It is the story of a year where the body has been working overtime, and where the mind is slowly trying to catch up. About motherhood, fear, grief, love – and about trying to find one's home again.
BETWEEN LIFE, LOSS AND LOVE.
About letting go - and slowly finding your way back home
In this edition of Mom Diary, we meet Mia Groth – architect, model and self-employed with Studio Miarki. A person who, in just a few months, has been through one of life's most demanding and transformative processes.
Her second pregnancy develops into a high-risk pregnancy with placenta percreta, where the placenta grows through the uterus, into the bladder, and down into the cervix. It ends in a complicated, premature birth, a lot of blood loss – and a final farewell to the uterus that has carried her two sons, Helmut Bille and Poul Georg.
Together with her loved ones, Mia chooses to bury her uterus in the garden. A loving ceremony and tribute to the organ that gave life – and at the same time the beginning of a new, vulnerable and strong phase in her own life.
October 16, 2025
Pregnancy – the happy start and the first worries
The day Mia discovers she is pregnant with Helmut, she is home alone with the couple's eldest son Poul, while her boyfriend is at Roskilde Festival. She calls him on FaceTime: him in a hot, sweaty tent one morning with a sore hair — her at home in the bathroom with a positive test in her hand and a joy that is almost unbearable.
“While he's lying in a sweaty get-a-tent one morning with a sore hair, I'm standing in our bathroom, completely happy, waving a pregnancy test in my hand - and right here we just start laughing together with joy”
The pregnancy starts without major physical discomfort – apart from massive fatigue in the first trimester. Heavy bleeding around week 6 briefly raises fears that the pregnancy has stalled, but a scan shows a heartbeat.
Mia trains, uses her body and tries to keep up with life as a mother of a 2-year-old.
At the 12-week scan, everything still looks fine. The placenta is anterior, but may have time to move, the midwife says.
When the pregnancy took a new turn
Mia and her boyfriend go in for their 20-week scan with the usual expectations: to find out how big the baby is and that everything is going according to plan. But inside the room, the mood changes. The sonographer becomes more serious, and time suddenly feels long. Mia is alone on the table, while her boyfriend sits in the waiting room with their big boy.
The sonographer calls in a colleague. The scan is extended. Also vaginally, to be able to see what's up and down. And when Mia is finally allowed to go out, it's not with a sense of relief, but with a little post-it in her hand — a drawing the sonographer has made so Mia can try to explain to her boyfriend what they've seen. She doesn't quite understand it herself yet. She just knows that something is different.
To dare to hope – in the midst of fear
Four weeks later they are sent to Herlev for another check-up. Here it is more clear: placenta accreta — an attached placenta. The placenta has grown through the uterus and into the scar from the cesarean section at the birth of their first child. A rare complication. And precisely because it is difficult to assess the extent, a new check-up is booked at Rigshospitalet two weeks later, this time with a team with special experience in detecting and assessing this type of adhesions. They are sent home with the message that feels like a new set of rules for everyday life: no hard physical activity, no intercourse, no heavy lifting — not even by their 2-year-old.
And then the waiting begins.
“The days between check-ups are crawling by. I search for knowledge, for explanations, for something to hold on to. I scour the internet for information. I Google placenta accreta, placenta percreta, and all the complications that follow. And pretty quickly I come across a number I can’t shake: a maternal mortality rate of around 7 percent.”
Not baby. But her.
It hits like a shock. And with it come thoughts of all that could happen: the risk of massive bleeding, and in some cases a total hysterectomy — removal of the uterus. The nights get longer. Sleep gets easier. Nervousness grows, and the uncertainty about the rest of the pregnancy and the birth itself settles into the body like a constant restlessness.
“It comes as a shock to the body. I read that in some cases the uterus has to be removed completely. I have a lot of sleepless nights afterwards.”
The hospitalization – the longing, the fear and the small glimmers of light
Early on in the process, Mia and her boyfriend agreed with the doctors at Rigshospitalet that a plan for the delivery would be drawn up in early January. That's why there's a lot of excitement in the air when they show up for the crucial interview on January 15. This is where the framework for the birth will fall into place.
The day begins with a scan, where all three senior doctors are present. During the examination, they discover that the lacuna - the pool of blood in the placenta, which the doctors have dubbed the "tornado vessel" - has grown so much that they can no longer defend Mia staying at home, three kilometers from Rigshospitalet. The decision is made that same day: Mia will be hospitalized five days later.
