A Heartfelt Journey of Pregnancy and Loss

Hi Friends,

This is not the blog post I was hoping to write—but here we are.

I want to begin with a trigger warning: this post discusses pregnancy and pregnancy loss. If that is something that may be triggering for you, please keep that in mind before reading any further.

This post was meant to be the one where we announced that we were pregnant and that Baby Girl Piz would be joining our family in May. Unfortunately, that is no longer the case. I want to take you back and share the full story to bring you up to speed on what has been happening over the last several months.

In early September, I had a gut feeling that I might be pregnant. I was more exhausted than usual—far beyond the normal “Aunt Flow is coming” tired. I was experiencing vertigo, frequent bloody noses, and our dogs were extra cuddly. It was the day before my period was supposed to start, but something in me just knew I needed to test.

We were heading to my parents’ house that weekend, and I knew that if I tested that day and it was positive, it would give me enough time to get an HCG beta test done both that day and again before we left. I took a test, and before it even finished processing, I saw two lines. I immediately texted Ian. I then took a digital test just to be sure—it said pregnant.

It had been about a year and four months since my last positive test, and I was in complete shock. The next person I reached out to was our IVF coordinator. I went in that same day for bloodwork. My HCG was 79.40 and my progesterone was 24.76—numbers that confirmed that yes, I was pregnant.

What made this even more shocking was that in August we had decided not to transfer until later in the year or early 2026. That meant I took a full break from tracking—no BBT, no OPKs, nothing. And honestly, it was so nice. For the first time in a long time, our lives weren’t centered around trying to conceive or planning another egg retrieval. We felt lighter—especially me. So finding out I was pregnant was completely unexpected. We weren’t preventing, but this was not planned.

About 42 hours later, I went back in for repeat labs. My HCG rose to 127.87, progesterone increased to 27.67, and my TSH was 2.031. Everything looked great. That weekend, we headed to Washington and were able to share the exciting news with my family. Please enjoy my mom thinking the pregnancy test was a thermometer. 😂

Over the next few weeks, we continued monitoring my HCG. It rose to 548.50—the highest it had ever been—and then to 2,519. I was undeniably pregnant.

We then headed to Mexico for vacation. It wasn’t exactly what we had planned—getting overheated made me extremely nauseous—but it was still so good for us to get away and connect with one another.

When we returned, we had our first ultrasound at seven weeks. I was a ball of nerves walking into that appointment. We had never gotten to hear the heartbeat of our two previous babies. Hearing it for the first time is something I don’t fully have words for. It was deeply spiritual, and I immediately started ugly crying. It felt like I could finally breathe. Ian got teary-eyed too, and I could see how proud he was.

We had another ultrasound at 8.5 weeks and then again at 10 weeks, at which point we officially graduated from our fertility clinic. It was such a strange feeling. I never thought that day would come. While technically they didn’t do much for us, we were incredibly grateful for the extra monitoring and for getting to see our baby three times before most people ever see theirs once.

At 11 weeks, we went to my OB. She is incredible—the same OB who performed my emergency surgery earlier this year to save my ovary. Because of that experience, I knew I wanted to switch to her. She was so excited to see us.

One of the most meaningful moments of that appointment was learning that I had ovulated from my left ovary—the ovary Dr. Stevenson had saved. The whole thing felt like a miracle layered on top of a miracle.

We saw baby again, confirmed a strong heartbeat, and went through all the pregnancy basics—what I could eat, what medications were safe, and what to expect. She also discussed NIPT testing, which screens for genetic conditions and reveals the baby’s sex. We decided to do the testing—partly because we wanted to know the gender, and partly because we had already hit our deductible for the year.

When we went in for our next ultrasound, our NIPT results still weren’t back. We were told not to worry—it often takes the full two weeks.

Two days later, on Wednesday, November 19 at 7:58 a.m., I got a call I will never forget. Dr. Stevenson’s office was calling. I assumed it was scheduling and let it go to voicemail. When I checked it and saw it was her, I knew something wasn’t right.

