You know that feeling of being so full of hope it almost feels dreamlike? That was our little family just a few short weeks ago. After three years of unexplained infertility, we finally saw the positive sign on the pregnancy test. It felt like the beginning of something magical. We had been dreaming about this for years. I allowed myself to feel that joy—to imagine our future, to dream about the life growing inside me.

Unfortunately, that dream didn't last long.

What I thought would be a quick check at urgent care to ease my mind turned into a devastating discovery: the baby wasn’t where it should be. It was an ectopic pregnancy, which required emergency surgery.

It was all so surreal—one moment filled with so much joy, the next with overwhelming grief. This wasn’t just a loss. It was a devastating blow after years of hoping, trying, and waiting. What was the point? I would have preferred to continue with the sadness of infertility than experience this loss that feels impossible to bear. Knowing the baby had a heartbeat made it all the more cruel, and there was nothing I could do. I’m heartbroken over the future we lost, and I’m so angry at how unfair it is.

By the time I was in the operating room, my fallopian tube had already ruptured. If I had brushed off my concerns and not gone to urgent care that day, I would have hemorrhaged and died. My intuition saved my life—not my doctor, who dismissed my symptoms a week before; not the nurse, who denied my request for an earlier appointment and expressed no urgency to answer my questions. It was my own gut feeling that something wasn't right and I needed that check.

Ectopic pregnancies are the leading cause of maternal mortality in the first trimester. So why weren’t my symptoms taken seriously? Why was there no urgency to verify my life wasn’t in danger? Why are we waiting until nine weeks for confirmation appointments when the severity of an ectopic pregnancy means a medical emergency?

If the doctors and nurses had done their due diligence, I wouldn’t have needed surgery, and my reproductive system would be intact. If pregnancy confirmation was required earlier, treatment would have been medicine to dissolve the growing cells—not surgically removing a beating heart. We can’t prevent ectopic pregnancies from happening, but we can prevent the trauma and provide the best treatment for them.

This isn’t just about my personal story. It’s about the larger reality many women in this country face. I had to advocate for myself to get the care I needed, and I was fortunate—fortunate to have access to immediate, life-saving care. Not every woman in my position has been so lucky. For some, care has been purposely delayed until it became life-threatening due to current laws and regulations surrounding reproductive health. In those terrifying moments, they were left waiting, begging someone to intervene before it was too late.

Imagine a world where women aren’t forced to “wait and see,” where we aren’t turned away because doctors fear the repercussions of messy state legislation, where we get the timely, compassionate care we deserve, without unnecessary hurdles. Imagine that when things don’t go as they should, the life-saving medicine created for these emergencies can be used as intended. We shouldn’t have to be on the brink of death before receiving the care we deserve.

This is more than just a political issue; it’s a deeply human one. Ectopic pregnancies are not viable. They cannot be saved, and if untreated, they are fatal for the mother. Even delayed treatment has tragic consequences that will remain with us for the rest of our lives. It took us three years to get pregnant, and now I'm left with an impaired reproductive system and a higher risk of another ectopic pregnancy. Talk about kicking someone while they’re down.

So, where do we go from here? I don’t have an easy answer for that, but I can say this: If you’ve experienced this kind of loss—whether it’s an ectopic pregnancy or any pregnancy loss—I am so sorry. You’re not alone. It’s okay to grieve, to feel heartbroken, to be angry.

But we just can't stay there.

Our only option is to keep going. Get outside, feel the sunshine, and embrace the love from family and friends. Slowly, step by step, we will heal. This won’t define us, because even in the face of unimaginable loss, there’s hope, and there is a future. It just looks a little different now.