She is sent home with a message that feels unreal. She must call 911 at the slightest bleeding. Pack a big bag. And say goodbye to her 2-year-old son. The plan is to wait for delivery by planned cesarean section, while the cervix is continuously scanned and closely monitored. If it shortens, or Mia starts bleeding, the baby should be delivered within ten minutes.
“I can’t even describe the emotions I go through in those days. The fear of starting to bleed, the fear of the birth and the surgery, the fear of whether the baby will make it. But most of all, the thought of missing my 2-year-old — the child I know and love and am always there for. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so powerless.”
The Sunday before the hospitalisation is spent on extra kisses and hugs and a trip to the playground in the greyest January weather. In the evening Mia tucks her son in and sings him to sleep, tears rolling down her cheeks. They have told him that mother is going to the hospital because little brother is going out soon, and that mother will come home again when everything is well again. And that of course he can always come and visit.
On Monday morning, Mia drops him off at the nursery for the last time before admission and drives with her boyfriend to Rigshospitalet. Here she gets a bed in a four-person room and is not allowed to leave the ward until the due date. She gets iron in a drip, lung maturation
injections and a laminated birth plan, which is by her side at all times — ready if she starts bleeding, or if labor suddenly starts and the A-team isn't ready.
She imagines long weeks leading up to her due date in mid-March. Instead, she ends up being hospitalized for three weeks before the doctors decide to deliver Helmut. Weeks filled with long days, visits, and a constant longing for life at home.
“The loss of my big boy overshadowed everything — even the fear of a violent and premature birth. That was what filled me the most.”
Every afternoon, for an hour or so after nursery, he comes to visit. They draw, read books in the hospital bed, hug and drink cocoa milk together. What feels like Mia's greatest sorrow during the hospital stay also becomes the highlight of the day and her most important source of strength.
In addition, she is surrounded by care. Friends and family come by every day with coffee, cake, homemade food, take-away, books and magazines. One evening, her mothers' group set up the table in the café on the ground floor — with plates, candles, wine glasses and take-away, right next to the 7-Eleven. Small, thoughtful actions that mean she rarely feels alone.
Midwives and nurses stick their heads in several times a day, even when they don't really have to. Mia feels seen and cared for.
The Birth – Helmut is born
Mia makes it all the way to the planned cesarean section on February 6th — six weeks before her due date — without any bleeding. The laminated plan works. In the morning, her boyfriend drops their big boy off at Grandma and Grandpa's and drives to the hospital, where Mia has already fasted and is waiting in hospital clothes.
At nine o'clock they are picked up. Together they go into the operating room, just a few meters from the ward where Mia has been staying for the past three weeks. In the room, about 20 people are ready: anesthesiologists, surgeons, obstetricians, pediatricians, nurses, midwives and SOSU assistants. They welcome them one by one.
Mia remembers the atmosphere as particularly warm and loving — but also heavy with seriousness.
She is being prepped with what feels like endless IV lines in her arms, wrists, and hands. Blood bags are prepared in advance, and as soon as she lies on the operating table, they start giving her blood. The doctors expect a lot of blood loss.
Her boyfriend is by her side throughout the cesarean section. The procedure begins with doctors scanning her abdomen as they cut it open — to avoid hitting the placenta, which
is located in front of and close to the scar from the previous cesarean section.
And then it happens quickly. Helmut is born at 10:36. He screams when he comes out and is held up to Mia, wrapped in towels. She holds him very close to her.
“I remember the feeling of instant love. He was so soft, all greasy and warm. He is here. He is alive.”
She kisses him again and again. Shortly after, he is taken over to the pediatrician for a checkup. The report is good. He looks fine. Her boyfriend comes back with Helmut in his arms, says goodbye — and follows him on to the neonatal unit, where he will be admitted.
After they say goodbye, Mia's condition changes abruptly. She suddenly feels very ill, as if she is about to faint. She is told that her blood pressure is dropping because she is losing a lot of blood.
“The next thing I hear is, ‘Mia, we’re going to have to remove your uterus, so we’re going to put you to sleep now. Are you okay with that?’”
She is given a mask over her mouth and asked to breathe deeply. She manages to take ten deep breaths — and then she disappears.
“When I wake up a few hours later, still on the operating table, I see my boyfriend standing in the doorway in hospital clothes, smiling. It feels like I’m seeing an angel.”
He says that Helmut is doing well. He has received CPAP and a tube, and that his numbers look fine. And then comes another message that lands softly in the middle of it all: Helmut weighs 2600 grams — far above everyone's expectations.
Mia feels a huge sense of relief. They say goodbye, and she is taken to the wake, where her mother meets her.
