It’s hard to write this, even now.
Years later, the grief is still there — quieter maybe, but not gone. It creeps in unexpectedly, and every now and then it makes me cry again.
My partner and I lost three children through miscarriage. The first two were early on. It was worse for her, and while I was upset too, I hadn’t yet got attached to the idea of her really being pregnant. The third was different. We made it to ten weeks, and by then we had allowed ourselves to believe it was going to happen. We were going to have another baby.
That was the worst one. By far.
My partner was devastated. She carried the loss physically and emotionally, and it stayed with her for months. We had a young son at the time, and somehow, we had to keep parenting — pretending to be okay when we weren’t. There’s something surreal about reading bedtime stories through the lump in your throat or watching cartoons with tears just behind your eyes. You become good at hiding. You have to, for their sake.
They estimate that 15% of pregnancies end in miscarriage – that’s around 100,000 a year. That’s a lot of grieving Dads. I’m sharing my experience here for that 15%. I hope it goes some way to helping you get through this painful time.
Dads Grieve Too
One of the things people don’t tell you is how isolating miscarriage can be for dads. The world rallies around the mother — and rightly so — but the dad is often left to float quietly in the background, expected to be the strong one. The one who supports. And of course, you want to be that person. But it doesn’t mean you aren’t breaking too.
I remember one day, sitting in my office, just crying. Completely alone. I even took a photo of myself, not out of vanity, but so I would never forget what it felt like — what I looked like in that moment of loss. I tried writing poetry, not because I thought it would help, but because I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to make sense of it somehow. I had stuff to get out.
Nobody really knows what to say to you when you tell them either. Sometimes they say nothing at all. And you end up managing their discomfort — reassuring them that it’s okay, that you’re okay, even when you’re not. That part was harder than I expected. Watching people avoid the topic or give awkward half-smiles, like it was just a sad but minor thing. A footnote.
To some it doesn’t count if the pregnancy isn’t advanced. Like it has to be truly horrific for you to legitimately be allowed to get upset. Those people don’t know what they are talking about. No one has the right to tell you how to feel about something like this. Especially people who have never been through it themselves.
If you have been through miscarriage and you are grieving, then let yourself grieve.
Helping Your Partner When You’re Hurting Too
My partner and I grieved differently. She went into a depression, and I felt helpless. I couldn’t fix it, and I couldn’t carry it for her. But we supported each other as best we could. Our relationship didn’t fall apart, but things were hard for a while. There’s no map for this — you just try to keep showing up.
If your partner has experienced a miscarriage, she’s not just grieving — she’s also recovering physically. Depending on the stage of pregnancy, the physical side can be incredibly cruel. That adds another layer of pain and vulnerability. As a dad, you might feel unsure about how to help, or like you’re failing if you can’t take her pain away.
Here’s what helped us, and what might help you too:
- Be present, even in silence. Sometimes, just sitting with her is more powerful than saying anything.
- Let her feel whatever she needs to feel. Don’t try to rush the healing process. There’s no “right” timeline.
- Take on practical responsibilities. If there are other children, housework, meals — whatever you can take off her shoulders, do it.
- Make space for your own grief too. She needs you, but you’re also hurting. Don’t pretend you’re fine if you’re not.
Grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it’s numbness. Sometimes it’s short tempers or exhaustion. Giving each other grace during this time is crucial.
Finding Your Own Way Through It
I joined a Facebook group for dads who had experienced loss, hoping to find connection. But it didn’t work for me — it felt too impersonal. What helped was writing. Getting the mess in my head out onto a page, even if no one else ever saw it.
You don’t have to write poetry, but do something. Talk to someone. Walk every day. Go to the gym. Paint. Shout in your car. Whatever helps you process.
Also, don’t feel like you have to “man up” or be stoic. Losing a baby — even one you never got to meet — is still a real loss. You have permission to cry, to hurt, to mourn.
If you’re not ready to talk to a friend or family member, consider a miscarriage support charity or helpline. Some specialise in support for men.
Talking to Your Children
One of the hardest parts of our experience was trying to shield our son from our sadness. He was too young to understand exactly what had happened, but he definitely picked up on the change in mood.
If you have children, it’s okay to let them know you’re sad. You don’t need to share all the details, but showing that it’s okay to feel big emotions helps them learn empathy. You don’t have to be perfectly strong all the time. Being real with your children can be a quiet kind of strength.
We hadn’t told our son his Mum was pregnant yet, luckily, and we never did. We just explained that she was sad and she would feel better soon. He could understand that.
Moving Forward Without Moving On
I think it’s important to say this: you never really get over it. Not fully. You carry that loss with you, quietly. Sometimes it’s heavy. Sometimes it fades into the background. But it’s always there.
We were lucky enough to go on and have another child. That did help us heal. But it didn’t erase the grief. It coexists. And that’s something a lot of dads need to hear. You can feel grateful for the children you have, while still grieving the ones you lost. One doesn’t cancel out the other.
What I’d Say to Another Dad Going Through It
You’re not alone. You might feel invisible in all this — the one who’s supposed to hold it together — but your grief is real and valid.
Don’t pretend you’re fine if you’re not. Don’t push it down. If your friends don’t know how to talk to you, forgive them — but find someone who can. Don’t be afraid of support. You need it, and you deserve it.
And when you’re ready, talk to your partner. Not just to check how she’s doing, but to tell her how you’re doing. You’re in this together.
We lost the baby too.
That sentence has stayed with me — and it’s why I wanted to write this. Because dads feel it. Maybe in different ways, maybe less visibly, but just as deeply.
If you’re in this place now, I won’t give you false hope or neat platitudes. It might always hurt a little. But you will feel joy again. Life can grow around the loss. And in time, you’ll carry that love — and that grief — with strength, not shame.
You are still their dad. And that matters.
