I imagine you’re feeling worn out. The heartache must be overwhelming because, in every sense of the word, that was your baby. Yet, you also have other children, and you understand that a miscarriage isn’t the same as losing a child who was born. Your sorrow is heavy and suffocating, but there’s a nagging thought reminding you that things could be worse.
Miscarriages are far more common than we often realize. It’s believed that up to 50% of pregnancies may end before they are even confirmed. One in four women has walked this painful path.
Many of us share the deep sadness of grieving a child we never got to hold. Yet, the conversation around it tends to fizzle out soon after it happens, as if we’re expected to move on.
“At least it was early,” people say, implying we should just get over it because we have other kids to be grateful for. Everyone has an opinion about how long and how deeply you should grieve. Some may mean well, while others may not consider the impact of their words. But you don’t need to listen to anyone who tries to dictate your feelings; that’s simply not fair.
I experienced a miscarriage early in my marriage, and eventually had two wonderful sons. But then, in November, I discovered that my fourth pregnancy ended in another loss at just eight weeks. My body didn’t acknowledge the loss for three weeks, and we opted for a D&C just before Christmas. Genetic testing revealed that we had lost a girl.
Had she lived, I would have been preparing a nursery in our new home, teaching my two-year-old her name, and wondering how to manage life with an infant, a toddler, and a kindergartener. I longed for that beautiful chaos. Most days, I cope well, more resilient than I expected.
You will manage too, I assure you. But some days, grief crashes over me like a tidal wave, and I let it. I remind myself that, unlike the ocean, it can’t drown me—even if it takes my breath away for a moment. Remember, we have living children.
Like you, I am deeply thankful for my kids. Right now, I’m cradling my little one as I type, inhaling the sweet scent of his hair and whispering silent prayers of gratitude. I cherish the moments spent next to my five-year-old as he talks about dinosaurs and race cars. My love for them didn’t begin at their birth; it blossomed when those two pink lines appeared. I loved them from the moment I knew they were mine.
As I look ahead, I know I will carry this sadness for the children I never met. It’s not something I can choose; it just is.
You may find that your connection to what you lost fades over time, and that’s perfectly okay. Everyone processes loss differently. If you feel your grief becoming part of you, it’s not something you need to “get over.” You can carry it with you, and as you grow stronger, it may not weigh as heavily.
If it becomes too painful, you can choose to let those memories fade. There’s no right or wrong way to experience this loss. If you ever feel like something is missing, remember, there’s a vast sisterhood of women out here who carry the memories of children that no one else remembers.
You are not alone. We stand together, and you are one of us.
For more insights on your journey to motherhood, consider exploring the At-Home Insemination Kit, and while you’re at it, check out the Fertility Booster for Men for additional support. If you’re considering more options, UCSF’s IVF resource is an excellent guide for pregnancy and fertility treatments.
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