Grief Between Sessions

TW: Pregnancy loss, grief

On the day I had a miscarriage, I had a Mommy and Me music therapy group at 9:00 a.m. What it means to be a therapist, business owner, and human—on the hardest day of my life.

The intersection of life, therapy, and business ownership is unlike anything else.

The day I had a miscarriage, my Mommy and Me groups started promptly at 9:00 a.m. The night before, I’d been awake for hours with what I was sure was pregnancy nausea—shaking my husband awake for saltines and water. That morning, I took another test. In the days before, I had over ten positives, including digitals that said “Yes” and “Pregnant.” I told members of my family. We told our closest friends.

But I knew too much. Months of fertility workups, difficult diagnoses for both my husband and me, and countless tears over negative tests for more than a year had taught me about the heartbreak of infertility and the possibilities of early loss. I knew the term chemical pregnancy. I knew that sometimes, those lines fade.

Still, I had nausea. I told my Nana, and my Nana was praying—so I believed it would be okay.

It wasn’t.

I took a test. Then another. And another. Each one read “No” or “Not Pregnant.” Just one line in the control window.

I texted my husband, my mom, and my Nana with photos—alongside the words I refused to believe I was typing: chemical pregnancy. miscarriage.

Surely my worst nightmare wasn’t happening. Not after all the heartache. Not after finally feeling the joy I had longed for.

But I’m a therapist. A business owner. I couldn’t let my clients down. I had literally started this business six weeks ago. So I got ready, put on makeup I hoped wouldn’t smudge, and went to spend the morning with caregivers and their babies. I only wished I’d remembered tissues.

I walked into the bookstore café where I host these precious groups, taking deep breaths just to hold it together. Moms and their babies began arriving, ready for the bonding and music-making I’d worked so hard to promote; the kind of group I had dreamed about when I first imagined Music Therapy Now.

I looked at their tiny faces with joy. And heartbreak.

Maybe I’m overreacting, I thought. Maybe I’m still pregnant. Maybe I’ll be just like them. Maybe, in March, one of these babies will be mine.

As soon as the hello song began, I slipped into therapist-mode, trying to block out the nausea, the cramping, the dread.

As life would have it, these groups were next door to my OBGYN. I couldn’t get through by phone, and I had a two-hour gap between sessions, so I made a plan: walk in and beg to be seen.

I did just that. I whispered the word that felt like a curse—miscarriage—and was taken back for bloodwork. My therapist shell cracked, and grief came rushing in. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, but I willed myself not to faint as the tech took my blood. The nurse told me I’d hear the results tomorrow.

So I walked back to my car, wiped my face, and headed to my next group.

I then found myself walking into a room with 15 teenagers. A brand-new contract. A brand-new group. One I had worked months to secure and had been so excited about. I was getting to work with one of my favorite populations as a business owner.

I willed myself back into therapist-Dannielle. I facilitated the group, managed their hyperactive behaviors, listened to music, talked about depression and anxiety, played instruments, and projected my voice over all 15 kids.

For an hour, I forgot. I forgot why my eyelids were heavy, why my shirt was stained with makeup, and why my soul felt so weary. I got lost in Billie Eilish, Rod Wave, and Bruno Mars.

The therapist on site told me how thrilled she was with the group’s engagement (feedback so many of us music therapists get), and expressed gratitude for our partnership. I smiled. I was proud.

Then I walked to my car in the rain and remembered.

I got home. I saw blood. My husband and I cried.

Then I completed my documentation.

As I was driving to those groups that day, one thought looped in my mind: I can’t do this. There is no way I can go do these groups. But I had nobody to call. Not because there aren’t other incredible music therapists in Jacksonville, but because I’m a sole business owner operating as the only music therapist for a practice I just started. Unlike in previous roles, I didn’t have a team to lean on. I wasn’t in a position where help was available.

So I did it. On the day of my miscarriage, I facilitated three music therapy groups, saw over 30 clients, and completed all my documentation.

Resilience is one of those things you just have to have as a human. I’ve learned resilience over time and I teach it to my clients every single day. But when you’re a therapist grieving in between sessions, resilience takes on a whole new meaning.

Being a music therapist and a business owner doesn’t mean being invincible. In a perfect world, and maybe if I were further along than six weeks into business ownership, I would’ve canceled those groups and taken the day.

But this day taught me something: what it means to build something meaningful, something that you love, even when you’re heartbroken.

It also taught me this: being a music therapist is one of the greatest blessings in my life. On the day I experienced the deepest grief I’ve ever known, I had moments where I got to escape into music. I got to make something beautiful with my clients. I got to support their healing while unknowingly supporting my own.

Grief didn’t disappear. But for 30 minutes at a time, I was reminded that joy, purpose, and connection can still exist in the middle of sorrow. And that is something I will never take for granted.

I don’t want to glorify pushing through pain. But I do want to honor the strength it takes to keep showing up. To hold space for others while navigating your own storms. I’m proud to say I’m not perfect as a music therapist. I don’t know it all. But I will always do my best. I will always show up. And I will always hold space for my clients and families.

And I feel incredibly lucky that I get to do it through music.

I’m still grieving. It’s still really hard to get up and do what I need to. But I’m incredibly grateful for the life I’ve built with Music Therapy Now. A caseload that’s manageable, meaningful, and filled with clients I adore. A business that gives me space to show up as I am, even in the hardest seasons.

It’s not always pretty. But it’s beautiful for me.

Dannielle Caldwell