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“Everything happens for a reason.” How many times did I hear this after my miscarriage? Even now, it echoes in conversations around me. While meant to be comforting, it often feels like an oversimplification of a deeply painful experience. In the aftermath of my loss, I found myself bristling each time a well-meaning friend or relative would say those words. Their sympathetic smiles and kind eyes ignited a rage within me that felt inappropriate to express. Instead of reacting, I would respond with a polite smile, thanking them for their sympathy, although I neither sought nor wanted it.
What I truly desired was my child back. I didn’t want platitudes about love and light; I was filled with a tumultuous mix of anger, shame, and guilt as I received overly cheerful texts assuring me of support and better days ahead. In those early days of grief, the pain was too fresh, the emotions too overwhelming for me to accept that something so tragic could lead to a greater purpose, even if that purpose could eventually be something positive. With every well-meaning phrase, I withdrew deeper into my grief.
On one hand, I understood that these individuals only sought to comfort me; on the other hand, I wondered what they expected me to say. Their words were intended to soothe my wounds, yet they felt more like a balm for their own discomfort. Many of these messages ended with the phrase, “You don’t have to respond, just know I’m here.” Honestly, I doubted they truly wanted a response. Expressing sympathy was one thing; engaging deeply with my pain felt like another matter entirely.
Years have passed since my miscarriage in October 2017. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to welcome two beautiful daughters into my life. My rainbow baby was born nearly a year after I lost my son. With time, my perspective on the phrase “everything happens for a reason” has shifted. While I still dislike it, I now have a different relationship with it.
Losing my first pregnancy was an incredibly challenging chapter in my life. The impact of that loss continues to resonate and affects my subsequent pregnancies, filling me with a mix of fear, hope, and uncertainty. Yet, it also led to the birth of my daughter, a child who wouldn’t exist had I not experienced that miscarriage. This truth is both profound and difficult for me to fully comprehend. I love my daughter deeply and can’t imagine life without her, but there exists a reality where she would not be here had circumstances been different. This fact is undeniable, but it doesn’t mean that everything happens for a reason.
Some days, I attempt to find solace in the idea of a greater plan. However, more often than not, I end up feeling guilty, as if I’m trivializing my son’s short life. Accepting that everything happens for a reason feels like a dismissal of my son’s brief existence, and I refuse to overlook the impact he had on my life. As a compromise with myself, my son, and perhaps the universe, I remind myself that something devastating occurred, but from that heartbreak, something beautiful emerged. I grant myself permission to experience joy and love, despite my loss. I allow myself to mourn one child while cherishing another, and I refuse to view this love as a betrayal. These allowances have taken time to cultivate, and I still stumble on some days – and that’s perfectly fine. Patience is key.
Statistics show that 10-20% of recognized pregnancies end in miscarriage, yet few discuss it openly. Society celebrates expectant mothers, showering them with affection and encouragement. We dedicate entire blogs, books, and social media accounts to those eagerly awaiting a child. But what about the mothers who suffer a loss? What happens when the happy posts cease, and the baby bump disappears?
I was that mother. I was far enough along to feel secure in my pregnancy, eagerly sharing my joy with everyone. By seventeen weeks, I knew the sex and had started decorating the nursery. My son’s name was carved into a custom sign, adorning a camping-themed room complete with cute arrows. One day, I was a radiant, expectant mother; the next, I wasn’t.
Instead of leaving the hospital with my baby, I was handed mesh underwear and large pads to manage the bleeding, along with a bereavement package containing resources to cope with my loss. A few days later, my milk came in, and even my body mourned. I was a mother without a baby, navigating an uncharted pain with no user manual to guide me.
So, what should you say to a friend, sister, or colleague who has experienced a miscarriage or lost a child? Save the reasons. Skip the love, light, and heart emojis. Simply express your love and acknowledge her loss. If she wants to talk, listen. Ask if she had a name picked out, or if she’d like a meal delivered. Then listen some more. If she isn’t ready to talk, respect that. A thoughtful gesture, like sending food, can mean a lot.
Remember, everyone processes grief in their own way. Embrace these differences. You may genuinely believe that everything occurs for a reason, and perhaps it does. But allow your loved one to come to her own conclusions, in her own time. Until then, offer your ear and your patience – and don’t forget the food.
For more information on pregnancy and the journey through loss, check out this excellent resource from the NIH here. You can also find insights on home insemination at this link and explore products from an authority on the subject, like this kit.
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