We’re incredibly grateful to Pooja for sharing her story with us for Ectopic Pregnancy Awareness Day. Pooja talks bravely about her experience and the impact this has had on her, the taboos and stigmas she has faced and why she is determined to speak up about pregnancy and baby loss to help raise awareness and let others know that they are not alone.  

One evening, it was just me, my husband, and our little one putting up our Christmas tree. We were smiling, warm, content. The next day, I was waking up in a hospital bed, dazed after emergency surgery—my right fallopian tube gone, and with it, the baby I never got to meet. It all happened so quickly, yet felt painfully slow, like time was dragging me through each moment.

For about 20 days, I bled on and off. I knew something was wrong. I’m someone whose body runs like clockwork. I phoned the early pregnancy unit hoping for reassurance, but they were dismissive. My pregnancy tests were faintly positive. I was told it might be a silent miscarriage and to wait another week before calling again. That week stretched on endlessly. My heart already ached, being told that I may have lost a baby my body had barely registered.

But something told me - keep checking. So, I did. Each new pregnancy test came back darker than the last. I clung to that darkness like hope.

When I was finally called in for a scan, I had blood tests too. My HCG levels were high - confirmation that I was pregnant, but the scan didn’t show anything. The report read "remaining matter". 

 

I remember staring at that phrase like it was a bad grade on a test I didn't know I'd taken. It made me feel like I was failing. My body wasn't working. I wasn't winning, whichever way I looked at it. 

 

The next few days were excruciating limbo.

When they finally confirmed it was an ectopic pregnancy - 1 in 80 pregnancies - I froze. That numbness still echoes through me sometimes. I was told medication would be the best route. They administered Methotrexate, a drug commonly used in chemotherapy to kill rapidly growing cells. I remember hearing those words and feeling like I was being asked to poison my own body - to kill my baby on purpose. The guilt and shame that followed were unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I left the hospital clutching a leaflet. No comfort, no warmth, just clinical coldness. I didn’t feel like a patient; I felt like a statistic.

I cried myself to sleep many nights. I thought the worst was behind me. I wanted to believe I was done bleeding, emotionally and physically. But then came the night of November 24. We had just put up the Christmas tree, trying to move forward, trying to smile again. That joy lasted only a few hours.

By 2am, I was in excruciating pain. By 7am the ambulance came. Morphine didn’t even scratch the surface. I was screaming for help. When they scanned me, it was clear: I was internally bleeding. I needed immediate surgery. I will never forget the image on the screen or the feeling of helplessness on my husband’s face as they wheeled me into the theatre. I was numb to everything and could not believe that this was happening to me.

In my culture, and within South Asian communities, pregnancy is seen as sacred, but baby loss is often treated as something shameful or brushed under the carpet. There's this unspoken pressure to move on quickly, to not “dwell” on it. People don’t talk about it openly, which only deepens the isolation.

 

One of the most painful things was the silence. No one knew what to say, so many said nothing at all. Others, though well-meaning, said thinks like "At least you already have a baby," or "Everything happens for a reason." Those words felt like knives. They dismissed the gravity of what I went through. There's also this quiet judgement - especially around ectopic pregnancies - that maybe it was something I did. That shame shouldn't exist. 

 

Besides my incredible husband, who was also grieving, there was very little support at the time. I got leaflets instead of counselling. No follow-up calls. No support groups offered. The healthcare system focused on the physical, but emotionally, I was left to figure it out alone.

This experience has changed me in ways I never expected. I am more aware of my body, more in tune with its signals, and more protective of my emotional wellbeing. I’ve learned the hard way that strength doesn’t mean staying silent - it means speaking your truth, even when it hurts.

One of the biggest ways this has shaped me is that I’ve started my own podcast called ‘Out Loud’ to raise awareness about ectopic pregnancy and baby loss - especially within the South Asian communities, where these topics are often brushed under the rug. It’s so unspoken, almost taboo, and I want to change that. I want to create a space where people feel seen, heard, and supported.

 

This loss gave me a voice I didn't know I had, and I'm choosing to use it.

 

Silence is a thief. It steals our stories, our healing, our power. If even one person reads this and feels less alone, then it’s worth sharing. I want others to know that ectopic pregnancy is not rare. It is real. It is deadly. And it deserves more awareness, more compassion, and more conversation.

My advice to other bereaved parents is, you did nothing wrong. Your grief is valid. Don’t let anyone rush you through it. Lean on those who love you, and don’t be afraid to seek professional help. Healing isn’t linear and some days you’ll laugh, others you’ll cry, and that’s okay.

I’m still grieving today, but I’m no longer consumed by it. I’ve found ways to turn my pain into purpose. I started the podcast to raise awareness and alongside that, my husband and I have also started tutoring and career coaching together. Pouring my energy into helping others grow, whether through education, guidance, or shared experience, has been deeply healing. These projects have given me a sense of direction, even on the days when grief still weighs heavy.

I’m not “over it,” and I never will be. But I am moving forward, gently, with more compassion, for myself and for others walking this path.

 

By sharing my story, I hope it helps to raise awareness. I want there to be better early intervention. I want healthcare professionals to listen when women say, "something feels wrong". I want mental health support to be part of standard care for pregnancy loss. 

 

And above all, I want us to talk about this more openly, compassionately, without any shame. Let’s all break the stigma of pregnancy and baby loss together.

Support for you  

Here at Sands, we know that talking about pregnancy and baby loss can be difficult. Please know that you are not alone, and there are people who understand and whom you can speak to in confidence.  

Support for South Asian Communities

Support following a miscarriage, molar pregnancy and ectopic pregnancy

Sands Helpline  
  
t: 0808 164 3332  
e:  helpline@sands.org.uk