Recurrent pregnancy loss and the diagnosis I had to fight for: Kimberly's WeNatal Diary

If you have lived through recurrent pregnancy loss, you may know a particular kind of loneliness: the loneliness of being told, again and again, that your losses are "unexplained." It can feel like being handed a closed door at the very moment you needed an answer, and a hand to hold. Kimberly Malik heard that word more times than she can count. She never quite believed it, and her refusal to stop asking questions sits at the heart of this story.

Recurrent pregnancy loss, generally defined as two or more consecutive losses, is more common than most people realize, and it so often unfolds in silence. Here, Kimberly shares her journey through five losses, the root cause she spent four years searching for, the diagnosis that finally changed everything, and the people who helped carry her to her rainbow baby. Her experience is deeply personal and specific to her body, so we invite you to read it as one woman's story rather than medical advice. If any part of it feels familiar, we hope it offers you language, questions to bring to your provider, and most of all, the reminder that you are not walking this road alone.

RELATED: Stories from the WeNatal community: Pregnancy Loss

My journey: Five losses and the search for answers

My name is Kimberly Malik. My husband, Mike, and I are blessed with two amazing kids: our daughter, Kaia, who is 8, and our son, Kaden, who is 22 months.

If I had to describe my journey in one word, it would be a rollercoaster. It included five miscarriages, the first at 20 weeks, and it thankfully ended with us welcoming our rainbow baby on November 8, 2024, on my husband's birthday, no less. Today I am postpartum, and for the first time in a long time, our family feels complete alongside several guardian angels. 

The 20 week ultrasound that changed everything

I walked into my routine 20 week ultrasound excited to see updated images of our son, and I walked out of that OB-GYN office a different person than the one who had entered it. Because of Covid precautions in 2020, Mike wasn't allowed at my appointments, so he was stuck on FaceTime for both the ultrasound and the conversation with the doctor that followed.

No one prepares you for the moment the ultrasound tech goes oddly quiet, when you can feel the energy in the room completely dissipate.  I'd had no symptoms and no bleeding, nothing at all to suggest something was wrong, so it was only the tech's body language that told me. I remember Mike asking, "What happened? What's wrong?" and I couldn't even clear my throat to answer him. She said, "I'm going to take some pictures, and then I'm going to go get the doctor." Then she left me alone in that sterile, cold room for 32 minutes.

My heart raced the entire time. Maybe there was an issue with his heart, I thought, or something wrong with one of his organs. Not once did I let myself imagine anything more serious. When they finally came for me, they walked me down what felt like the longest hallway of my life and into a room where a doctor I had never met looked me in the face and said, "I'm sorry, your baby has passed away." The moment those words left her mouth, the room went blank, and all I could hear was the sound of my husband crying on FaceTime.

When I came back to myself, I asked her how this could happen. He had been healthy and growing, and we had heard his heartbeat at our last appointment. Everything had been fine. Her answer was, "It could just be a fluke." It was the first of many appointments where I felt I was handed the laziest, easiest answer available. A fluke? That answer never sat well with me, and it never would.

Because I now had to deliver him, we talked through my options, and they scheduled me for the following Tuesday, five excruciating days away. After the nurse and doctor left, I sat in that room for almost an hour because I couldn't bring myself to stand up. Different nurses kept accidentally popping their heads in, hoping to turn the room over, only to find me sitting there sobbing. I was numb, heartbroken, and completely dumbfounded. How? What? Why?

Then I had to walk back through the waiting room, past all the excited pregnant women waiting for their appointments, get into my car, and drive myself home. I must have driven on autopilot. For the next five days I moved through life in a daze. On the outside nothing had changed, but inside I knew the son I was carrying had passed away. We all experience death and loss, but nothing could have prepared me for this kind, because pregnancy loss is the only type of death that happens within you.

That Tuesday, I delivered him, and thankfully, this time Mike was allowed to be by my side. I lost so much blood that they kept me longer to make sure I didn't hemorrhage. And then I walked out of labor and delivery empty handed and absolutely heartbroken.

The moments no one warns you about

No one can prepare you to deliver your son on the labor and delivery floor, just down the hall from families welcoming their own babies. Walking out of that hospital empty handed is a walk I wouldn't wish on anyone.

