I'm now pregnant with my sixth child, but the pain of past miscarriages never goes away
Losing five babies during pregnancy over 14 years has not made the experience of miscarriage any less distressing, says mother-of-five Kelly Ang.
Ms Kelly Ang at her home on Apr 7, 2026. She suffered a miscarriage in 2025 and is now pregnant again. (Photo: CNA/Ooi Boon Keong)
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Many people may know me as a mother of five. Not many would know that I lost another baby last June, when I was 20 weeks' pregnant.
Even fewer people know that I'm pregnant again.
In a country where people are having fewer babies than ever, my brood of five already stands out. As I imagine announcing the impending arrival of my sixth child, I can practically hear the jokes already – but no, I'm not having another baby to collect 'em all like Pokemon.
Regardless of numbers and stats about our national fertility rates, for any mum or mum-to-be, expecting another baby soon after a loss is a profoundly complex place to be in. Sadly, it's one many can identify with – after all, about 20 per cent of pregnancies end in a miscarriage.
To me, it's equally sad that no one really seems to talk about what it's like to suffer such a loss.
NO SIGNS OF LIFE
When we found out I was pregnant in February 2025, I have to admit that I was terrified.
Life with five kids was – and still is – exhausting on so many levels. I really do love having a big family, but in early 2025, I was stressed, anxious, and tired all the time from juggling everything on my plate.
My eldest child was sitting for his Primary School Leaving Examination that year. My second and third had just started Primary 4 and Primary 1 in their respective new schools, and my fourth was transferring to a new kindergarten.
I supervised homework and meals and household chores, and spent hours each afternoon driving my older children to and from school, their extra-curriculars, and Chinese lessons. On top of all that, I was working three to four hours each day.
Our youngest was turning two at the time. With her finally growing out of babyhood, I felt that our family was just settling into a nice rhythm.
I simply wasn't prepared to add another child to the mix. Nevertheless, I was hopeful we could work something out, the way we always had.
We scheduled our 20-week scan the way we do everything – in a rush. We planned to drop our two daughters off at their dance competition finals early in the morning, get the scan done quickly and run back to the competition venue to see our girls on stage.
It felt like such an inconvenience to fit into our overpacked schedule. I even told my husband maybe we should just skip the scan and reschedule for the week after. We stuck to our original appointment date only because of family travel plans.
As I lay on my back in the examination room, my husband and I buzzed with impatience. We could think of nothing else but rushing back to our girls' dance competition.
The sonographer placed the wand on my belly. The screen lit up with an eerie stillness.
I thought it was odd. With my five children, my scans had shown little movements stirring about as each of my babies greeted me.
Maybe this baby was sleeping, I thought confusedly. The sonographer switched the audio on to detect the heartbeat.
Nothing. No strong, whooshing rhythm.
She switched the machine settings to check the blood flow.
No red and blue streaks to represent blood moving between the placenta and the baby. No signs of life at all.
The sonographer sat back and said something about calling a colleague in to "check something".
But I already knew what was happening: Our baby had died.
I remember a muffled ringing noise filling my ears. I remember nodding numbly to my doctor as he explained my options to me.
The next day, I returned to the hospital to deliver my baby. It's an experience that was traumatic on many levels, and I won't go into detail here. What I will say is that it left me hollow, broken, and numb for a long time.
NEVER GETS EASIER
I'm now 38 years old. Counting this latest pregnancy, I've been pregnant 11 times in the last 14 years.
My later pregnancies have been high-risk. In my last three, I needed aspirin to prevent blood clots.
Of my 11 pregnancies, five have ended in miscarriage. Even so, it never gets easier.
I spent weeks after my most recent miscarriage crying suddenly and uncontrollably at random times and places. It happened almost anytime I thought of my lost baby – while driving, while walking to the supermarket, and most especially late at night after everyone had gone to bed.
Time passed, and life inevitably returned to normal.
When I missed my period in December last year, I chalked it up to being physically exhausted. Our family had just taken back-to-back trips to Batam and Kuala Lumpur, and our helper was on a month-long home leave.
Christmas was coming up fast, and my period still hadn't come. I decided to take a pregnancy test just to rule out the possibility.
It came up positive – and brought on a crippling tide of fear and anxiety.
From the moment I found out I was pregnant, my heart was in knots.
I could barely eat, couldn't sleep at all in spite of first-trimester fatigue, and couldn't focus at work or at home, no matter how simple the task. I spent my nights spiralling with thoughts of things going horribly wrong or having vivid dreams of my lifeless baby.
Apart from my husband and kids, I kept the pregnancy a secret from everyone. I didn't want to have to explain to everyone again if we lost another baby.
I kept telling myself: "I'll tell them after the next scan." Scan after scan came and went, and I never felt ready to say anything.
I buried my anxieties and worries in the tasks and responsibilities of family life and work. After all, there was more than enough going on each day to demand all my energy and attention.
As my 20-week scan approached, I found myself gripped with dread. Memories of the previous time flashed up over and over again. I did not want to walk into that examination room at all.
I did the scan. It went perfectly. My baby was moving, and its heart was beating strongly.
For the first time in months, my tightly wound heart was released from its agonising knot.
FEELING THE FEAR, EMBRACING THE JOY
I'm now 24 weeks along. However, I'll admit that while my heart is now much lighter, the sense of impending doom has not fully lifted.
I bled profusely in the first trimester. When oral progesterone wasn't enough to stop the bleeding, I was given twice-daily progesterone suppositories. It was deeply and distinctly unpleasant.
While that particular difficulty has since passed, the sense of doom doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Honestly, I think it'll stay until I deliver this baby. Par for the course when you're living in the long shadows of grief and loss.
But I'm trying each day to focus on the good things, the little milestones that my baby and I are crossing, week by week. I'm mindful of each movement my baby makes in my womb throughout the day, each little kick easing the swell of anxiety.
Of course, I worry about the practicalities of what life will look like with six children instead of five. Can we really manage eight hectic schedules instead of seven? Can we get by financially? Can my husband and I take care of a newborn and still be present for our children and each other?
But perspective is a gift. Even worries like these are proof to me that this child's arrival is becoming more and more real to me – and to the rest of our family.
My older kids are constantly checking in on me: "Do you feel okay, Mum? Is our sibling kicking? How long more until we get to meet him or her?"
Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, they ask me questions that hit much harder: What if this baby doesn't make it too? How do I know everything will be alright?
I answer them as best as I can: Truthfully, I don't know.
I'm acknowledging my anxiety, but I'm also allowing myself to embrace my joy. Whatever happens, I know we'll get through it together as a family.
Kelly Ang is a mother of five and a freelance writer.
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