It was in the middle of my third miscarriage that I realised things had changed.
I was lying on the couch in a fog of painkillers and heartbreak, trying to stop my mind from drifting to places it had already been too many times before.
And I picked up my phone, needing comfort. I opened our group chat - the one with the two women I used to speak to every single day — and typed, 'It's happening again.'
Nothing.
Watch: Comedian Em Rusciano talks to The Project on coping with pregnancy loss. Post continues below.
No reply. Not then, not the next day. A full 24 hours passed before one of them sent a message that said, "Sorry babe, just saw this xx. Are you okay?"
By then, I wasn't.
I was 34, two years into IVF, on my third out of four miscarriages. And one friendship group that had gone from daily memes and regular brunches to awkward silences and polite, infrequent replies.
I used to think there was no pain worse than miscarriage.
The aching, invisible grief of losing a baby no one else had met. But I was wrong. Because the pain of losing the people you thought would hold your hand through it all — that stays too. It's a different kind of grief.
Quieter, maybe. But it lingers.
When I started IVF, I knew it would be hard. Everyone tells you that. But I thought my friends would be my safety net. I had these two women in my life who'd seen me through bad boyfriends, broken leases, career crises and family drama. I thought this would be no different.
At first, they were kind. Curious. Supportive in that "tell us everything!" way.
But after my second miscarriage, I noticed the tone shift. They were still saying the right things, but they were...distant. The next time I shared an update, one of them changed the subject to her new skincare routine. The other ghosted the group chat for a week.
By the time I had my fourth miscarriage, I stopped sharing.
I'd become the friend with the sad news. The one who made people feel awkward at baby showers. The one who cried way too much. The one who was, in all honesty, probably exhausting to be around.
The silence became louder than any rejection.
One friend sent flowers after my last loss.
I appreciated it, truly. But the note said: "Thinking of you". No phone call, no knock on the door. The other friend stopped replying to texts altogether.
Eventually, the group chat went still.
I grieved those friendships like another loss. I kept thinking, 'If I was more fun, more resilient, less broken... would they have stayed?'
That's the part no one talks about with infertility and miscarriage.
Listen: If you're in the thick of it — or love someone who is — this episode of Mamamia's fertility podcast Get Me Pregnant explores the emotional toll of miscarriage and how to support someone through it. Post continues below.
Not just the blood tests, the progesterone, the scans, the heartbreak. But the slow erosion of your social life. The way your world gets smaller. You start to pull away from the people who make it worse, and they stop coming closer. It happens slowly. And then suddenly, they're gone.
Even my family struggled to know what to say.
My parents meant well but often landed in the "It'll happen when it's meant to" camp, which made me want to scream. A cousin told me to "just relax," as if relaxing had any effect on embryos implanting. They loved me, I know that. But they didn't get it. Not in the way I needed.
These two friends had become like family to me — even closer, if I'm honest. We had the kind of bond where I could show up at their place without warning, where birthdays were celebrated like religious holidays, where they knew every detail of my life before I even had to speak it out loud. They weren't just friends. They were my chosen people.
And still, they slipped away.
I don't blame them. That might sound strange. But I get it. We're not taught how to sit beside grief. We don't know how to support someone when there's nothing to fix.
Some people freeze. Some disappear. Some try their best, but it still feels like not enough.
Miscarriage is uncomfortable. It's messy and unpredictable and terrifying and lonely.
It doesn't have a script. And if you're someone who likes neat solutions and silver linings, being around that kind of grief can be confronting.
But what I needed wasn't solutions. I just needed my friends.
I needed them to sit with me. Not to fix it, or say something profound, or Google another fertility diet. I just needed someone to hold the space. To say, "I don't know what to say, but I'm here."
When you're in the thick of IVF and loss, you don't want grand gestures. You want text messages that say, "Thinking of you today," on scan day. You want a cup of tea dropped at your door after bad news. You want to be invited, even if you probably won't come. You want to be seen.
I miss my friends. I miss who we were before all of this. But I also understand that I've changed. Loss will do that. It makes you quieter. Softer in some places, sharper in others.
I'm still hopeful. Hopeful that one day we might find our way back to each other. Or that I'll find new friends who can sit with the uncomfortable. But mostly, I'm learning that grief has many layers — and friendship is one of them.
If you know someone going through IVF or miscarriage, and you're not sure what to do, do something. Don't wait for the perfect words. Just show up. Send the text. Be a witness.
Even if you're scared of getting it wrong.
Because silence, even if it's well-intentioned, hurts more than you think.
And if you're the one going through it: I see you. You're not too much. You're grieving.
And that is allowed.
Feature Image: Getty.
If this story resonated with you, you're not alone. Here are more powerful reads on navigating miscarriage, grief, and the silent strength so many women carry:
