My first pregnancy ended in miscarriage.

It had only been four days since we found out the good news, and I was very early into it. I just knew. From the second we found out, my mind had painted memories yet to be made, a whole new human being to discover.

I pictured joy, unconditional love, a new m chapter in our family’s story.

At work, I’d find my hand resting on my belly, carrying this fragile, wonderful secret.

And one night, later that same week, it was gone.

The plans. The vision. The joy.

My body felt drained of all its energy. For days, I had to drag myself out of bed. My mind was now filled with guilt, questions, shame.

Had I done something wrong?

Was it that ibuprofen I took two days ago?

Is my body failing me?

Was it that workout I’d done that crushed our future family?

I took a day off, I called in sick. It snowed that day. Late February. And it snowed. I love snow. Snow makes everything better.

When I returned to work, my team greeted me with

‘You look like death’ and

‘Is everything all right? Maybe you’re pregnant?’ and ‘I felt rough at the weekend too. I probably had the same thing you did.’

No, Jon, you most certainly did not.

I couldn’t share what had happened – I couldn’t admit that we were trying to get pregnant. That would have surely given work an opportunity to sideline me. There was nobody I could turn to for comfort, for advice, for a listening ear and for a drop of empathy.

I’d gone on to fall pregnant the following month. And we were blessed with a joyous baby boy. I like to think we’d known him a month longer, and that he just needed a bit more time before meeting us. That thought healed me.

Fast forward three years, I lost another pregnancy. It took me three years to change my mind about being ‘one and done’. It was an early loss again, but no less painful. This time it hit me harder – I’d lost most of my pregnancies, maybe we weren’t meant to grow our family? Had I waited too long to decide and my body’s punishing me for it? Was that it?

The world was closing in on me. I felt I could not have coped hiding it so I was candid to my manager, and took a week off to clear my mind. She was supportive and checked in with me, letting me know she was there if I wanted to talk.

When I was back at work, I was open about my miscarriage to my mentor, to my close colleagues who had come to me and asked how I felt, to my immediate team, to the hiring manager I was meant to interview with. I needed to talk about it, so it didn’t feel so heavy again.

I opened up and I received kindness, empathy, and understanding. Hugs. Humanity. Relief. And, what both surprised me and broke me, almost everyone had shared their story of loss. Almost every female colleague had gone through something similar. Multiple miscarriages. Infertility. Hiding it at work. Crying in the bathroom. Putting on a brave face. Fathers or partners are often forgotten when talking about miscarriage – they feel the pain too. They shared their stories.

We need to talk more about these human experiences. It doesn’t make us less qualified, ambitious or strong. We need to be able to bring our whole selves to work.

So if you’re going through a similar traumatic and heavy episode of loss – I’m sorry, and please know you’re not alone. At least one in four pregnancies ends in loss. Please take the time to heal. Work will be there when you’re ready. Please talk about it. You’ll be surprised how human the workplace will feel when those around you respond to your courage with kindness and understanding.

You’re not alone.

I’m here too if you ever need to talk.

– D

My maternity leave was filled with anxiety, dread, physical and mental exhaustion, resentment at my husband, loss of identity and autonomy. Guilt that by wishing away the hard, I had missed out on moments that were meant to be wonderful. Shame at how the birth unfolded. Heaviness. Overwhelm. I questioned if I was failing as a mother.

I didn’t know who I was anymore, outside of being a mom. My body wasn’t fully my own for three years. My mind hadn’t rested a full night in three, long, exhausting, years. I wondered, in despair, if I’d ever feel like myself again.

So if you’ve felt any of this, know it’s not just you.

I had read the books. Followed the advice. Watched the videos. None of it prepared me for how vulnerable I would feel. How exposed, and yet invisible. There was no one to give me the raw, unfiltered truth. No one to guide me through the messy middle. I needed a mentor. Someone who had been there, who had come out the other side not just surviving, but thriving. Someone who wore her scars proudly and had the courage to own her boldness.

This is what I want Artemis to become: a virtual village. A network of women who lift each other up. A space for empathy and leadership, transparency and resilience. A place to celebrate wins and share the truth behind them.

This is just the beginning. You deserve the truth. And you deserve support.

– D