I Lost My Twins at 20 Weeks and “Sad Girl Walks” Saved Me in the Depths of My Grief

October is Miscarriage Awareness Month. Miscarriage is more common than many realize, but because the topic is uncomfortable to discuss, the experience can feel very isolating. And when others don’t fully understand the depth of the loss, finding support gets even harder. As someone who’s unfortunately found themselves a part of this awful club (that so many other women unwillingly join), my hope is that this story helps to open up the discussion.

I’ve been there: awake at 3 a.m., doomscrolling on TikTok, desperate to find someone I could relate to. If that’s you, I hope this helps you feel less alone, helps you know I truly understand the depth of your grief and helps remind you that in time you will begin to heal. Everyone’s healing journey looks different and there’s no right or wrong way to grieve. What I can share are the things that helped me and maybe some of them will help you, too.

Back in March, my husband and I found out our first IUI cycle worked and we were finally pregnant (after what felt like forever). I’ll never forget that day. I had my phone glued to my side anxiously awaiting the nurse’s call with our results, only to miss it during a 30 second break where I stepped away. When I listened to the voicemail tears of joy, relief and disbelief came all at once. A positive result. And a few weeks later we learned it wasn’t just one baby, but two—twins! We were beyond excited and ready to take on the adventure (and challenges) of becoming first time parents to twins. 

Fast forward to 20 weeks. Our registry was set, the baby shower invites were ordered, my belly had officially popped and I was starting to feel Baby Boy’s little kicks. He was always the crazy one during the ultrasound appointments, while Baby Girl stayed calm, probably already annoyed at her brother. I was honestly feeling the best I had ever felt, which for someone pregnant with twins sounded almost unbelievable.

On a Summer Friday in July we were planning to head to our favorite place, Long Beach Island, for an extended weekend away. We were trying to soak up the days of it being just us—days when we could jump in the car and take off whenever, wherever. But we never made it there. Instead, we ended up at the doctor’s office after I started spotting and cramping overnight. When the doctor initially checked, both babies’ heartbeats were strong. We all felt so relieved. But as the exam continued that relief quickly vanished. We learned that the gush of fluid I’d felt that morning was my water breaking and I was already two centimeters dilated. From there everything became a blur. I can’t even remember what the doctor said, but thankfully my husband guided us through the hospital to the labor and delivery wing. As we explained what was happening to each doctor and nurse we watched their faces drop one by one. It was devastating.

After many more exams we were told I was in preterm labor and experiencing PPROM (Preterm Premature Rupture of Membranes)—two very serious complications at once—and that at just 20 weeks, our babies would not survive if I delivered. We had to make a heartbreaking decision and as they wheeled me into the operating room, Baby Girl gave one last kick. Maybe it was a mother's intuition, but I knew it was her. I knew she didn’t want to leave without giving me the chance to feel her for the first time, and heartbreakingly the last.

I won’t sugarcoat it, the days that followed were awful. The emptiness I felt is indescribable. Grieving the loss of someone (in my case, two little someones) who I would never get the chance to physically meet is nearly impossible to put into words. I found myself grieving not just our babies, but every dream, every milestone, every piece of the future we had pictured. Losing that future can feel like you are losing a part of yourself. And during all the heartbreak I wasn’t even realizing that my hormones were crashing. I was home experiencing postpartum-like symptoms without my babies next to me. We had become those people you only ever hear stories about. That friend of a friend who went through such a tragic experience and that you feel so sorry for, but grateful that it wasn’t you.

Life doesn’t stop just because your world has. So, you have to let yourself feel it all.

Especially in the beginning I barely had time to process what had happened. My summer calendar was packed with events I’d been looking forward to for months. Do I go? Do I stay home? If I show up, what will people say? Or will they avoid the elephant in the room and act like nothing happened? And how am I supposed to act in either situation? The anxiety was overwhelming. The guilt of even thinking I might enjoy myself for a second was worse. I kept telling myself I shouldn’t be out in public, I should be on my couch crying and honestly that’s where I wanted to be.

Still, I know people probably thought, “Wow, she’s doing better than I expected.” The truth is I wasn’t. I felt numb, just moving through the motions without realizing the impact it would have on me later. I’d get ready, put on a pretty dress, smile and make small talk. But I didn’t know how to act “normal” anymore because my life wasn’t normal anymore. I was trying to process what had happened while still keeping up with life, which left me running on emotional autopilot. Looking back, maybe I shouldn’t have gone to those events. But at the same time, the only way to know was to go.

