This blog post was co-written with Jessica Popke. She is the co-leader of Embracing Hope: For Women who have experienced pregnancy or infant loss in South Texas. She is a wife and mom of 3 children. Two of which are with our one in Heaven. She has become a dear friend and confidant in my healing.
We understand. Loss has a ripple effect, and you hurt so much for me. You were just trying to comfort us after we lost our babies. You had the best intentions and your words came from a place of love. No one ever told you what to say or not to say to a grieving Mama. Trust me, I’ve been there too. I know my loss affects you and that you desperately want to bring healing to my heart and I love you for that. And so if you find yourself here gasping or cringing at the thought that maybe you’ve said these things to a mama in the past, it’s okay. This post is not about shame or condemnation, it’s all about educating and empowering us to know how to love one another well. And so here are a few things not to say to a Mama with empty arms.
Friend, can I kindly remind you that I am a Mom? The moment my babies were conceived I became a Mom. My love continued to grow and my heart expanded with hopes and dreams and wonders of who my sweet babies would be. I saw them, if only for a moment, wiggling around on a screen and heard their steady heartbeats. I held my babies tucked away securely in my womb as God lovingly knit them together. And yet, here I live, with empty arms. I love as a Mama, and I grieve as a Mama. And although I do not get to hold my little ones this side of heaven or post their monthly milestones on Instagram, I am still a Mom.
Remind me that I am a Mama. On Mother’s Day, on my babies’ birthdays and homegoings, at baby showers and child dedication services, and every other day in between. Speaking the truth about who we are and how we’ve loved and lost makes us feel seen on especially painful days.
At least you were only _____ weeks along.
At least you know you can get pregnant.
At least you can try again.
At least you have your kids and/or spouse.
At least you will get to see your baby one day.
At least….
Those two words - at least- spoken with such ease followed by a possibly true and positive aspect of my life did not bring healing, rather they belittled the lives and deaths of my sweet babe. It was almost as if I was being convinced to think less of my loss or that I didn’t have the right to fully grieve.
“At least...” phrases make hurtful assumptions to our grief. Because those of us who only had a positive pregnancy test desperately wish we could have seen our babies on an ultrasound. And yes, we were able to get pregnant, but you have no idea the years and tears and prayers it took to create our child. You may not know the medical procedures and cost and waiting we went endured. And yes, I will see my baby again one day, but that doesn’t mean I can’t weep over the fact that I don’t get to see my baby’s first steps or hear her say “Mama.”
“At least...” also phrases unknowingly force us to compare our pain to the possible positive in our life because you want us to remember hope, and see the good, and find closure. Joy and pain can coexist, it’s true, - but please don’t try to convince us to see the blessings in the darkest days of our grief with the expectation that our pain will disappear. You see, for healing to come about, we need to be allowed to unreservedly feel, and cry, and miss our babies exclusive of anything else in our lives.
Tell me that my babies matter and that I have the right to feel sorrow and grief just like anyone else who has lost someone they loved. Tell me that right now I don’t have to push aside my pain to try to find a quick resolution and that you don’t expect that from me either. Tell me that it’s okay to not be okay. Tell me that I am allowed sit in my grief as long as it takes to heal, and that you’re committed to being right there with me.
I felt my baby kick and thought of you.
I'm sitting in my nursery and thought of you.
Even as I type this out and remember the voices of those who, in their best efforts and with the best intentions tried to comfort me, tears fill my eyes. Friends, my dear Mama friends, I know full well that you are having thriving pregnancy. And I am happy for you, I really am. I'm trying my very best to celebrate the life of your child while grieving the death of my own. It takes all that I am, at times, to not to be envious of your growing belly, perfectly prepared nursery, and joy-filled baby showers. Remember me, yes, but please don't remind me of what I do not have.
Tell me you are thinking of me. Tell me that my pain is not forgotten. Tell me that my babies are remembered. Tell me that you love me and you miss my babies in heaven, too. Even years later, remind me that you’re thinking of me on those hard days because you know that grief never truly ends.
“This was all a part of God’s plan.”
“God knows what He is doing.”
“It’s all in God’s timing.”
“Heaven needed another angel.”
“...but God is still good.”
I know. This is unusual. Hear me out.
Christian cliches can be excruciating because either there is no truth or there is just enough truth to unknowingly wrap a spiritual bow around pain or loss to make it appear prettier for us (or even you) as we journey through grief. When spoken, it’s almost as if these cliches meant to communicate that we shouldn’t be heartbroken.
I was already having an intense conversation with God. I already wanted to blame Him, because it was the easy thing to do. He is in charge, right? God knew how much and for how long we wanted this child. And these truths only made me angrier with God. Was His plan to hurt us this deeply? Did He knowingly send us on this painful journey? Was His plan to take my baby back before we had any time together? Was our miscarriage good?