The reminders kept coming in the weeks that followed. My body was so confused and experienced its own version of postpartum. I had to call our maternity photographer, because I had already put down a deposit after loving the work she did with our daughter. Our sweet mail carrier, who had become close to our family during Covid because we saw him every single day, warmly asked one afternoon, "How's the baby doing?" and I had to explain what happened. At 18 weeks, I had shared a photo on social media of our daughter in a big sister shirt to announce we were expecting our son, and only a few weeks later I had to go back and share that he was gone.

What opened my eyes most was how many people reached out afterward with stories of their own losses, some from people I never would have expected. I never meant for our story to be so public. I had simply, and wrongly, assumed we were in the clear given how far along I was. But because I shared, it showed me directly how many people have also experienced pregnancy loss but sadly also how many carried their loss in silence. As many as one in four pregnancies end in loss, and yet somehow the stigma remains. What I learned is that while some stories are carried quietly, they should never have to be carried alone.

How I moved through the grief

I leaned hard into the mantra "You've gotta feel it to heal it." I cried a lot. I felt anger, disappointment, and a deep sadness. As the mother of a young child and someone working full time, I often had to mask my grief and show face, whether in front of my daughter or on a Zoom call, so whenever I finally had a moment to release it, I let it all out.

My brain has always been wired to problem solve, so I'll admit I threw myself into finding the solve. I researched, I asked questions,  I was determined to bring my son into this world.

The support that made the biggest difference

When we lost our son because I needed to stay in the hospital, I required time off from work. I wasn’t prepared for how hard it would be to just “jump back in” after a loss that profound. I can still vividly remember my then female manager at the time letting me know  my presence was very much felt while out and that because I was gone she had to jump in and assist with the more junior members of our team. In a tone that I could feel her annoyance and I hung up feeling guilty for being out. It had such an impact on me that when I miscarried a year later - once again while managing a huge project at work, I found myself not taking one single day off,  for I didn’t want any balls to drop at work. Looking back, I realize how much I prioritized work over my own health. For those who haven't experienced pregnancy loss, it felt like they didn’t seem to grasp the magnitude both physically and emotionally when one loses their baby. 

Having a core support system of my husband and my friends was truly what helped me most. I had several group chats going: one with my childhood best friends, who thankfully have never experienced pregnancy loss but who know me to my core, and others with women who knew every single feeling of that loss because they were in the trenches with me. Both were equally important.

When friends remembered important dates, checked in after critical appointments, and made me feel like they were walking every step of the journey beside me, it meant everything. During one of the lowest points, I remember calling my best friend and saying i just needed a break and she said “where are we going and tell me when”. We booked flights to Nashville and upon arriving one of our other best friends completely surprised me and walked into the restaurant we were at. I bawled thinking of how grateful I was to have them and their support. Going through this showed me just how much we all need community and a support system.

Why do some miscarriages stay "unexplained"?

From the very beginning, my gut told me it was a blood clot, and every doctor I saw brushed that idea off. But I'd had a very healthy first pregnancy with my daughter, and losing our son at 20 weeks simply didn't make sense to me. I remember asking immediately after I delivered him if a blood clot was the cause and the doctor on site assured me that no it wasn’t.

We tried again and got pregnant a year later, in the very same month we had lost our son. It felt like an omen, a sign that this time would be different. Instead, this time there were symptoms -  I started to see blood, the cramping began, and I miscarried the same exact week as the year before. It was a kind of deja vu that felt cruel. The weather was the same,  the air even felt the same . It was as though I had a raw wound and someone had ripped the bandage right off.

I sat in the doctor's waiting room to have my hCG levels tested, and once again I walked past pregnant women gleefully smiling over their ultrasound photos. It makes you wonder why there aren't two waiting rooms. And once again, another but different doctor let me know that they weren’t sure why I miscarried again. I would repeat this rollercoaster two more times and each time was left feeling absolutely defeated. But I remained hopeful. 

The specialist who dismissed me

After my fourth miscarriage, I went to see a hematologist. He was a gargantuan man, in both size and personality, and he walked in visibly surprised to see someone my age, clearly confused about why I was there. Through tears, I explained that I wanted to be tested for blood clotting issues, and he just looked at me, perplexed.