Two things can be true at once: you can be over-the-moon for a friend who’s about to have her first baby and still cry the entire morning before her shower. You can be honored to stand as godmother for your nephew and still feel nervous about how it will hit you when you hold him during his baptism. You can cry tears of joy when another friend tells you she’s pregnant and at the same time cry tears of sadness knowing you’ll relate to those early weeks of pregnancy, but not to when she makes it past 20 weeks.

I’ve felt all of it and it’s hard, but it’s also life. Life doesn’t stop just because your world has. So, you have to let yourself feel it all. The emotions can be overwhelming. One minute you feel strong and steady and the next you’re suddenly triggered by the smallest thing. Those ups and downs are going to be part of it for a while. And those completely opposite emotions will live side-by-side for a while too. You’ll learn how to carry both. But when it hits, let it. Cry it out. Because somehow even five minutes later, you really do feel just a little better.

Some people will say things that hurt more than they help. Phrases like “everything happens for a reason” or “it just wasn’t your time.” Honestly, how do you even respond to that? Because I can’t think of a single good reason why this happened. And when exactly is the “right” time for my dream family to happen? Maybe when I’m 40 weeks pregnant instead of 20? I used to get so angry hearing those words, but eventually I realized most people just don’t know what to say. They’re trying to be supportive even if what comes out feels more like a punch in the gut.

After the dozens and dozens of messages I got there were only a few that truly made me feel seen. The ones that simply said, “I am so sad for you” or “this is so unfair.” Those simple but sincere words landed. Because in my lowest moments, I didn’t need positivity or silver linings. I just needed comfort. Someone to sit in the sadness with me.

One of the nurses at the hospital made me promise her that I’d go outside for at least 20 minutes a day. Honestly, at first that advice went in one ear and out the other. But eventually I listened. I started taking morning walks before my day officially began. I’d put on the saddest songs, let my thoughts spiral and just cry as I walked. I called them my “Sad Girl Walks.” They gave me space to completely let it out before the day started. A release that felt different from constantly crying to my husband or my mom. I realized I needed that time alone—just me and my grief—to start processing everything.

At first those walks were pure tears. Flashbacks would hit me and I’d be sobbing down the sidewalk. But little by little, the crying started to stop. At some point something switched. The walks stopped being only about the sadness and started giving me a sense of peace, too. I began to feel a little stronger, a little lighter, a little more like myself.

During those walks I started jotting down my thoughts that turned into sentences, then paragraphs and eventually made it onto paper. That’s what led me here, sharing my story. Those walks didn’t just get me out of the house, they helped me start healing. And in so many ways, they saved me.

When they say time heals, they’re right, it really does. But that doesn’t mean the further I get from the day everything happened, the more I forget. What time does is soften the weight of the grief that will always be a new part of me.

It’s been about three months now. Three months of a thousand different emotions, a few steps forward and a few steps back on repeat. Three months of anxiety, indecision and pure heartbreak. But also in those three months, I’ve begun to heal. I’ve gotten to the point where I can see real progress and strength. Strength I honestly didn’t know I had, but I did all along. 

When they say time heals, they’re right, it really does. But that doesn’t mean the further I get from the day everything happened, the more I forget. What time does is soften the weight of the grief that will always be a new part of me. It’s given me space to refocus on the amazing moments I did have. I feel grateful that I got to experience 20 weeks of pregnancy. I got to share incredible memories with my husband, family and friends that I’ll carry with me forever. And even now, my babies still give me little winks here and there. Reminders that fill me with so much emotion, but also bring me a surprising sense of peace.

Miscarriage is something so many of us quietly carry, but none of us should have to go through it feeling alone. If you or a loved one has experienced this type of loss, I hope my story helps you feel a little less isolated and reminds you that there’s no “right” way to grieve—only your way. So, give yourself some grace. You’ll have moments of indecision, anxiety and overwhelming heartbreak. Sometimes you’ll put yourself in situations you realize you’re not ready for and that’s okay. What matters is that you were brave enough to try. And in the moments when you aren’t feeling brave, I hope you find strength and peace in knowing you are not in this alone.