Yes, God’s hand is over everything. And yes. He is capable of redeeming even the deepest wounds. And yes. God is still good, even if it doesn’t always feel true. But no, death was never part of God’s perfect plan. It entered our broken world through Adam and Eve and we have felt the sting ever since. And no, Heaven did not need another angel - and even if it did, our babies would not be among them. You see, our little ones born into heaven are so much more than angels, they were created in the image and likeness of God (Genesis 1:26 cf. Heb. 2:7). Angels are different beings.
Grief is uncomfortable and unsettling and very dark at times. For most of us, it takes all the black and white of our theology and turns it to gray. This is normal, and it doesn’t mean we don’t love Jesus or that we’ve lost our faith. It means we are desperately trying to find Him. And these questions cannot be summed up with a one-sentence cliche, that communicates “Chin up, sister.” Rather, it is through the wrestling that God reveals who He really is to us in life and in death.
Remind me that God hurts with me and He knows this exact pain because He, too, lost a Son. Remind me that God can handle the questions and that I can be gut-wrenchingly honest with Him. Tell me that God is with me, wherever my grief journey takes me and He will see me through. Remind me that the Holy Spirit is interceding on my behalf and so I can pray, even when all I have is tears. Remind me that He sees me and He hears me, even when He seems silent and I feel forgotten. And tell me that you are committed to standing in the gap for me as I struggle with who God is to me in my grief - praying for me, hoping for me, and having faith for me.
It is excruciating, I know. The painful comments that take our breath away, bring tears to our eyes, and seem to pour salt in our already gaping wounds. But can I encourage you to do a few things. Remember that it takes bravery to enter in to someone’s pain and that we don’t always get it right. And so even though it hurts more than they may ever imagine, can you recognize the love and care shown in the bravery of trying? Can you give grace and forgive those who have said hurtful things, knowing they truly believed their words would bring healing? And lastly can I encourage you advocate for yourself? It’s okay to gently speak truth about insensitive comments and tell others exactly what you need and don’t need to hear. You see, even though they don’t always get it right, we need them now more than ever.
It is often not so much what you say when we are grieving that brings healing, but it’s how you show up. It’s the, “I’m so sorry.” and the “I love you.” It’s the warm embraces and tears. It’s the meals, chocolate covered strawberries, care packages, and thoughtful cards. It’s the lack of expectations and the ability to accept the fact that I won’t be okay for a little while. It’s the prayers prayed over our hearts, our marriages, our physical bodies, and our futures. As we grieve, we don’t expect you to fix anything. Please don’t put that pressure on yourself. We just need you to be committed to going with us wherever our grief takes us and for as long as it takes to find healing.
Friend, thank you for embracing the awkward and unsettling as we try to navigate this messy grief journey. We need you. Because it is through you that we experience the tangible love, comfort, and healing of Jesus. Thank you for carrying our pain and loving us well.
I avoided pregnant women in the aisles at Target. I didn’t go to the restroom at HomeGoods, because I didn’t want to walk through the baby aisle to get there. I can remember being at a standstill in my grief. I felt that if I stopped crying or felt better that it meant that my baby didn’t matter anymore. So, I stayed there for a while. I didn’t know what was appropriate, but I had to figure something out. It wasn’t healthy for me or my husband. Though I could never “move on,” I had figure out a way to move forward. Here is what I came up with.
I had a hard time walking out my front door into the sun. I wasn't ready to put one foot in front of the other, but I knew I had to try. I searched for a while, until I found a tangible item that I could wear to help me take my first step.
I searched high and low for a phrase that would mean something to me. "An angel in heaven" didn't sit right with me theologically. Don't get mad at me. It's okay if that's what you choose or chose to memorialize your baby by. I understand. My baby certainly is "my angel" in as much as my husband is "my baby." But as much as I could identify with that phrase, it just didn't feel right to me personally and theologically. My baby is so much more than the angels. He was created in the image and likeness of God. So I kept searching. And out of thin air I had heard "You'll Be In My Heart" by Phil Collins from the movie Tarzan playing in the background, and I knew what I wanted on my necklace.
"Always in my heart."
For Her// Custom Stamped Necklace
You can find this exact necklace here. It was made by a local artisan named Lindsey who is located here in Athens, GA too! Her shop is called Stamped + Finch. Be sure to check her out.
For Him// Hidden Message Bracelet
My husband wasn’t forgotten in my grief. We checked on each other daily. Not only did I get necklaces with this phrase, but we purchased a personalized bracelet from MBOSS Designs on Etsy for him too. You can find this exact hidden message bracelet here.
I hand-lettered a quote by Alfred Tennyson to place in a frame by my ultrasound.
Why would I display something that hurt so much? Well, my baby is a part of my story. As time has passed, my wound has healed though the scar is still ever-present. I am able to look at that frame and know that I am a Mom. My miscarriage didn't take that away from me. This very baby made me a Mom. I can find joy in that today.
I also wanted my future present children to know this part of our story. They have another sibling. They have another person to love. I want the women and men who come into my home to know that my husband and I are available to them should they go through this one day too. Oh, God-forbid. I don't want it to be a secret.
I also found this printable that I fell in love with by Liana Lane Art. I love that it’s a more subtle way of remembering your babies if you are more private by nature. She drew a bouquet of carnations which represent a mother’s love and forget me nots.