"You know you're getting close to 40," he said. "You do realize the risks of having kids at that age?" I told him that, despite my age, I felt strong and healthy. He went on: "You have a daughter already. Can't you just be happy with one kid? This seems like a big risk. You had a healthy first pregnancy, so I can already tell you that you don't have any blood clotting issues." When I mentioned a podcast I'd heard, where a woman shared her own experience with a clotting condition called antiphospholipid syndrome (APS) that can cause miscarriage, he rolled his eyes at me in that "oh, you listened to a podcast, huh?" kind of way.

Needless to say, I pushed and pleaded to be tested anyway. His nurse drew 20 vials of blood that day, and then I waited three long weeks. When I finally went back, he looked at me with the smuggest expression and said, "See, I told you. Nothing in your blood is causing these losses." Every result had come back fine.

I'm not an MD, so I assumed he had checked every box, and I left defeated, thinking, okay, back to the "unexplained infertility" diagnosis. What I didn't realize was that he had never actually run the right tests.

The test I had to fight for

Another year passed, and with it, another loss. This time I found myself in a fertility office, because that is where everyone seems to point you to when they don't know what to do with you and getting to the root cause feels too exhausting, even for the naturopathic doctors. Sitting across from my fertility doctor, I pushed once again: could we please test me for APS? Thankfully, this time the right test was done, and it came back positive.

That single result reframed four years of grief.

What is antiphospholipid syndrome (APS)?

Antiphospholipid syndrome, often called APS, is an autoimmune condition in which the body produces antibodies that increase the tendency to form blood clots. In pregnancy, it is recognized as one of the more common treatable causes of recurrent pregnancy loss, and it can affect blood flow to the placenta. Many women have no symptoms at all and it only ever shows up in pregnancies.

APS can only be diagnosed and managed by a qualified physician. For women with APS and recurrent pregnancy loss, research suggests that a provider-directed treatment plan is associated with improved live birth rates. It is not something to self-diagnose or self-treat, and it is exactly the kind of testing worth asking your provider about if you have experienced repeated losses.

Many practitioners won't test for it until you have had three or more losses, which felt absolutely insane to me. When I asked my doctor why, the answer basically came down to insurance. As my doctor explained it, without treatment, someone in my situation had roughly a 10% chance of a successful pregnancy, and with a blood thinner that chance could be closer to 90%. Those were the numbers shared with me for my specific case, and every woman's situation is different, but for the first time in years, I had a real answer and a real plan.

Under my care team's close guidance, I took a blood thinner, and on November 8, 2024, more than four years after we lost our first son, we welcomed Kaden Maverick, named after his big brother. He arrived on my husband's birthday, the greatest gift either of us could have imagined.

RELATED: The WeNatal Guide: Trying to conceive

What I learned about being my own advocate

I always felt in my heart of hearts that it was a clotting issue. I never gave up advocating or pushing, and this whole experience opened my eyes in so many ways. I am now incredibly mindful of my health and my family's health, the food we eat, and the decisions we make.

Doctors are amazing but they are unfortunately overworked and stretched thin, so this journey drove home a lesson I will carry forever: you have to be your own biggest advocate. No one knows your body, or your child's, better than you.

A few things I wish every woman navigating recurrent pregnancy loss knew:

• Trust your gut. If something feels off, keep asking, even when you are tired of asking.

• "Unexplained" is often the beginning of the investigation, not the end of it.

• Ask specifically which tests were run, and which were not. I assumed the boxes had been checked when they had not.

• If a provider dismisses or gaslights you, it is okay to move on and find another.

• There is usually a root cause. It may simply take time, and the right test, to find it.

For me, it was a simple blood draw that made all the difference, and I am so grateful I finally got the answer I had spent four years looking for.

Fertility as a team sport: How my partner showed up

Pregnancy is strange in that it takes two, yet so much of it naturally becomes a solo sport. Thankfully, my husband always reassured me that he was there with me through every single part of it even during the days where I felt I had to carry it all myself. 

He allowed me to process in my own way. He listened, he was present, and he supported me by reading everything I sent him, staying mindful of his own health, and taking the WeNatal vitamins that I recommended to him. 