I checked my portal—no results. I called her back and left a voicemail. I told Ian that something might be wrong. He asked if he should stay home, but I told him to go to work and that I would call him once I knew more.

About 25 minutes later, she called me back.

She told me that our NIPT results showed a high-risk (9/10) chance that our baby had Trisomy 21 (Down syndrome), along with the possibility of other chromosomal and developmental issues. She explained what this meant and told us we would need to see a Maternal-Fetal Medicine (MFM) specialist.

Because I was already 14 weeks along, she explained that we had two options for diagnostic testing following a Level 2 ultrasound: CVS or amniocentesis. She also walked me through Utah’s laws, including that termination for medical reasons must occur before 17 weeks and 6 days. Knowing we had only four weeks to get answers and make a decision added an enormous amount of pressure. Thanksgiving was also a week away, which made scheduling even more stressful.

Before we hung up, I asked if she could tell me the sex of the baby.

She said, “It’s a girl.”

She apologized, and I could hear how deeply she cared. She reminded me that there were no soft markers on our ultrasounds and that she knew how badly we wanted this baby.

I called Ian and told him the news. He had to get off the phone quickly to lead a meeting, but about 15 minutes later he texted me to say he was coming home.

After that call, I completely unraveled. I screamed. I cried. I yelled at God. All I could say was, Why? Why give us this miracle just to take it away? I screamed into my pillow and sobbed until there was nothing left.

Ian came home, and we just held each other. We prayed. And we had the conversation no parent ever wants to have.

Later that day, Ian asked what I wanted to do, and I said, “Let’s find joy. Let’s decorate for Christmas.” It wasn’t the same as usual—no loud music, no excitement. It was slow and felt like a chore. But once it was done, the lights brought a small sense of comfort.

The days that followed were a blur—trying to get into an MFM doctor, managing work obligations, and simply trying to breathe through the weight of it all. At the same time, I was in the middle of preparing for my upcoming work sabbatical. I was wrapping things up, transitioning responsibilities, and preparing for what I thought would be a season of rest and joy. Instead, I was closing out work while my heart was breaking. We were also in the depths of the Call to Give prep, which honestly was a great distraction and reminder of the things that are greater than ourselves.

We met with an MFM doctor at the University of Utah on Monday, November 24. The appointment went as well as it could. Unfortunately, baby girl didn’t want to show her face or neck, which meant we couldn’t assess all the soft markers they were looking for. Everything else looked good.

The doctor explained Confined Placental Mosaicism (CPM) to us. CPM occurs when a chromosomal abnormality—such as an extra chromosome—is present in the placental cells but not in the baby’s cells. This can cause a screening test like NIPT to return a high-risk result even when the baby is unaffected. While CPM often causes no harm to the baby, certain types can be associated with growth restriction or preterm birth. Hearing this gave us a small but meaningful glimmer of hope. Based on everything we knew, the MFM recommended moving forward with an amniocentesis to obtain a definitive diagnosis.

We then met with a genetic counselor, who walked us through everything this process would entail—the amniocentesis procedure, testing options, risks, and timelines. She explained that the testing would give us a definitive yes-or-no diagnosis but would not tell us where our daughter might fall on the spectrum or what additional health challenges she could face. We also discussed termination for medical reasons and the legal requirements in Utah.

After many conversations, prayers, and tears, Ian and I felt at peace with whatever the outcome would be. This baby was deeply loved and very wanted.

We went in for the amniocentesis on December 3. The procedure itself was relatively straightforward. Beforehand, they performed another ultrasound and were finally able to get the facial images they needed. One of the soft markers they look for with Down syndrome is the absence of a nasal bone, as babies with Trisomy 21 typically do not have one. Seeing that our baby girl did have a nasal bone was a positive sign, though not definitive. At this stage of pregnancy, soft markers only appear about 50% of the time. The prep took longer than the procedure itself. The needle insertion felt strange—like air leaving my body—but it was quick. And then we waited.

