artificial insemination kit for humans
“Everything happens for a reason.” How many times have I heard this phrase after my miscarriage? The answer is far too many. This expression, often delivered with genuine kindness, is loaded with complex emotions. In the aftermath of my loss, every time a well-intentioned friend or family member uttered it, I felt a surge of anger that was decidedly inappropriate to voice. Instead of lashing out, I would manage a polite smile, nodding in gratitude for the sympathy I neither sought nor needed.
What I truly wanted was to have my baby back. The offer of love and light felt like a hollow gesture. Each overly cheerful text message seemed to deepen my feelings of rage, shame, and guilt, as I was assured there would be someone to lean on or that better times were ahead.
In those early days of grief, the pain was too fresh, and my emotions were too close to the surface to accept that something so devastating could have any purpose, even if that purpose might eventually lead to something beautiful. With every platitude, I retreated further into a self-imposed prison of sorrow.
While I recognized that these individuals meant well, I couldn’t help but wonder what they expected me to say. Their words were intended as comfort, but they often felt like a balm for their own discomfort. Many of these messages concluded with, “You don’t have to respond, just know I’m here.” Honestly, I sensed they were more interested in their own peace than engaging with my pain.
Years have passed since my miscarriage in October 2017. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to welcome not one but two beautiful daughters into my life. My rainbow baby arrived almost exactly one year after I lost my son. With time, my perspective on the phrase “everything happens for a reason” has evolved. Although I still find the expression unappealing, my relationship with it has shifted.
Losing my first pregnancy was an incredibly challenging chapter in my life. The effects of this loss were profound and long-lasting, impacting my subsequent pregnancies with a blend of fear, hope, and uncertainty. Yet, it ultimately led to the birth of my daughter, who wouldn’t exist had I not experienced that heartbreaking loss. This truth is something I wrestle with, as I adore my daughter and can’t imagine life without her. Still, there exists an alternate reality where she wouldn’t be here if circumstances had changed. While this fact is undeniable, it does not serve as evidence that everything happens for a reason.
Some days, I attempt to find solace in the idea of a grand design. But often, I am left feeling guilty, as if I have reduced my son’s fleeting existence to mere cosmic happenstance. Accepting that everything unfolds for a reason feels like a dismissal, and I refuse to overlook the significance of my son’s brief life. As a compromise — for myself, my son, and perhaps the universe — I remind myself that while something tragic occurred, something beautiful arose from the ruins. I allow myself to experience joy and happiness alongside my grief. I permit myself to mourn one child while loving another, and I choose not to regard this love as a betrayal. Achieving this balance took time, and I still stumble sometimes, which is perfectly acceptable. Patience has become my guiding principle.
It’s important to acknowledge that 10-20% of recognized pregnancies end in miscarriage, yet few people openly discuss it. Society tends to celebrate expectant mothers, showering them with affection and support. We dedicate countless resources — books, blogs, and social media — to the celebration of pregnancy. But what about the women who lose that pregnancy? What happens when the joyous updates cease and the baby bump disappears?
I was one of those women. I had reached a point in my pregnancy where I felt secure, sharing my happiness with everyone around me. By seventeen weeks, I knew the sex of my baby and had begun decorating the nursery, complete with a camping theme and my son’s name etched onto a custom sign. One moment, I was the picture of a glowing pregnant woman; the next, I was not.
Instead of leaving the hospital with my newborn, I was handed mesh underwear and oversized maxi pads to manage the bleeding, along with a bereavement package that included websites for support. Days later, my milk came in, and my body betrayed me, making me feel like a mother without a child. I was at a loss for words, and others were equally unsure of what to say. There was no manual for this kind of heartache.
So, how should you support a friend, sister, or colleague who has gone through a miscarriage or lost a child? Spare them the reasons. Avoid the clichés about love, light, and better tomorrows. Simply tell her you care and acknowledge her loss. If she’s open to it, listen. Ask if she had a name in mind. Offer to send over a meal. Then, listen some more. If she’s not ready to talk, respect her space but consider sending food; I can assure you, cooking is likely the last thing on her mind.
Remember, grief is an individual journey. Embrace the differences. While you may firmly believe that everything happens for a reason, allow your friend or loved one to reach that conclusion in her own time, if at all. Until then, be present and patient, and don’t forget to send food.
If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination and related topics, you might find value in this other blog post here. Additionally, for those seeking authoritative information on fertility, check out Make a Mom and Medical News Today.
Search Queries:
- home insemination kit
- self insemination
- artificial insemination process
- understanding miscarriage
- how to cope with pregnancy loss
In summary, while the phrase “everything happens for a reason” may be meant to comfort, it often fails to acknowledge the genuine pain of loss. Instead, offering support through empathy, understanding, and practical help can be far more meaningful.
Leave a Reply