miscarriage is.

We say things like,

“She had a miscarriage.”

“She lost the baby.”

But we don’t talk about what happens to the body.

We don’t talk about the pain.

The blood.

The waiting.

The trauma.

The loneliness of it all.

I want to change that. Miscarriage deserves to be spoken about. I wish someone had told me.

The D&C: Grief in a Hospital Gown

The first time I experienced a miscarriage, I underwent a D&C—a surgical procedure to remove pregnancy tissue from the uterus. In my case, it was a missed miscarriage: my body hadn’t recognised the loss, and there was no clear timeline for when it would. Meanwhile, the pregnancy hormones cruelly continued to flow, and the sac kept growing.

Despite my aversion to hospitals, I chose to have the procedure. I needed it to be over—to bring some physical relief and quiet the relentless nausea. Doctors explained that waiting could lead to greater risks: more trauma, possible infection and an emergency D&C if things progressed unexpectedly.

In some ways, the D&C was easier physically, as I didn’t witness the loss. But emotionally? It was complex.

Walking into a hospital with a pregnancy that was no longer viable but still inside me… There are no words for that.

Being led into a ward where life ends rather than begins, surrounded by young women undergoing abortions—there are no words for that either.

Waking up groggy, a sanitary pad uncomfortably wedged between the top of my thighs, I felt hollow in every sense—the emptiness was more than physical.

There’s pain, yes. Cramping. Bleeding. But also relief and guilt for feeling relief.

There’s a strange stillness afterwards.

And lots of tears.

You go home, and people don’t realise what your body just went through.

And the weirdest part? Very few people call. No one makes casseroles.

You’re grieving and recovering from surgery, and still expected to carry on like nothing happened.

Miscarrying at Home

The following year, I experienced another missed miscarriage, but this time with twins. As before, I was booked in for another D&C. However, because of the delayed wait time for the surgery, I ended up miscarrying at home. I didn’t know what to expect. No one had prepared me for what that would look like. I thought it might be like a heavy period.

But it wasn’t.

It was sitting on the toilet, terrified, as waves of pain passed through me.

It was the passing of massive blood clots and shock as the sac and tissue came out.

It was the part I hadn’t prepared for—deciding what to do with what had passed, and the wrenching act of flushing it away.

It was crying in the shower and curling up in bed in the foetal position.

It was hours of uncertainty, wondering if it was over, and then realising it wasn’t.

It was deeply personal. And quietly traumatic.

And I did it alone, because no one talks about this part.

Why We Need to Talk About This

We need to talk about what it’s really like to miscarry.

Because otherwise, people feel alone.

Because they walk through it thinking, What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be like this?

When we don’t talk about the pain, the blood and tissue loss, we also rob miscarriage of its full truth. It’s not just emotional. It’s visceral. It happens in our bodies in ways that leave echoes.

And yet, there is little space for it.

So let me say this:

• You’re not weak for being shaken by what you went through

• You’re not dramatic for feeling traumatised

• You’re not broken if your grief doesn’t look tidy

• You are not alone

No Right Way

Some people choose a natural miscarriage. Some decide on a D&C. Some don’t get to choose at all.

Every option comes with its own kind of pain, its own kind of healing. And there is no right way.

Whatever you went through—or are going through—you’re allowed to speak it.

You’re allowed to remember the sound, the smell, the image of it.

You’re allowed to name it.

Because this was not just a medical event. It was your baby. Your body. Your story.

Final Words

We don’t talk about these things because they’re hard to hear.

But we need to talk about them because silence breeds shame, and you deserve so much better than that.

So here it is, said out loud:

Miscarriage can be messy. Raw. Horrific. Profound.

It is not just a word. It’s an experience that happens in mind, body and soul.

And you survived it. You are surviving it.

You are brave, even when you don’t feel it.

You are not alone. Not anymore.

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 article three, I’ll be talking about the importance of grieving, rituals and processing your emotions—because this journey deserves to be spoken, one truth at a time.

In article one, I wrote a personal reflection of pregnancy loss, the silence in the ultrasound room and the moment you hear, “There’s no heartbeat.”