This piece is shared in honor of my baby and the pregnancy I carried for 20 weeks. I’m writing both to process my own grief and to offer clarity around second-trimester loss, which is often misunderstood or minimized. My hope is that this helps others feel less alone—and helps those who haven’t experienced this kind of loss understand how to show up with care.
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Content / Trigger Warning
This discusses pregnancy loss at 20 weeks, termination for medical reasons (TFMR), fetal diagnoses, and grief. Please read with care.
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“You can just try again.”
“It will happen when the time is right.”
“This is common.”
Actually, pregnancy loss at 20 weeks is not that common.
As we come upon my baby’s due date (January 28, later adjusted to February 4), I’ve found comfort in writing about my experience with second-trimester loss.
It is not common to have six healthy ultrasounds showing steady growth and a strong heartbeat, only to later learn that your baby’s heart is still beating—but that she is not going to live. It is not common to receive a fatal diagnosis after you are already halfway through the second trimester, when abnormalities in the brain and heart are deemed “not compatible with life.”
I encountered many people who asked, “Are you going to take the pill to have the baby pass at home?”—questions shaped by experiences with early miscarriage or stories they’d heard secondhand. But that was not an option for me. I was 20 weeks pregnant. There was a fully developed placenta. There was a baby about the size of a banana.
I had to make an impossible decision. I could labor and deliver, which would have allowed me the chance to hold my baby but carried higher health risks for me. Or I could choose what is called a TFMR—termination for medical reasons. The high-risk doctors were clear: my baby would not be born alive.
I think of it like life support. I was their life support. The baby was alive because my body was sustaining her, but would never be able to survive outside of it—not even briefly.
A TFMR at 20 weeks is a two-day process. The first day, I went under anesthesia so medication could be placed to dilate my cervix. The second day, I was again under anesthesia while they removed my baby.
She was a girl.
I have a keepsake of her tiny footprints. That is all I have left of her.
Grieving this pregnancy and this baby—the one I carried and grew for 20 weeks—is devastating. That is why comments like “You can just try again” are not helpful, even when they are well-intended. If you’ve ever said something like this to someone experiencing pregnancy loss, please understand that they are losing a pregnancy and a baby they can never get back.
Some women experience chemical pregnancies or very early miscarriages. They may grieve deeply, or they may not yet have built attachment—both experiences are valid. Some women do attach immediately, even very early on. I am not here to minimize anyone’s loss at any gestation.
What I can say is that at 20 weeks, comments like these cut particularly deep.
One of the hardest things I’ve had to grieve is the timing of this pregnancy. One of my dearest friends was pregnant alongside me—we were exactly five weeks apart. I will never get that back. If I were to “just try again,” our babies would be nearly a year apart at best, not a month apart. I will never get to experience the rest of our pregnancies together, or raise our newborns side by side.
That loss hurts in a way I didn’t know was possible.
If there is anything I am grateful for in this grief, it is that I pursued testing and received a definitive diagnosis.
The first sign that something might be wrong was a second NIPT test that came back inconclusive. I was reassured—by doctors and friends—that one inconclusive result happens often. When the second test was also inconclusive, the concern grew, and we were delayed in learning our baby’s sex.
I opted for additional genetic testing. Those results came back showing a 1-in-10 risk for Trisomy 18. I was devastated as I learned about this condition, but I held onto hope—there was still a 90% chance that our baby did not have it. The only way to know for sure was invasive testing: an amniocentesis. I didn’t hesitate. I needed answers.
Before the amnio, we had a comprehensive anatomy scan. That scan revealed fatal abnormalities and no amniotic fluid. Still, the only way to confirm a diagnosis and understand what was happening genetically was to proceed with the amniocentesis—and so I did.
A few long, painful days later, we learned that our baby did not have Trisomy 18.
She had triploidy.
She had 69 chromosomes instead of 46—an entire extra set. This can happen when two sperm fertilize a single egg. I was told by my OB-GYN, and confirmed through countless searches, that the odds of this happening again are similar to being struck by lightning. It is a rare, random event, unrelated to age, genetics, or anything we did before or during pregnancy.
It was not preventable.
It was not anyone’s fault.
It was simply devastating, senseless bad luck.
If you don’t know what to say to someone experiencing pregnancy loss, that’s okay. You don’t need to fix it or offer reassurance about the future. What helps is simply acknowledging what was lost. Say the baby’s name if they’ve shared it. Say “I’m so sorry,” and mean it. Sit in the discomfort with them.
I don’t need to be told that joy may come again someday or that I can try again. I need space to grieve what already existed—the baby I carried, the life I imagined, and the timing I will never get back. This grief isn’t meant to be rushed or reframed into something positive; it needs to be recognized.
Because this isn’t about moving forward yet. It’s about honoring a baby and a chapter of life that mattered—and always will.
“Try Again” Doesn’t Bring Back What I’ve Lost 