Sarah's Story

I did not plan to become a baby loss coach. Like so many women, I found myself standing in the aftermath of a loss no one had prepared me for, holding an experience I had no language for, and trying to carry on as if nothing had happened.

The loss no one talks about

My first miscarriage came without warning. One day I was making plans, letting myself dream a little. The next I was in a hospital room hearing the word "sorry" from a stranger, and driving home wondering how the world outside could keep turning at the same speed.

I did what many of us do. I told a few people. I said I was fine. I went back to work. I kept the deeper feelings tucked away because I did not know where else to put them, and because everyone around me seemed to want reassurance that I was okay.

When "getting on with it" stopped working

Months passed. On the outside I looked fine. On the inside, grief was still moving through me in ways I did not recognise: a short temper, a heaviness I could not name, a quiet distance from the people I loved most. I thought something was wrong with me because I had not simply moved on.

The turning point was not a breakthrough or a big decision. It was a small moment of realising that I was not broken. I was a person who had lost something real, and I had never given myself permission to feel it.

A different way through

When I found the Three Principles of Mind, Consciousness, and Thought, as described by Sydney Banks, something loosened in me. I began to see that I did not have to analyse my grief, fix myself, or become someone new before I could feel steady again. My wellbeing was already inside me. My thinking was moving through it, sometimes stormy, sometimes still, and neither state was the whole truth of who I was.

That understanding did not erase the loss. It gave me somewhere to stand while I grieved. It let me feel what I needed to feel without adding a second layer of judgement on top.

Why I wrote the book

I wrote Miscarriage. What Next? for the woman I was in the weeks after my loss: the one searching in the middle of the night for something that would meet her where she was. Not a checklist. Not a lecture. Just a quiet companion for the days when the world felt too loud.

If you are reading this, whether the loss was last week or years ago, I want you to know two things. You are not broken. And you are not alone.