My husband was my rock throughout the whole journey. I know that he felt robbed of being at my appointments back in 2020 due to those Covid-era rules, an experience he will never get back. After that, there was not an appointment he missed. During my pregnancy with Kaden, I had to go twice a week because I was considered high risk, and despite his incredibly busy work schedule, he prioritized every single appointment and made sure he was right there with me.

RELATED: Male Fertility and Sperm Health: What Every Man Should Know

Supporting my body through nutrition and lifestyle

Ever since the birth of my daughter, I had prioritized cleaner living. Through this season, I leaned into that even more.

I upped my acupuncture appointments, which I found very helpful both physically and mentally. I also prioritized getting the best supplements from brands I truly trusted. As it happens, I knew Vida from our days as colleagues at Nike, so I got to be an early WeNatal consumer right when the brand launched. I loved knowing that the vitamins were clean, made with high quality ingredients, and formulated to help fill everyday nutrient gaps as part of a strong foundation. Prenatal nutrition was never the whole answer for me, and it was never meant to be, but it was one steady, supportive part of caring for my body through preconception, pregnancy, and now postpartum.

Beyond nutrition, a few practices genuinely helped me cope:

• Journaling, which gave my racing mind somewhere to land.

• Hiking and physical movement, which helped me feel like myself again.

• Acupuncture, which calmed both my body and my nervous system.

• Protecting my mindset, by staying close to people who held hope with me.

• Therapy - I found a therapist who also experienced a miscarriage so was able to talk with a professional 

When you are in the trenches of infertility, it is nearly impossible not to be consumed by it, because you are always living in two week cycles. Two weeks until you try again, two weeks until you find out, and on and on. It can feel like a merry-go-round, so any activity that quieted my brain was always the most helpful.

Most of all, I learned that our bodies are incredibly designed, that it is so important to get to the root cause, and that you truly have to be your own advocate.

RELATED: Do Prenatal Vitamins Help Fertility? and Essential Nutrients for Fertility, Pregnancy, Postpartum, and Breastfeeding

The emotional landscape of pregnancy loss

The hardest part of the whole journey for me was not having a definitive yes to the question, "Will this end up being a happy story in the end?" You truly just have to hold a kind of blind faith that it will all work out. There is a quote I have had hanging in my house for decades: "Faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you cannot see" (Hebrews 11:1). That sums it up perfectly for me.

What helped me cope was realizing how important it was to be surrounded by others who also believed and held hope. It is so easy for people who do not understand to say things like, "Well, maybe it's just not meant to be," and I found that so unhelpful. In my heart of hearts, I always knew we would have another child. I just never knew when, so it was critical for me to stay surrounded by the right energy and to hold onto hope. Our words have power, and I needed to keep believing it would happen.

Here is what I wish more people understood: avoiding the topic only makes the elephant in the room ten times larger. After the loss of my son, many people in my circle, especially colleagues, never wanted to say anything, I assume out of fear of saying the wrong thing. What it felt like, though, was a suffocating silence around a topic no one would name. So instead of addressing the deep hole in my heart, I showed up and smiled my way through every zoom call. It was absolutely exhausting. 

My advice for anyone who does not know what to say is simply this: "I know no words can take away your pain, but I want you to know that I am here for you, and I will sit by your side during this difficult time." Avoiding the topic only makes the shame and loneliness that already come with miscarriage even worse. 

No words were ever going to take away the pain, of course. But knowing I had a support system with my friends made all the difference. Being able to talk openly with others who had experienced something similar made me feel less alone, and reminded me that my body was not a failure.

RELATED: Vida's Story: Pregnancy After Miscarriage and 50% of the equation: A conversation with Shawn on male fertility, sperm health, and becoming a girl dad

Words for others on this path

One in four is not a rare number, yet the stigma persists. If you are currently walking a similar road, I want you to know that you are not alone. More women experience this than they will ever realize, and the best thing you can do is surround yourself with a community that makes you feel seen and supported.

What do I wish I had known earlier? I wish I had pushed harder for the specific clotting tests, and not assumed my doctors were running the right ones. We have more access to information than any generation before us and it’s okay to push your doctors to be more thorough. My gut from day one told me it was a blood clot and I was right. 

