Still Tracking, Still Healing
(TW: pregnancy loss)
I've been using my MamaKIT Mood Tracker, a tool I created to help mothers like me track daily regulation and emotional pulse. It’s meant to help us name what’s happening before we’re buried by it.
And lately, my squares have skewed red.
There have been bright moments, yes. But they’ve been clouded by something quieter and heavier. The kind of heaviness that doesn’t show up in photos or polite conversation. I debated sharing this, especially as a way to introduce a mood tracker, but this latest chemical pregnancy is charted right there in the data. I wish I had more green days to report. I had hoped to debut this tool in a post about progress. Instead, it brought me back to the loss that came before.
Last September was my first of several chemical pregnancies since then. And this week, I realized that if that one had continued, I’d be giving birth around now. That thought hit hard.
The Threshold Nobody Talks About
The analytical part of my brain kicks in. I start spinning in circles. I’ve come to loathe the term liminal space. It once felt poetic. Now it feels like a trap. Are we coming or going? Is this the road to another child or the end of the line? Can I stop waiting, or should I start prepping?
That threshold of not quite knowing can be beautiful in theory. In practice, it is exhausting. And the truth is, I am happy with the life I have. I love my son. I love this season. But if we’re going to try again, if another soul is meant to come through, I wish it would be clear. I am tired of living in the gray.
What I Wrote Then (September)
It starts with a strange knowing, a twinge deep inside, and the subtle shifts only I can sense. The sensations I never feel in a normal cycle. Then like a light bulb, there’s a quiet mental echo: What if?
But I draw a mental border around the thought. No names. No nurseries. I keep things neutral and clinical. Bloated. Nauseous. PMS? Pregnancy? I wait.
And in that waiting, the silence gets loud. There’s no early answer. Just loops of uncertainty. I run mental gymnastics. Maybe I am. No, I’m not. You’re ridiculous. But what if I am? I’ve learned not to trust my gut. Years of internalized doubt will do that. Hope feels risky. Sometimes it feels foolish. So I tamp it down.
Until the test says pregnant.
And in that instant, the world expands. I let myself imagine something new. I try to hold back, but the colors rush in. It feels real.
And then, just as quickly, it is gone. The bleeding begins the next day.
I remember sitting on the couch after bedtime, trying to be strong. But the tears came. Disappointment hit first. Then shame. And underneath it all, a quiet fury. Not just sadness about the loss, but anger at myself for daring to believe.
Naming the Near-Lives
Chemical pregnancies are rarely spoken about. They don’t get ceremonies or casseroles. They don’t even always get classified as miscarriages. And for me, that word never felt quite right. I was barely pregnant. It was a conception that didn’t take. But still, a conception.
It’s not a sob story. It’s just one version of a quiet loss that went unnamed.
I think there’s strength in naming what was never spoken. In calling it what it was, a near-life. And in choosing to see this moment as a kind of reconnection. After the grief softens, I always come back to the present. I try not to frame it as giving up. Instead, I see it as stepping into a life where the now matters as much as the maybe.
For Anyone Else on the Threshold
If you’re someone walking this uncertain road, the almosts, the hopes, the quiet griefs, I see you. The data points that hurt to record still matter. The not-quite pregnancies. The dreams that barely started. They’re real. You are not foolish for hoping. You are human.
And that is worth tracking too.
Looking Ahead
I know we'll get back to hope. To planning. To the softer parts of healing. But I needed to get this out first.
This was the kind of week that makes the act of tracking feel sacred. Not for progress, not for data, but for presence. For proof that you were here, and feeling it, and still showing up anyway.
For now, I’m extremely happy sitting with my two-year-old son, my ray of sunshine in the darkness. I’m looking forward to a margarita at dinner. To doing Pilates again. To playing volleyball. To be able to enjoy the things that sometimes get put on pause during those in-between, maybe-baby months.
If you're walking through your own unknowns and want a gentle way to mark the days, I’ve made this mood tracker available to print or save to your phone. It’s simple, and that’s the point. You don’t have to do it perfectly. Just show up, mark what you feel, and notice what emerges with time.
I'm including my own grid below. Not to offer a solution, but to offer solidarity. This is what it looked like for me.
We’ll keep going from here.
