'You can be besotted and broken in the same breath'. The truth about having a baby after loss.

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Whilst navigating multiple miscarriages, people told me that once I finally met one of my babies, I'd feel whole. But when my rainbow baby arrived, I realised that love and grief don't cancel each other out — they coexist.

I thought having a baby would fix everything. After years of infertility and loss, I imagined the moment I finally held my child would feel like crossing the finish line. We are told that the pain becomes a fleeting memory the moment they are in your arms, but no one talks about what happens when it doesn't.

When you're rocking your baby at 3am, grateful beyond words but also quietly grieving the expectations you'd built in your mind that don't quite match reality. When joy and sorrow take turns sitting in your chest.

For years, my world revolved around trying to become a mum; tracking cycles, doctor appointments, hope, heartbreak, repeat. I built my entire identity around waiting for our baby. So when he finally came, I didn't know who I was anymore. And I definitely didn't expect grief to still have a seat at the table.

Watch: When to seek help for fertility, on Mamamia's health podcast, Well. Post continues below.

I remember crying, silently, in his nursery as he slept peacefully in my arms. Not from sadness exactly but from the weight of everything that came before him and the unknown of what lay ahead. I spent so long planning what this moment would look like that I didn't know what to do once we were in it.

Motherhood after loss is full of contradictions. You can be besotted and brokenhearted in the same breath. You can feel deeply grateful and still grieve what was taken. You can be overcome with love yet confused that it doesn't feel like what you pictured.

And whilst everyone celebrates the new beginning, few people talk about the quiet ache that lingers when the story doesn't feel finished. You never expect to be a statistic, one of the four who experience miscarriage, especially not recurrently.

Katrina pictured. Image: Supplied.

That was my reality at the age of 28, as I was thrust into the world of specialists and the emotional whiplash of infertility. I watched my closest friends announce and welcome their babies while I was still attending appointments, wondering and waiting; longing to know what it would be like to hold our baby in my arms.

I thought meeting our baby would complete me. Instead, it exposed every fragile part I'd been holding together.

Even after he arrived, the weight of everything that came before him didn't lift. I was overjoyed, yet hyper-aware of every tiny sound, every restless stir. Nights blurred into mornings as I monitored his breathing, measured his feeds and silently wondered if something might go wrong.

The moments that should have felt magical — first smiles, first giggles, the peaceful quiet of a newborn sleeping — were often overshadowed by fear and anticipation of loss.

There's a strange kind of exhaustion in holding both grief and love at the same time. It feels like mental gymnastics: celebrating milestones whilst simultaneously grieving what you've lost, or the guilt that surfaces when you feel anything less than pure joy. It sometimes feels like I'm living in two worlds: one of profound happiness and one of lingering loss.

For years, my identity revolved around hope, grief, and longing. I defined myself by the attempts, the losses, the endless waiting. Suddenly, I was a mum. And yet, it didn't feel like the version of myself I'd imagined.

It's a constant negotiation between who I was, who I hoped to be and who I am now. Every smile, every milestone, every quiet moment of connection carries layers of emotion: relief, wonder, grief, and gratitude all tangled together.

"Every smile, every milestone, every quiet moment of connection carries layers of emotion," writes Katrina. Image: Supplied.

And in that tangle, I'm starting to find a surprising clarity — a recognition that identity isn't about perfection or completion. It's about learning to carry the past gently while stepping fully into the present. I was overjoyed, of course, but also riddled with guilt.

Guilty for feeling anxious, guilty for feeling sad, guilty for even daring to think that motherhood wasn't the cure–all I'd hoped it would be. People assumed that because I finally had a baby, I had reached the end of my story.

But the truth is, I was only at the beginning of a new, complicated chapter. One where love and grief exist side by side, where joy and fear can occupy the same moment and where your heart is full in ways you never anticipated.

And yet, in that tension, there's a strange resilience. I know, as someone who has lived with loss for years — my mum died when I was 15 — and through my work supporting others in grief, that sorrow and joy can coexist.

Founding Grief Talks came from that knowing. But motherhood reaffirmed it in a way nothing else could. The depth of love made space for grief and the grief reminded me how precious love truly is.

Grief doesn't have an expiry date. I'm learning that being a mother doesn't erase your past pain, but it can transform it into something tender, wise and deeply human.

With time, I realise that grief doesn't disappear just because you finally hold the baby you've been waiting for. It shifts, softens and sometimes hides in quiet corners, a tear on a random Tuesday, a pang during a milestone or a fleeting memory that suddenly resurfaces. But it no longer feels like an enemy.

Parenting after loss is teaching me to live with duality: to feel love and grief simultaneously, without guilt or judgment. I'm rediscovering the importance of self-compassion, giving myself permission to acknowledge every emotion, even the uncomfortable ones.

Therapy, writing, and connecting with other parents who have walked similar paths have been lifelines, reminding me that I am not alone in carrying this complex mix of joy and sorrow.

Listen to this episode of Well, on IVF, pregnancy and fertility. Post continues below.

Wholeness doesn't mean the absence of grief. It doesn't mean that the pain magically vanishes when the "happy ending" arrives. Wholeness is learning to hold both love and loss in your heart, side by side.

It's allowing the grief to coexist with the laughter, the milestones, the quiet moments that feel profoundly ordinary and yet extraordinary all at once.

The rainbow baby we've been waiting for doesn't erase the babies we lost. But through them, I'm learning a deeper empathy, a richer capacity for love and the courage to face motherhood with my heart fully open… grief included.

And in that space, I'm finding something I didn't expect: a kind of peace, resilience and profound connection that is its own, imperfectly beautiful form of wholeness.

Feature image: Supplied.