And for partners who may not know how to show up: the best thing you can do is simply sit with someone during the hard times. Allow your partner to grieve, to feel all the feelings, and to process in their own way. We will all experience loss at some point, but miscarriage is the only death that happens within you, so partners need to recognize that this is an incredibly heavy grief that deserves to be processed, not quickly moved on from. 

Looking forward: Turning pain into purpose

I am not the same woman who first walked into her 20 week ultrasound on July 17, 2020. I have so much more confidence in my body, and I feel stronger than ever. I am proud of the woman I became through enduring five losses, advocating for myself, and ultimately welcoming Kaden Maverick into the world. This journey was not easy in the slightest, but I am proud that I get to show my kids the power of resilience and the power of holding onto hope.

Because of my journey, I felt called to help others. I kept hearing the words "don't let others walk alone" in my heart. So, in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, on October 17, 2026, I am organizing the inaugural Hope Rising 5K Fun Run and Walk, shining light on a topic that is too often experienced in the dark.

While the morning  is centered around the 5K, it's way more of an event than that. It’s truly about bringing the community together. More than 10  wellness providers and sponsors will be on-site in a "Support Village," where participants can gather resources and tools and meet others who may still be on their own fertility journeys. We’ll have complimentary acupuncture, chiropractic adjustments, and massage to name a few along with the top obgyn office in the area.  Several of the key things that helped me throughout my journey. We will also have a "Garden of Hope" to honor the babies we have lost and to celebrate the rainbow babies who followed, offering hope and inspiration to everyone who attends. It has truly been a labor of love, and I could not be more excited.

If you are in the South Florida area and would like to join us, you can register here: Hope Rising 5K Fun Run and Walk. You can also follow along at @Hope_Rising5K.

My husband and I feel so blessed to have our incredible daughter and our amazing son, and I am simply grateful that we never gave up.

If I could summarize my journey in one message, it would be this: always advocate for yourself, and never give up hope.

A note from WeNatal: You should never have to walk this alone

Kimberly's story sits very close to home for us. WeNatal was born out of pregnancy loss. Our co-founders, Ronit Menashe and Vida Delrahim, each experienced miscarriage just one week apart, and that shared heartbreak became a shared mission: to give hopeful parents the education, community, and support they wished they'd had.

What moves us most about Kimberly's journey is her refusal to accept "unexplained" as a final answer, and the way she leaned on the people around her to keep going. Her story is a reminder that support can take so many forms: a friend who remembers a hard date, a partner who shows up to every appointment, a provider who finally listens, or a group chat that checks in after the news no one wants to hear. None of us are meant to carry grief, or hope, by ourselves.

If you are grieving a loss right now, please be gentle with yourself. There is no right way to grieve and no timeline you have to follow, and your body is not a failure. Leaning on your partner, your people, your provider, or a counselor who specializes in pregnancy loss can help the weight feel a little more shared. Our pregnancy loss community page is also here as a place to find stories from families who truly understand.

And when you feel ready to look ahead, know that you do not have to do it alone there either. Preparing for pregnancy is something you and your partner can do together, at your own pace, and that belief is at the heart of why WeNatal was created as two prenatals, for both parents. It is about caring for your health side by side, always alongside the guidance of your own care team.

We are also so inspired by what Kimberly is building beyond her own family. Her inaugural Hope Rising 5K Fun Run and Walk, taking place October 17, 2026, in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, is exactly the kind of community so many people need and so rarely find. WeNatal is proud to stand behind grassroots efforts like this one, which bring pregnancy loss out of the shadows and remind grieving families that they are seen, supported, and never alone. If you are in the South Florida area, we hope you will lace up and join her at the Hope Rising 5K.

Wherever you are in your own journey, whether you are trying, grieving, hoping, or somewhere in between, we are here to help you feel more informed, more supported, and a little less alone.

RELATED: Heartbreak to hope: Why we created WeNatal

This article shares one person's lived experience and is for educational purposes only. It is not medical advice and is not a substitute for care from a qualified professional. Antiphospholipid syndrome and recurrent pregnancy loss require diagnosis and treatment by a physician. Please talk with your healthcare provider before making any changes to your testing, treatment, or supplement routine.