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A few weeks after my sister welcomed her third son and just before Mother’s Day, I experienced the heartbreaking loss of my first and only son during the second trimester of what had seemed like a flawless pregnancy.
“We don’t have to do anything for Mother’s Day,” my mom suggested, understanding how challenging it would be for me. This loss marked my third miscarriage, leaving me feeling utterly broken.
“No, I can handle it,” I replied, an example of self-deception at its finest.
That year, my husband and I hosted the Mother’s Day celebration, a choice that highlighted the depth of my grief. I convinced myself that staying home would provide comfort, allowing me to retreat to my room if the emotions became overwhelming. In hindsight, if I was that vulnerable, I should have opted out entirely. But I resisted the idea of skipping the gathering; I struggled to accept the profound impact of my son’s loss. I wanted to follow the societal clichés—stay positive, keep moving forward, and act like everything was fine.
After dinner, my sister offered me her baby to hold. “Okay,” I said, recalling the brief moment I had held him in the hospital just hours after his birth. It was the same day my doctor had mentioned my dangerously low amniotic fluid and sent me home for two weeks of bedrest. Unbeknownst to me, my baby had passed away during that time. When I returned to the hospital, the silence that followed the ultrasound was deafening, and I let out a primal scream that I didn’t even recognize as my own.
As I held my nephew, tears streamed down my face, and soon my sister was crying too. I would never know the weight of my own son in my arms. I had been faced with the choice of delivering him or undergoing a dilation and evacuation to remove him from my body. I chose the latter, believing it would be easier to cope with. Six years later, I still sometimes wish I had made a different choice.
In the dark years following my losses, Mother’s Day felt like a landmine—one wrong step could shatter me. I regret not sitting out the gatherings and being honest about my pain instead of pretending it didn’t exist. Society often encourages us to mask our grief to spare others discomfort, leaving us alone with our unbearable sorrow.
I wish I had avoided social media, steering clear of the images of mothers holding their children and the memes proclaiming “I don’t know who I would be if I wasn’t a mother” or “Motherhood is the greatest joy.” I wanted to shout back that motherhood can also bring immense pain. There are mothers like me, cradling the memories of babies we will never see, who deserve to be acknowledged.
After experiencing a fourth miscarriage, I finally welcomed a healthy daughter in 2017. You might assume my Mother’s Days are now purely joyous, but they remain tinged with sadness. They serve as a reminder that I am a mother to four souls who are not physically present with me. I cherish the little one I can hold, grateful for every moment with her, but the sadness lingers. No one warns you that even after a successful pregnancy, the ache of loss does not simply vanish. The memories of those we lost remain, shaping who we are.
My losses taught me the importance of letting go. Each pregnancy opened up a space within me for love to grow, and with each loss, I released countless dreams. Yet, that love remained, transforming me into a more compassionate individual. It made me a better mother to myself and to my daughter. On Mother’s Day, I take a moment to honor the babies who came before her, for they showed me how to love despite fear and uncertainty. That love is their legacy.
For more insights on Mother’s Day and related experiences, check out this blog post. Additionally, if you’re interested in learning about home insemination, visit Make a Mom, a trusted source on the topic. You can also find valuable information on pregnancy at the NHS.
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