Miscarriage is something that, much like fertility itself, most people do not think about until they are forced to. I certainly never imagined I would be writing about it from personal experience.

For many men, miscarriage is invisible. It is rarely spoken about, rarely acknowledged, and often carried quietly. This is my experience of holding things together on the outside, while falling apart on the inside.

How Miscarriage Was Framed to Me as a Man

Growing up, the little thought I gave miscarriage placed it firmly in the category of “women’s issues”.

Why? Probably a mix of youthful ignorance, social conditioning, and a complete lack of education or conversation around how miscarriage affects men. It simply was not something we were taught to think about, let alone prepare for.

What I now know, without any doubt, is that miscarriage impacts the man just as deeply as his female partner. Not physically, perhaps, but emotionally and psychologically it can be devastating.

Looking back at our first miscarriage, the impact ran far deeper than I ever thought it would or could.

When Hope Finally Arrived

After what felt like a long and emotionally draining ICSI cycle, followed by the anxious two-week wait, my wife Jenn and I were desperate for an answer to the question that had consumed us both.

Had it worked?

A 4am trip to the toilet gave us the news we had longed for.

Pregnant.

After our first cycle had ended without success, this was new territory. It felt like a milestone, a shift in our journey towards becoming parents. There was happiness, but it was fragile. Joy sat alongside anxiety, because nothing about this journey had been straightforward, and we were now in completely uncharted territory.

The weeks passed and, on the surface, everything seemed to be going well.

The Moment Everything Changed

Then one day, an anxious Jenn called me into the bathroom.

She had miscarried.

At the time, Jenn was working as a midwife. Blood and tears were not unfamiliar to her, but never from this side of the fence. This time it was personal. This time it was us.

She sat on the toilet, crying. Blood visible. Emotions raw and overwhelming.

I remember feeling numb, shocked, and deeply sad all at once. A strange mixture that left me frozen.

Wanting to Fix the Unfixable

My instinct was to fix it. To make it okay. To take control.

But I couldn’t.

No amount of money, effort, logic, or hard work could change what was happening. That realisation left me feeling completely helpless.

I leaned over, kissed her on the head, hugged her, offered what reassurance I could, and then stepped out of the bathroom. Not because I didn’t care, but because I needed space to process what was unfolding.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but that moment marked the beginning of my disengagement. A form of self-protection.

A few minutes later, I returned, ready to offer support again. The truth is, I had no idea what to say or do. There was a void in the room, and I felt powerless to fill it. Every option available to me felt inadequate.

When the World Carries On Without You

Slowly, Jenn composed herself. The toilet was flushed and, with it, our dreams and optimism.

There was no formal confirmation needed. We both knew this chapter of our journey had ended.

The days that followed were heavy. The atmosphere in our home was thick with emotion. Feelings swung between extremes and emptiness, and there was no clear path forward.

As I have mentioned in other blogs, all of this happened on Boxing Day.

The world carried on as normal, but ours came to a sudden halt.

Holding It Together on the Surface

On the surface, I kept things together.

Underneath, I felt hollow. Soul-dead.

All I wanted was to fix the unfixable.

I cried at night.

I got angry in the car.

I asked myself the same questions over and over again, alone.

I hid it all from Jenn. I believed I needed to stay strong for her. I didn’t want to be seen as weak. I needed to be seen as a man.

Or at least what I had been taught a man was supposed to be.

Naming What It Really Was

What I have since learned is that the feeling in my chest was not weakness.

It was grief.

Grief for the unborn child we lost.

Grief for watching the woman I love endure something so traumatic.

And grief for yet another setback in our journey towards becoming parents.

I buried that grief for years. I never spoke about it. Not to friends. Not to family. Not even to Jenn.

Something I now regret, but also understand.

That experience shaped me. It played a role in the man I am today.

A Message to Men After Miscarriage

If I could offer one piece of advice to any man grieving after a miscarriage, it would be this.

It is okay to be the strong one in times of need.

But strength does not resolve grief.

If left unaddressed, grief grows.

Do not bury how you feel. When the time is right, express it to the person you love. Acknowledging pain is not weakness.

It is the truest form of strength.

And it is what allows you to process, cope, and eventually take the next steps forward, together.

‍

‍

Ciaran

Co-founder, NeXYs Fertility

‍