To The Woman Who Just Found Out She’s Miscarrying

tampa blogger ayana lage discusses miscarriage awareness

Faith Danielle Photography

To the woman who is miscarrying,

You’ve just experienced the worst day of your life. Maybe you saw blood in your underwear and just knew something was terribly wrong. Or maybe — like me — you were blissfully unaware, excited to hear your baby’s heartbeat, when you saw the expression on the doctor’s face change and your heart sunk.

I stopped drinking, avoided caffeine, took prenatals, gave up raw sushi, got enough sleep, ate my vegetables and stopped eating deli meat, only to find out that my pregnancy wasn’t viable. If it were possible to persuade the universe to grant us healthy babies thanks to good behavior, we’d both be happily pregnant, preparing a nursery and buying baby clothes. It’s terribly unfair, isn’t it?

I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry for the physical pain. Why didn’t anyone tell us that it hurts like hell?

I’m sorry for the blood. So much blood. I’m sorry you have to watch blood clots swirl down the toilet drain.

I’m sorry you’ll have to open the pregnancy apps that brought you so much joy and find the dreaded “Report a Loss” section to stop the emails about the baby’s progress.

I’m sorry you might feel bad about the weight you gained now that there’s no baby. I’m sorry that every glance in the mirror is a reminder of what could’ve been.

I’m sorry for all of the people you’ll have to tell.

And if you hadn’t told anyone in the first place, I’m sorry that you’ll have to deal with this alone.

I’m sorry for the dumb comments you’ll get. At least you know you can get pregnant! It must’ve been God’s will. My friend miscarried much later than you, so it could be worse. 

I’m sorry that your optimism has been stolen — that you’ll hold your breath every second of the next pregnancy, knowing precisely how many things can go wrong.

I’m sorry that people will expect you to just get over it.

I’m sorry that you’ll feel a twinge of pain every time you see a pregnancy announcement on social media.

I mourn with you. My heart aches for you. I grieve your baby with you, whether you were 4 weeks pregnant or 40 weeks pregnant. The loss of a wanted pregnancy is an agony that’s impossible to imagine until you’ve experienced it.

Here’s what I want you to know: One day, you will wake up, and you won’t think about your baby the entire day. It may be next week, or it may be several years from now. You will feel terribly guilty and wonder if maybe you weren’t cut out for motherhood, anyway. What kind of woman forgets her own baby?

But here’s what I’ve learned: You can grieve your baby until the day that you die without committing to a life of misery. It doesn’t make you a bad person to feel less sad over time; it makes you human. But right now, honor your sadness. Make space for it. Feel it fully.

I’m so sorry.

 

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