When Lauren Ramakrishna lost her baby a decade ago, she knew it was a day she would never forget. And then, she did.
The realization came on a seemingly ordinary afternoon. Ramakrishna was cleaning her kitchen with pop music playing loudly from a speaker when she happened to glance at the digital calendar sitting on her kitchen counter. There, marked clearly on the screen, was a butterfly emoji—a digital memorial that flutters into view every August 21 to mark the anniversary of the day she lost her pregnancy.
She was immediately struck with a deep sense of gut-wrenching pain, but this time, the sorrow wasn’t born directly from the memory of the miscarriage itself. Instead, it came from the shocking realization that she had forgotten. For the first time in ten years, the exact date her baby’s heart stopped beating had slipped past her notice.
Reflecting on that devastating period a decade ago, Ramakrishna noted that bringing herself back to that specific day requires little effort. At her routine 12-week prenatal appointment, her doctor glided a fetal doppler across her abdomen, searching for the rhythmic beat of a fetal heart that she would ultimately never find. Ramakrishna recalled watching the crease between her healthcare provider’s eyebrows deepen as the wand moved slowly across her stomach. Though the doctor attempted to offer gentle reassurance, suggesting various benign reasons why a heartbeat might temporarily elude detection, she recommended following up with an ultrasound to be entirely sure.
Driving to a new medical facility alone, Ramakrishna refrained from calling anyone, desperately attempting to manifest a positive outcome through sheer willpower. She sat anxiously in the waiting room, her leg tapping up and down against the floor as she strained to hear her name called.
When her turn finally arrived, she laid back on the examination table, familiar with the sensation of cool ultrasound jelly being squeezed onto her stomach. She watched the wall-mounted screen as the technician maneuvered the probe, searching for the developing fetus.
There, illuminated on the monitor, was the shape of her second-born child. While early ultrasound imagery can often be difficult for an untrained eye to decipher, the head, body, and four distinct limbs were clearly visible. Yet, those limbs remained completely still, and the technician maintained a heavy silence. The technician clicked buttons, captured still images, and kept her eyes locked firmly on her computer monitor. Upon completion, she offered a brief, clinical dismissal: "The doctor will be in to talk to you," before hurrying out of the room.
Reflecting on the experience years later, Ramakrishna realized she was likely rushed out of the examination room to free up precious space near the specialized ultrasound equipment. The clinic needed the room for their next scheduled appointment, and the medical professionals understood that the news she was about to receive would likely leave her stunned and immobile for quite some time.
That poignant moment remains etched into her memory with crystalline clarity even ten years later. She remembers the rigid plastic chair she was asked to sit in. She remembers looking around the unfamiliar space and realizing that half the room was utilized for storage, filled with stray cardboard boxes of paperwork, random mailers, and medical supplies waiting to be unpacked. Resting on a small table directly beside her was a lone box of facial tissues.
When the physician eventually walked in, he introduced himself—a name that has since faded from her memory, though his somber expression remains permanently etched in her mind. He delivered the devastating verdict simply: "It’s not good news." Ramakrishna describes feeling as though the floor had completely fallen out from beneath her. Through blinding tears, she called her husband, barely able to force the words, "There’s no heartbeat," out of her mouth before placing a second, desperate call to her mother to share the tragic news.
She has hazy memories of driving herself back to her grandmother’s house, where her two-year-old son was being watched. The journey is shrouded in a blur of sadness, sheer terror, and overwhelming anxiety. Upon arrival, she collapsed into her grandmother’s arms. "They couldn’t find a heartbeat," she whispered, fighting back tears while her young son watched them with intense curiosity. Her grandmother tightened her embrace, offering a quiet space where Ramakrishna could completely break down.
Medical professionals later determined that she had experienced a missed miscarriage—a condition where the body fails to immediately recognize and process that a pregnancy has ceased to develop. Based on the size and stage of the fetus, doctors estimated that the baby’s heart had stopped beating at approximately 10.5 weeks of gestation. That medical determination established August 21 as the eternal marker for the day her baby died.
In the years that immediately followed that profound loss, Ramakrishna lived in a state of hyper-vigilance, anxiously awaiting both the anniversary date and her original due date. She understood inherently that those calendar markers would be emotionally grueling. Throughout the first couple of years, she deliberately cleared her schedule on August 21, knowing that the gravity of her grief would render her completely unproductive. She would spend the morning hours replaying every detail of the day she received the news, letting the tears fall freely while searching for symbols of butterflies, which had organically transformed into a personal emblem of hope in the wake of her trauma.
However, a decade later, the relentless demands of a bustling, modern life intervened. Now a working mother with two school-aged children, her days are consumed by the familiar orchestration of family logistics, chauffeuring kids between playdates, and managing sports practices.
The reality that August 21 no longer casts a permanent, ominous shadow over her existence is, on balance, a positive sign of healing. During the initial years when she allowed the full force of her grief to wash over her unchecked, she provided her mind, body, and heart with the necessary space to process the ache and release accumulated tension. Yet, forgetting the date introduced a complex, unexpected layer of sorrow. It served as a stark reminder of how far her own life had progressed, contrasted against the realization of how far her unborn baby never had the chance to go.
Even ten years down the road, Ramakrishna still experiences a profound grief surrounding her miscarriage, though the nature of that sorrow has fundamentally evolved. She acknowledges that she will always harbor wonder regarding what kind of person that little life might have grown up to become, and why they were denied the opportunity to exist. She intends to always pause and honor the early weeks of that pregnancy—the overwhelming hope, unadulterated joy, and fierce love she felt—even if she occasionally requires a digital calendar alert to remind her to do so.
Most importantly, she remains committed to speaking openly about the experience. Over time, grief has relinquished its suffocating grip on her heart and emotional well-being. What remains of that sorrow functions more like a valuable tool. It surfaces precisely when she is called upon to offer support to others, amplifying her voice so she can effectively advocate for and comfort individuals currently drowning in their own despair.
Statistics indicate that approximately one in four women will experience pregnancy or infant loss during their lifetimes. Ramakrishna identifies openly as a member of that one-in-four statistic, expressing a sincere hope that sharing her personal narrative will help alleviate the profound isolation often felt by grieving parents, regardless of where they happen to find themselves along their individual healing journeys.
October is designated as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. Individuals or families navigating mental health challenges related to pregnancy or infant loss can access support through the National Maternal Mental Health Hotline. The free and confidential service provides 24/7 access to trained counselors in English, Spanish, and over 60 other languages to offer guidance before, during, and after pregnancy.
