My Own Story of Loss

I lost a baby in 2011. Years later, I can still recall the pain and details of that time period more vividly than almost any time in my life. I remember being on hold, waiting for my doctor’s office to pick up the phone, while I sobbed and listened to the prerecorded hold message taunting me: “Pregnancy is a time of joy and endless wonder. Thank you for choosing our team to accompany you on this wonderful journey. Please remain on the line and someone will be with you shortly.” I remember driving to the hospital thinking that if pregnancy loss is as common as they say, why do I not know anyone who’s had a miscarriage? And what do I tell people about this depth of grief I’m experiencing when, clearly, I’m not supposed to feel this way since it’s so common and no one else seems to be phased by it? What did I do to cause this? What if I never get to be a mother? As my mind spiraled out of control, I remember desperately wishing there was someone I could talk to who understood what I was experiencing and wouldn’t be uncomfortable or burdened by the confusing, messy grief that was consuming me.

Today, the searing pain I used to feel when thinking of my own pregnancy loss has dulled to an ache. I still think of how old my child would be now and I feel an incredible longing to know what they would be like. But these past few years that I’ve been able to help other families through their own losses, I can’t help but feel an acute sense of gratitude for my own experience. I am able to hold space for people with an air of empathy that wouldn’t be there had I not experienced my own loss. I am open about my loss because I want to dismantle the stigma that perpetuates the silence after pregnancy loss and I don’t want others to feel as alone as I did.