The next day, I went to the Festival of Trees with my dear friend Whitney. There were many adults with special needs there at the same time, and seeing them so closely forced me to reflect deeply on what our daughter’s life might look like. While many appeared happy, many were also simply existing—some unable to walk, some unable to talk, and many clearly living very limited lives. I know these individuals do not represent every person with Down syndrome, and I firmly believe that all lives have value. When I imagined the life our daughter could have lived—the independence, the opportunities, the experiences—it became painfully clear that she wouldn’t get to have those moments.

On Friday, December 5, we received the results. The amniocentesis confirmed that our daughter did, in fact, have Trisomy 21.

Ian was home that day, and we held each other and cried. We worked closely with the family planning team and our genetic counselor to schedule next steps. The procedure would take place over two days and would be performed at Planned Parenthood by University of Utah physicians—on Monday, December 15, and Tuesday, December 16.

I’ll spare you most of the details, but Monday involved the placement of dilators and being sent home to labor. It was the most physically painful 24 hours of my life. Tuesday was more straightforward, though still incredibly emotionally devastating. We were given beautiful footprints of our baby girl. Even though she was so small, she still had two feet and ten toes.

Our daughter’s name is Brialle Grace Waymire Pizarro. She is deeply loved by Ian and me and will never be forgotten. She will never have to face the hardships this life can bring and is now surrounded by God, her siblings, and family members who will love on her until we can again. May she rest in peace.

I think it goes without saying, but this decision was deeply personal and extraordinarily difficult. If you disagree with the choice we made, we kindly ask that you keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself. Those thoughts and opinions are not mine or Ian’s to carry.

This year—especially this month—has been the hardest of my entire life. I don’t yet know what lesson God is teaching us, but I do know this: if it’s not good, He’s not done with it yet. We are choosing to hold on tightly to each other and to our faith as we walk through this incredibly painful season, trusting His promise in Isaiah 60:22: “When the time is right, I, the Lord, will make it happen.”

For now, I am choosing to focus on what I have to be grateful for. I am currently on sabbatical from work, which was planned long before any of this happened. I haven’t had to take additional time off to process and grieve, and that alone has been an enormous gift. My sabbatical looks very different from what I had imagined. I had planned to work on and complete our registry, and plan our baby shower. Instead, I have spent this time grieving our baby girl.

I am grateful that, for the third year in a row, I was able to become pregnant, and that I carried this baby into the second trimester—learning once again that it is possible for me and for us. I am deeply grateful for the people in our circle who have shown up for us in tangible ways: the flowers, the meals, the care packages, the phone calls, and the friends who showed up simply to hug and cry with us. Just as with my surgery earlier this year, our community has surrounded us with love, prayers, and support in ways that continue to humble and inspire me. When you walk through hardship like this, you quickly learn who your real people are—and we have some really good ones. It has been a powerful reminder of just how good God is.

I’ll be taking the rest of the year off from blogging and social media to process and grieve everything that has happened over the last month—and this year. But I do believe that after the storm comes the rainbow, and we are holding out hope for ours. Knowing that we have five healthy embryos on ice is bringing both of us a great deal of comfort.

We hope you all have a very Merry Christmas filled with love and joy alongside those who mean the most to you, and that your New Year brings peace and prosperity. If you would like to reach out, please feel free to email us through this blog or send us a text. Otherwise, I’ll see you all in 2026.

With love,
Britt

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A Letter to Our Daughter

Brialle Grace Waymire Pizarro,

You were wanted long before we ever knew your name. You were loved in every moment you were with us, and you will be loved for the rest of our lives.

You only ever knew warmth, safety, and love. You never knew fear, pain, or hardship. You were held, protected, and cherished every single second of your life. Though your time with us was brief, the impact you made on our hearts will last forever.

You made us parents in a way only you could. You taught us about strength, surrender, and the depth of love a heart can hold in such a short time.

Rest peacefully, sweet girl. Until we meet again, know that you are deeply loved, endlessly remembered, and forever part of us.

Love always,
Mom and Dad