I stopped praying for healing
Living through Hyperemesis Gravidarum when healing didn’t come—and what I found instead
Today is HG Awareness Day. I’m sharing one of the hardest stories I’ve ever told—my own. Whether or not you’ve experienced this, I hope this brings awareness to what too many women go through and inspires us all to hope for something better together.
Trigger warning: This piece contains reflections on HG (hyperemesis gravidarum) and medical trauma in pregnancy.
By my son’s first birthday, I thought I would be planning for another baby. Instead, I was having nightmares about pregnancy—again. I had a vision of what our future family would look like tucked in my mind from my care-free days of wedding planning when I was twenty-two. But I didn’t know then what I knew now. What I knew now felt heavy, terrifying, and truly hopeless.
I like research—so I dove in. I suspected this was more than just morning sickness. And the more I researched, the more the name for what I was experiencing kept coming up: HG. I took quizzes online again and again always getting the same response—you have this!! But I didn’t believe it because if pregnancy and birth had taught me anything, it taught me I couldn’t trust myself.
I vividly remember the nurse who so kindly offered me medication. I was in the office for my gender blood test and I wasn’t able to drink a cup of water without vomiting. I had barely made it out of my bed that day, and had coaxed myself to take my first shower of the week just before getting to the appointment.
In my bag, I had a bag to throw up in, some saltine crackers, and water. My face was clean and free of makeup, my hair still wet. As soon as she walked in, I started to cry. I was scared to share how I was really feeling then but I can say now—I was deeply depressed. I chalked it up to the hormones but every night, I took as many sleeping medications as I could because I thought maybe I wouldn’t feel so awful if I could just fall asleep. Please God, let me survive this.
I told her I was sick, really sick. I kept throwing up. I didn’t know pregnancy would be like this. She asked what I was eating. “Nothing,” I said sheepishly, as if it was my fault. As if someone would take the pregnancy and baby away from me for my lack of qualifications—as if I was choosing to feel this way. She offered a prescription—I desperately accepted. I still have a photo of me sobbing on the floor after throwing up again later that day calling the pharmacy nonstop asking when it would be ready, and trying to find a manageable price.
At my next prenatal appointment, the rotation of staff did me no favors and the care team member looked me over saying I wasn’t losing any weight and needed to get off of that medication immediately. (A common misconception with HG is that you have to lose a certain amount of your body mass for it to “count”). After that appointment, she had me convinced I was harming my baby by taking the medicine and I cried the whole way home. I stopped taking the medication and asked her again at a later appointment, “Am I just supposed to suffer through this?” and she said yes.
At another appointment well into my second trimester I told them again, this hasn’t stopped. It hasn’t gotten better. Please, someone help me. I was told that for some women morning sickness just goes on a little longer, before the placenta kicks in. I just needed to be patient. So I kept going—surviving. What else are you supposed to do?
At that point, I had quit every freelance project I was working on. Giving up the career I had worked so hard to create. I was just making it through the day, trying to eat a little, drink a little water, and desperately exhausted. Late into my second trimester I started blending a prenatal into my morning smoothie, which was sometimes thrown up, but I figured it was better than nothing. I ate whatever sounded good—clinging to whatever relief I could get, however brief.
A name for my suffering
When my son turned a year old, I still replayed those memories again and again. I was asking for help, but why wasn’t anyone listening? Finally, I made an appointment with a specialist. I told him a detailed account of my pregnancy symptoms and finally received the validation of a diagnosis a year late.
I was conflicted. A part of me felt like someone finally saw me when he shared with me how my pregnancy was extremely high risk and how lucky I was—I knew my son was a miracle but now I realized I was a miracle too. Another part of me felt a deep anger—the people who were supposed to take care of me failed to do so. Why is it this way?
It’s an interesting season of my life to look back on because I know I played down my symptoms a bit. I didn’t want to constantly throw myself a pity party when I was just trying to survive. And sometimes, it made me feel weak and vulnerable telling someone how bad it really was.
I tried every remedy possible and nothing worked. When I told the specialist what my care team suggested and tried, he actually laughed saying, that would have never worked.