Neonatal, pumping and the way home
Mia remembers the time that followed as dark and heavy. For the first four days, the family was hospitalized separately: her boyfriend with Helmut in the neonatal unit, and Mia herself in the maternity ward. Because of the spinal anesthesia, she cannot move for the first two days and sleeps on a different floor than her newborn baby.
It feels deeply uncomfortable to be separated.
Yet she immediately starts pumping — every three hours, around the clock — to get her milk production going. At the same time, she can barely stand on her own two feet.
When they can finally be together in their own room on the maternity ward, everything revolves around one thing: getting Helmut to gain weight. Her boyfriend is there during the day until he has to go home to pick up their big boy. At night, Mia's mother is an invaluable help.
She steps into the role of a kind of night nurse: helping with pumping, scalding equipment, warming milk, finger feeding — over and over again.
A week passes before the family is allowed to return home. Despite jaundice, weight loss and challenges with Helmut's bowel movements, they are discharged five weeks before their due date, after 25 days in hospital. Something they never dared to hope for.
Mia will never forget the night her family is allowed to drive home. In the car, on the way back to the house, her big boy breaks the silence.
“Mom, I missed you so much.”
It will be a moment that brings everything together. Coming home. Being together again. For Mia, it stands as the happiest day — not because of the big or the spectacular, but because they are finally together.
The first few weeks after that are intense. The body is exhausted after the heavy blood loss, and the days are spent breastfeeding Helmut, pumping, supplementing with a nursing tube, and otherwise just being. Everything else becomes secondary.
“All my energy went into breastfeeding Helmut and just being. And in the midst of it all, we had some absolutely magical first weeks together on maternity leave.”
It is a time that is raw and demanding — and at the same time filled with quiet moments that are allowed to stand on their own.
For those of you who are in the middle of it – or about to do so
Burying the Womb – a Ceremony for the Life It Created
The idea of burying the uterus arose during one of the early visits to Rigshospitalet. A senior physician said – half jokingly, half seriously – that if the uterus had to be removed, she could take it home and bury it in the garden.
“The idea may have sounded a little crazy in the situation, but it stuck. It made sense to me to say goodbye in a concrete way to an organ that could not continue living, but which had given life to my children,”
When the hysterectomy becomes a reality, she decides to make it a ceremony. She invites the women who have been closest to the process – friends, family, her mother. There is a speech, drinking bubbles and eating cake. Mia's boyfriend says a few words, her friends contribute with more spiritual elements, and they sit in a circle on a rug in the garden.
The womb is buried under a Bornholm fig tree.
For Mia, it will be a concrete and beautiful way to end a chapter and honor what had to be given up so that she could keep hers.
Body and identity
After the course, Mia has a new understanding of her body. The year has been rough — both physically and mentally. Her body has been cut up, lost almost all of its blood, and put back together. She has seen it survive something she never imagined it would go through.
Today, she meets her body with a different respect than before.
“Becoming a mother feels like a dissolution of the self. Who am I now? I remember it from the first time I stopped my maternity leave. It's a tough transition.”
The transition from maternity leave to working life also creates a new kind of division. Mia finds herself caught between two worlds: the role of mother of two small children and the role of self-employed person with responsibility for her own business. The shift feels familiar — and yet different this time.
Motherhood has sharpened her priorities. Time with the children is the only thing she is not willing to cut back on. Everything else can be adjusted. Working hours, pace, ambitions — but not presence.
Looking ahead, Mia dreams of more people owning a Studio Miarki table and of new collaborations in 2026. But most of all, she dreams of peace. A period without major upheavals. Time to heal. Time to move slower - and be gentle with herself.
A quiet rebellion
Mia's maternity leave has just ended after ten months, and now it's her boyfriend who stays home with the youngest in the family. After a year marked by major upheavals, they have landed in a form of everyday life again. Not like before — but as something new. Everyday life is rumbling along, and Mia is back with projects at Studio Miarki.
The boys are doing well. Helmut has just started crawling and has found the joy of food. Poul had a hard time in kindergarten, but has landed in a good place now — still with the big emotions and fast pace of a three-year-old, but with calmer nerves.
Inside there is still movement.
“A quiet rebellion is brewing inside me. I have spent so long caring for everyone else’s needs – now it’s time to feel my own. Time for calm, reflection and now to check in with everything that has happened since the year began.”
She practices holding multiple emotions at once – relief, sadness, gratitude, exhaustion.
“I'm trying to learn that it's okay to be both strong and vulnerable at the same time. That motherhood is also about reaching out, accepting help, speaking up, and giving yourself just a small part of the care you give your children."
Perhaps that is precisely where the healing process begins.
