ust days before learning I had suffered a miscarriage, I was hanging out with some friends, all of whom are mothers. They commented on how I had never experienced pregnancy problems, as I was in the middle of my fourth uneventful pregnancy. Famous last words.

It was September 2018. I had three young children, aged four, three, and 19 months. I was pregnant and working part-time as a radio producer and presenter. Only a few people knew I was expecting a baby. In some African cultures, including my Ghanaian culture, the notion of publicly announcing a pregnancy is frowned upon.

What if the wrong person hears your news and doesn’t wish you well? Even though I wasn’t a superstitious person, certain superstitious practices had subconsciously crept in.

And I’m sure the statistics surrounding Black women and pregnancy feed into the superstitions. According to data released in November 2018, Black women are five times more likely than white women to die as a result of pregnancy complications. Research published by Queen Mary University in July 2019 found Black women are almost twice as likely to experience a stillbirth as white women. Had I known the odds were stacked against me, perhaps I would have scrutinised every appointment, along with the answers and care that I received from the midwives. So, is it any wonder Black women are more afraid to talk about their pregnancies?

At the next antenatal appointment after seeing my friends, the midwife took a urine sample and checked my blood pressure, both of which were fine. Then, she checked the baby’s heartbeat.

“Where is the heartbeat?” I asked. The midwife tried to calm my nerves. “You’re only 18 weeks along. Sometimes it can still be tricky to locate the heartbeat,” she said. She asked if I wanted to come back next week or to head straight to the hospital for a scan. I chose the latter.

During the scan, I couldn’t look. I just remember praying. Then finally, the sonographer spoke. “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat”. As I sobbed, the moment became a blur. I remember a nurse swooping in to remove my kids from the room. I was then induced into labour. As everyone fussed over me and triple-checked that I was okay, I couldn’t help but feel bad for my husband. The baby who had died was also his, yet he seemed almost invisible in that room.

Speaking to other parents who have children and lost babies has been interesting, as every family has their own way of explaining what has happened to their other children. We have a very open relationship with ours and so told them the whole truth.

My daughter placed her hand on my stomach and prayed for the baby to “come alive again”. As a woman of faith, I did have questions for God, but I wasn’t angry with Him. “Why would you start making a baby, only for him/her to die?” I asked.

The midwife asked if I wanted to see my baby. I just wasn’t ready. “Would my heart cope?” I thought. Eventually, I wanted to. At that point, I still didn’t know if I had a boy or a girl. Writing this, I’m moved to tears. What had I been afraid of? My baby was perfection personified. So beautiful. So small. So detailed. Every toe. Every finger. That face. Her face.

When a baby is born, proud parents love to send round pictures of their newborn. This is one of the things that I found really hard. I wanted to send everyone a picture of her because she was just the most beautiful thing, but who wants to be sent pictures of a dead baby? So I didn’t.

Grieving can be a complicated process for anyone. But in the Black community, you can almost feel silenced because grieving could “cause you to dwell” too much on a bad thing. Or you may be made to feel that the miscarriage or stillbirth was “your fault” because you told too many people about your pregnancy.

Greater awareness about baby loss and how common it is wouldn’t take away the pain. But it would make talking about it feel like less of a weird, horrid thing and would encourage better understanding and support.

If you know someone who has lost a baby, please acknowledge it. Don’t pretend it hasn’t happened. Their response will make it clear how much or how little they are willing to discuss it.

Through Dope Black Mums’ partnership with baby loss charity Sands, we hope to get to the bottom of the shocking Black maternal health statistics and help provide Black bereaved parents with safe spaces where they can share their experiences and receive support from others.

You can contact stillbirth and neonatal death charity Sands on 0808 164 3332 or email helpline@sands.org.uk. The helpline is open from 9.30am to 5.30pm Monday to Friday, and until 9.30pm on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

You can contact the Miscarriage Association helpline on 01924 200799 or email the charity at info@miscarriageassociation.org.uk. The helpline is open from 9am to 4pm Monday to Friday.