I Didn’t Trust Myself. I Lost My Baby.
Once, in my early 20s, I had a gynecological issue. And I was terrified to bring it up to my doctor—an old man.
(What was I thinking, trusting some old man with my lady parts? Blech. Never again.)
But I knew something wasn’t right, so I put on my big girl panties… and then took them off. Sitting there in that scratchy gown, naked underneath, I managed to find the words to bring it up.
His response was condescending. And dismissive. He barely acknowledged my concern, basically rolled his eyes, and said I had nothing to worry about. And then, I shut up. I didn’t bring it up again for almost 30 years—not until I was pregnant with my second baby and had a midwife who I felt safe to share with.
I wonder how many of us have had our concerns dismissed by doctors. Actually, let me flip that—I wonder how many of us haven’t been dismissed by doctors, because that list is probably shorter.
Another time, in my late 20s, I had these weird, painful, itchy bumps on my neck. I went to a doctor. She took one look and said, swollen glands. And I knew that wasn’t right. I mean, everyone knows swollen glands are not on the outside of your neck. But I didn’t push back. I went home, suffered another week, then finally saw a different doctor who immediately said, This is shingles. Why did you wait so long to come in?
I could go on. You probably could too. Because this sh*t happens to women all the time.
Speaking up was never easy for me. Asking questions was never easy. I never felt safe telling a doctor (or anyone, for that matter) what was going on in my body or my mind. And when I did finally push through the fear, I was usually dismissed anyway. These doctors just kept proving my point: It’s not safe to ask for help.
So let’s fast forward.
I was 35. Pregnant for the first time, and So freaking excited.
Somewhere near the end of my first trimester, I started noticing this weird, fishy smell in my nether regions. And brown spotting. I Googled the hell out of it, and couldn’t find anything solid, so I went to see my OB. That’s normal in pregnancy, they said. Nothing to worry about.
But I did worry. Because the smell didn’t go away. The spotting didn’t go away. And every time I went back—again and again, making extra appointments, asking again, begging them to pay attention—I got the same answer. It’s fine. It’s normal. Stop worrying.
Except I knew it wasn’t fine. I knew something was wrong. But I had spent my entire life being told I was overreacting. That I was too sensitive. That I worried too much. That I should just trust what the experts were telling me.
So I shut up.
Then, at 22 weeks, they must have gotten tired of me asking, because they threw me a bone and prescribed me prescription-strength Vagisil. I knew it wasn’t a yeast infection. But I did what I was told. I shoved the cream up there, put on a pad, and went about my business.
The next day, when the bell rang to end my 6th-period class, I felt this gush in my pants.
I went to the bathroom. My pants were soaked.
And I was so out of touch with my own body that I actually went home on my prep period, changed my pants, called my doctor, left a message, and then went back to work to teach my last class.
When I finally got through to someone, they told me to come in right away. Normally, this office was packed—two different waiting rooms, felt like a cattle call. But this time they took me right back. No waiting.
Now I was scared. But I was also naïve. I still thought everything was going to be okay.
The doctor came in, did an ultrasound, left, came back with the vaginal ultrasound wand, checked again. And then she looked at me and said:
“Your water broke. You need to go to the emergency room.”
I asked her, What does this mean? And she said, “Sometimes we can keep you pregnant long enough to have a healthy baby.”
What. The. F*ck?
The next day, after five vaginal exams—because why not introduce more bacteria into an already broken sac—I spiked a fever. An infection had set in.
I had to be induced.
At 22 weeks and 3 days, I gave birth to my 1 lb, 6 oz baby. Held him in my arms for his whole life.
And then he was gone.
Neurodivergence, Silence, and the Cost of Not Trusting Myself
I didn’t know I was neurodivergent back then. But looking back, it explains everything.
The lifelong feeling of being wrong. The constant second-guessing. The people-pleasing. The fear of coming across as too much or too dramatic. The way I masked my instincts into oblivion because I had been conditioned to believe that I couldn’t be trusted.
I knew. I knew.
And I let them convince me I didn’t.
I can’t go back and change it. But I can tell you this—it will never happen again.
Because now I trust myself. Now I fight. Now I listen when my gut screams at me.
And if you’ve ever been made to feel like your voice doesn’t matter, like your instincts are wrong, or like you should just sit down and be quiet because some doctor with a God complex thinks they know your body better than you do, stop letting them silence you.
Trust yourself. Advocate for yourself. Speak up, even if your voice shakes. Or find someone whil will help you advocate for yourself.
Because the cost of silence is too high.
This wasn’t just about one loss. This was about a lifetime of being conditioned to ignore my own instincts, to be the “good girl” who listens to authority, to believe that if something was wrong, they would tell me. But they didn’t. And my baby died because I didn’t trust myself enough to scream louder, demand more, walk the fuck out of that office and find someone who would listen.
And this isn’t just my story. This is what so many mothers go through—not just in pregnancy, but postpartum, when we’re vulnerable, exhausted, and told to just trust the process while drowning in silence. When we’re dismissed, misdiagnosed, or left to figure out life after birth without real support. When we’re handed a newborn and expected to just know how to navigate sleep, feeding, recovery, and our own mental health teetering on the edge—while doctors brush off our concerns, while the system fails us over and over again.
This is why I do what I do. Because I know what it’s like to feel unheard, to be gaslit into doubting your own reality, to lose something that should never have been lost. And I refuse to let other mothers go through it.
You deserve to be supported. You deserve to be informed. You deserve to be heard.
If you're pregnant or postpartum and feeling like your mental health is slipping through the cracks, you need to know you’re not alone—and you need to know what risk factors to watch for. Don't wait until you're drowning. Head over to my website and find out if you're at risk for postpartum anxiety (PPA) or any other mental health struggles. It’s time to take control of your own well-being and get the support you deserve. You are not meant to navigate this alone.