Now I know and have an official diagnosis that says I am part of a small percentage of women with extreme pregnancy symptoms making pregnancies high risk. The disease, Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG), has gone a long time without the recognition it deserves because many people thought it was all in our heads. It’s “just morning sickness.” The experience I had with that care provider is, unfortunately, common.
The same year I was pregnant with my son was the year Dr. Fejzo, motivated by her own experience with HG leading to losing her baby, finally found the gene that causes HG. Now, not only do I have my own personal diagnosis but I can tell you emphatically—it’s not in our heads, it’s in our DNA.
For me personally, this is heartbreaking news. It means my chances of repeat high risk pregnancies exceed 75% possibly up to 90%. When I began learning more about the world of HG I started to pray for my personal healing. As a Christian, I know God heals. My prayer journals are full of the vision I hold for my family—asking God to see my desires, to respond to them, to hear my prayers.
I have joined support groups and I have learned more and more about the new research coming out and have become an active participant in fighting HG. I hope to share more of my story and what I’m doing to help later. But today, on the day for HG awareness, I want to speak to the girl who was stuck in her bed, pregnant, unable to eat or drink, depressed, scared, and asking God why.
At that time, I would pray and ask God to heal me every day. I didn’t have the energy to do anything except watch TV (so few calories!) so I would just watch The Chosen and weep anytime I saw that depiction of Jesus on the screen. Jesus, please, see me. Heal me.
I stopped praying for my healing
If I could walk into my bedroom and speak to myself in 2023 I would want to tell her about where she is today. I would tell her that she was in real pain then and she deserved better care. I would tell her that she can forgive the people who didn’t know what they were doing. I’d tell her that one day, she would be more resilient than she ever imagined. I’d tell her that her favorite name for the Holy Spirit—The Advocate—would help her channel her anger to a passion to protect and care for women experiencing traumatic pregnancies.
And I’d tell her that her faith didn’t shrink—it grew. At that time, I was terrified I would stop praying for my own healing and stop believing God could heal entirely. I worried I would fall into despair and never climb my way out.
But I’d be able to tell myself I stopped praying for healing for a different reason.
“You aren’t praying for healing for yourself anymore,” I’d say, “because you’re praying and fighting for a cure. You’re praying for all of us.”
When I think of God doing more than I can ask or imagine—I think of this. I was diagnosed with HG & PTSD from pregnancy. I am not the only one. And it will not crush me. God did not design for it to be this way. He does not require our pain to do good work in the world.
But He is near to the brokenhearted. He saw me in my suffering—not to use it, but to be with me in it. And from that place of deep compassion, He has stirred in me a passion I never expected—to fight not just for myself, but for others.
I know that not everyone who has suffered like this will get a diagnosis. Not everyone will get validation. Not everyone will be believed. But if you’re reading this and wondering if what you went through was real, if it mattered, please hear me: you deserved care. You still do.
And to the woman stuck in bed, unable to eat, wondering if she can make it another hour—you are not alone. I’m sharing this for you, and I’m fighting for you. Because HG deserves awareness. Women deserve better. You are seen. You are loved. You are not making this up. You are worthy of care.
On HG Awareness Day, I remember what I survived. I honor who I am now. And I believe healing will come—not just to bodies, but to broken systems, untold stories, and grieving hearts. When I asked God for my personal healing, he didn’t shame my small hope; instead, he expanded it. He invited me to believe for more—not just for me, but for all of us. Today, I invite you to believe with me for better care, for justice, and for hope.
If you want to learn more, the HER Foundation is one of the best HG resources out there. Also, here’s an article from Time Magazine on Dr. Fejzo who was honored as a 2024 women of the year for her research on HG. If you or someone you know is currently suffering from HG, or has in the past and is considering another pregnancy, The Morning Sickness & HG clinic was a huge help to me and offers virtual consultations.
"He saw me in my suffering—not to use it but to be with me in it." Such an important perspective shift.
Oh my gosh. Another friend of mine had this. And it’s unimaginable. I’m so sorry.