Pregnancy Loss Therapy in California
When the due date is taken of the calendar - and no one knows how to talk about it
Whether it was an early miscarriage, late loss, stillbirth, TFMR, or chemical pregnancy—your grief is real. Your baby mattered. And you deserve support that honors both what you lost and what you're still carrying.
What You’re Going Through
You lost your baby. Not an embryo. Not “cells." Your baby—and all the dreams you had envisioned for them.
Maybe it happened early. Maybe you were further along. Maybe you had to make an impossible choice. Maybe your body didn't process the loss naturally, and you had to make impossible decisions about what came next. Each option felt cold, medically invasive, and unbearable in its own way.
The medical system gave your loss clinical names—spontaneous abortion, products of conception. Words that felt cold and dehumanizing when you were grieving your baby. The procedures. The bleeding. The waiting. Maybe going to work while actively miscarrying because you hadn't told anyone yet—or because staying home felt worse.
No one knows what to say, so they say nothing. Or worse—they say things that sting. "At least you can get pregnant." "It wasn't meant to be." "You can try again." They don't ask about your baby. They don't remember your due date. The offered support felt hollow, or worse—like gaslighting.
You're invited to baby showers and first birthday parties, and each one stings. How do you show up as a good friend when it's also torturing you?
You're angry. At your body for failing. At the universe for taking this from you. At pregnant women who seem to glide through it. At yourself, even though none of this is your fault.
And now you're terrified of trying again. You remember what it felt like when you saw those two lines—pure elation, untainted joy. Losing a baby wasn't even a thought, let alone a possibility. You were over-the-moon happy and invincible in your joy, already planning, already dreaming. Then loss taught you what you can't unlearn. That fearless joy? It doesn't exist the same way anymore. Your next announcement won't be right after a positive test or even at a healthy 6-week check-up—you'll wait until it feels "safe" (knowing safe doesn't really exist). You carry both hope and fear now, and they're impossible to separate.
Or maybe trying again isn't even on the table right now. Maybe you can't imagine putting yourself through this again, or maybe you're still deciding. Either way, your grief deserves space regardless of what comes next.
How Therapy Helps
Therapy for miscarriage and pregnancy loss creates space to grieve your baby—not just "the pregnancy," but the actual person you imagined, the nursery you pictured, the future that disappeared.
I've been here. I know what it's like to see those two lines turn into loss. I know the weight of carrying grief no one else can see. And I know that healing doesn't mean forgetting your baby or "moving on"—it means learning to carry them with you.
We'll do grief work that lets you talk about your baby by name (if you named them), honor the dreams you had, and process the future you lost. Using ACT, we'll help you figure out how to live with this loss while still moving forward—even when those feel impossible to do at the same time.
If the physical trauma is stuck in your body—the ultrasound room, the procedure table, hearing "I need to get the doctor"—we can use ART to help process those moments so they stop ambushing you.
We'll also navigate the relationship pieces. How to communicate with your partner when you're grieving differently. How to handle family members who don't get it. How to protect yourself from people who say the wrong things or forget your baby existed.
And if you're thinking about trying again (or already are), we'll work on holding both the terror and the hope. Because pregnancy after loss isn't just pregnancy—it's a completely different experience that needs specialized support.
What Gets Better
You start to breathe again. Not every day, not all the time—but the weight on your chest lifts more often.
You find your people. The ones who remember your due date without you having to remind them. The ones who ask how you're doing and actually mean it. The ones who let you talk about your baby.
You learn to say no without explaining yourself. You skip the baby shower. You leave the birthday party early. You stop apologizing for protecting yourself.
The anger shifts. You stop blaming your body. You stop wondering what if you did something wrong (because you didn't). The unfiltered pain is still there sometimes—the unfairness, the grief—but it stops consuming you.
You can hold contradictions. You miss your baby and also laugh at a joke. You carry grief and also make plans. Both exist, and you stop feeling guilty about it.
If you get pregnant again, you navigate it differently. The fear is there, but so are the tools. You learn to announce when you're ready (not when everyone expects you to). You find ways to honor the baby you lost while celebrating the one you're carrying. You lean into joy even when you're terrified—because loss taught you that joy matters, even when nothing is guaranteed.
You reclaim your dates. Your due date or loss date becomes something you mark intentionally—however feels right to you—instead of something you dread in silence.
The grief doesn't disappear. But you learn that remembering your baby and living your life aren't opposites. You can do both. You are doing both.
Your baby mattered. Your grief matters, too.
No matter when your loss happened or what comes next, therapy can help you honor your baby, process what happened, and move forward while keeping them with you.