Doctors Didn't Believe Anything Was Wrong. Then I Lost My Baby

"I don't want people to feel sorry for me."

These were the only words I could utter as I sobbed on my bathroom floor going through my fourth pregnancy loss nearly three months ago. I think what I was trying to say was that I didn't want people to think I was broken.

But the truth is that I am still so deeply shattered by the trauma of miscarriage and living with secondary infertility.

Perhaps if more women discussed their experiences, then more women like myself would have the courage to share their stories to help someone else, or at least spread awareness that procreation doesn't come easily for some couples.

After being married for nearly a decade, my husband and I never envisioned ourselves struggling with fertility, multiple miscarriages, or secondary infertility—those who have had one or more pregnancies, but difficulty conceiving again.

From the moment we made the decision to start our family after six years of marriage, completion of graduate school, and travel all over the world, we never considered that young people in their early 30s struggle with conception.

We didn't think that it would happen to us, or that we would be battling this for the next five years.

When I was experiencing my first loss, I remember having to advocate for myself to get doctors to believe what I knew was going on in my body. I knew I was miscarrying, but I also could feel that a little more was going on as well.

My cheeks were flushed, my head was throbbing, and I told my husband that I felt like I was dying because I just knew that something wasn't right.

I was told by the ER doctor that my bleeding would start to taper off and to take over-the-counter medicine because I described my pain as dull and not as excruciating, in addition to her not seeing anything on my ultrasound.

Sadly, after multiple appointments and a visit to the ER, I finally was able to convince my medical team that something was going on with me and was referred to a specialist.

Within a few minutes, the doctor saw that I was experiencing an ectopic pregnancy, which is one of the many leading causes of death for Black women.

The recent death of Olympian Tori Bowie while in labor, and the news that three of the four women runners on the 4x100 U.S. relay team have endured such gutting experiences, is heartbreaking.

Research shows Black women have a 43 percent higher chance of miscarriage compared to white women. Sadly, this is a common narrative for Black women in America.

And after surviving this experience, I promptly reevaluated my whole medical care team across the board.

You can have the most wonderful partner and take all the necessary actions to make sure that your body is healthy, but the reality is that one in six people globally are affected by infertility.

As society teaches the need to follow a prescribed path to parenthood, most people don't know about this possibility until they start trying to conceive.

One of the hardest things to deal with is understanding that everyone who experiences this circumstance can have completely different outcomes. Infertility can be both primary and secondary.

I have always struggled with my fertility, because my first pregnancy was ectopic. I went on to have my daughter in my very next pregnancy, but now I suffer from secondary infertility, as it took us over a year to conceive my last pregnancy which ultimately ended in another miscarriage.

A particular point of frustration is, that in my case, it has been impossible to explain the cause of this, which is sadly a completely normal outcome for couples who are struggling.

Many couples are left with the choice to continue the cycle without intervention in hopes of a miracle, pursue further investigation with fertility specialists—which can be costly because infertility is not a priority nor do policies typically support this care—or discover other avenues to create the family of their dreams.

I believe the silence of fertility struggles has created a dominant narrative that having children is as natural as riding a bike. But it's not that simple for the estimated 186 million of us who do.

According to the March of Dimes, about 10 to 20 in 100 pregnancies end in miscarriage, or 10 to 20 percent of all pregnancies. Yet so many women don't share their experiences.

My husband and I have a daughter who is 4 years old; almost daily people ask when we will be expanding the family. When I respond with the honest answer of struggling with fertility, they almost always look so puzzled, and I think that is due to the silence surrounding this topic.

I have been living this cycle for nearly five years and it isn't until I share my story that women tell me that I am not alone. While I know it's meant to be helpful, it often leaves me wondering why they have chosen silence instead of speaking about their experience.

Yes, it is difficult to publicly talk about your trauma, but I do believe in the power of community and using my voice to shatter the stigma around emerging conversations about fertility struggles.

Struggling with fertility is extremely complex and no one situation looks the same, but due to the silence around it, most women are uncomfortable with speaking about what a traumatic experience it is.

My experiences have led me to believe that it is an invisible disability. You would never know a woman is going through such trauma because we are expected to just pick up and carry on.

Some people with high celebrity profiles choose to reveal their miscarriages. Master chef Laura Sharrad recently shared her experience on Instagram. Meghan Markle also detailed her experience in an opinion piece called "The Losses We Share".

I am not a celebrity, but I do work for my community, and fertility has made me need to take a step back from being in the public eye.

I have found it so hard to fake a smile when I step up to the podium and pretend that nothing is going on. It is truly admirable for women to use their platform to spread awareness.

So often the world tells women that having children is a natural part of life and glamourizes pregnancy as this magical journey.

I am proof that this experience can be far from glamorous, and I wish I knew of more women in my shoes. Speaking out has been the most effective tool for me as I have battled my fertility issues as a young Black woman.

While many of my friends are celebrating their growing families, I am adamantly searching for spaces where I can connect with Black women who have experienced all ranges of fertility issues, because it is truly a hard space to live in.

And it's even harder to articulate this experience to those who have not been through it.

I wish more women talked about how complex it is to live with the anxiety, grief, and fear, because the world needs to know.

I share my story to create awareness because while I wish that no woman had to experience this, I know that some will. My hope is that they will have the language and a safe space to go to when navigating this experience.

According to data released by the Centers for Disease Control, the rate of maternal mortality has risen and that number is twice as high for Black women.

So many Black women are dying because many doctors don't believe us. Discussing trauma can be scary, but I find it even scarier to keep my story to myself.

I recently attended an event for Abide Women's Health Services, a non-profit offering culturally-informed prenatal and postnatal care, based in Dallas. They offer a safe space for women of color to improve and address maternal health disparities.

Additionally, Tonya Lewis Lee and Jeanine Valrie-Logan are two activists nationally working towards providing solutions to the current crisis Black women are facing by amplifying the work of midwifery as a means to combat this crisis.

Collective care and support are critical to improving these depressing statistics that are plaguing so many.

I believe that more policymakers need to join the movement of recent bills introduced by Reps. Lauren Underwood (D-Ill.), Robin L. Kelly (D-Ill.) and Robert E. Latta (R-Ohio), and Sens. Charles E. Grassley (R-Iowa) and Maggie Hassan Wood (D-NH).

More support is needed from government, healthcare professionals, family members, hospital administrators, community organizers, and friends to improve the outcomes for Black mothers and those hoping to become mothers.

Reliving my trauma every time I bring up this subject is tough, but I know that using my voice will save us.

Morgan Spann is a donor relations officer for the Communities Foundation of Texas, Black maternal health advocate, and a Public Voices Fellow with The OpEd Project.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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