You can find this floral printable in her Etsy shop here. It’s an instant download that you can print at home or at any local printer.
It was a very difficult time. I didn't want to be around anyone. I didn't want to take people up on their offers to meet me for a meal somewhere. I needed to do something to keep myself busy. This was especially therapeutic for me as it took me some time to work on this project. This particular project also matched my hand lettered quote above.
I found a tutorial for an Embroidery Hoop Wreath display written by Erin from Cotton Stem, and I took my time and made the display you see above. You can find the tutorial I followed for this project by clicking here. I made it as a memorial to my baby.
These are just a few ways I found that helped me personally. I understand if it takes you a minute to get there. It took me a while to smile without guilt. I felt that if I smiled that I was betraying my baby. I wasn’t okay for a while. I was angry. I was sad. I was hopeless. I was confused. I didn’t know when it was appropriate to say, “I’m okay,” when people asked me how I was doing. So, I do. I completely understand if you aren’t there yet, but when you are ready I hope these ideas can give you a springboard to healing, dear mama.
October is miscarriage awareness month. This month is also the month that our first child was supposed to be born. My entire being aches for what should have been. I decided to share my story and a few blog posts related to pregnancy loss this month to help others understand miscarriage and all that comes with it. I didn’t want my grief to silence me.
To the Mama that has empty arms today, I am so very sorry. I hope that my story helps you in this time of loss. I understand what it is you are feeling. You are not alone. You are a #fiercemama with a profound love for her very real child.
To the friend or family who is here to get a grasp on this trauma. Thank you for trying to understand and help us navigate through this experience.
Before I get started, please stop reading here if you don't want to know the details about the physical pain and loss of a miscarriage. My intention is not to sugarcoat my story, because I would have benefited from knowing how to navigate through the physical and emotional stress of a miscarriage instead of being left alone to figure it out myself.
...you're still here? Okay, take a deep breath. Here we go.
I found out I was pregnant on the exact same day in the exact same hour that my sister found out she was pregnant. I remember it clearly. I was about to take my pregnancy test when she called. When it showed positive I was so overjoyed that I ran out to the porch and began waving the stick at my husband who was taking our dog out. "WE DID IT!," I screamed over and over again as if I was trying to convince myself. I couldn't believe it! My husband and I had both looked forward to this day for so long with overwhelming anticipation. It was finally happening!
Everything was progressing normally. I felt nauseous and my chest was tender to touch. Until it wasn’t…
We were finally past the suggested time to announce our pregnancy. I was so anxious to tell everyone the great news! It wasn’t until after we announced that I started to bleed. I called our doctor's office immediately. They told me to call back if the bleeding got worse. It could be that my uterus was just stretching. The bleeding didn't get heavy, and I had a check up scheduled a couple of days later so I proceeded like normal.
We headed to my doctor's appointment. I remember taking the urine test when I saw a lot of blood in the cup. I knew something was definitely wrong.
The ultrasound tech called us in. I was relieved when she said I should be far enough along to do the ultrasound on my belly instead of vaginally. I saw her expression when she was having a hard time finding baby. She proceeded to insert the probe vaginally, and I just knew. She hesitated and paused. I could tell she hated this part of her job. Finally, she said, "Hmm. Umm, I'm so sorry. Your baby no longer has a heartbeat."
Silence. Shock. Sadness. Anger. Fear. Ache. Confusion.
She left the room, and she went to get the doctor. More silence. I put my clothes back on, and my entire body felt like I'd been hit by a truck. I was in shock. No tears. No words. We were moved to a different room to wait. We sat in silence until finally all I could muster to say to my sweet husband was, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." To which he insisted, “Absolutely not. It was out of your control.” As my lips moved and the sound began to come out so did the wail of my heart. I flooded the room with tears and words that could not be understood. My husband was hurting just the same.
I had a billion thoughts bursting in my head at a million miles a second. It was like they were shooting at me, and I couldn’t barely catch my breath. “We just made our announcement. How do I tell my family? I need to call in to work…” on and on it went. Though the loudest one was, “My baby!”
The doctor finally came in. I couldn't have asked for a better doctor to help us get through this. She sat there and lovingly stared while I cried and asked her why. She said that sometimes it just happens, and she comforted me as best she could. She then gave me three options and asked me what I wanted to do. Everything was happening so fast.
D&C (Dilation and curettage)
Doctor: It is a surgical procedure that could be done asap. You will have the peace of mind that you are totally cleaned out. This one is an out-patient procedure.
Medicine
Doctor: This one could be done in the comfort of your own home, but it's painful. Also, this option doesn't work for everyone. Sometimes the baby doesn't completely pass. Sometimes it doesn't work at all.
Natural Completion
Doctor: Let your body do it in its own time, and let baby pass on his/her own.
I had to think. I only just found out that my baby wasn’t safe and sound. The life that I anticipated was gone, and I had to figure out what I wanted to do with him/her not 10 minutes later. I asked her to give us 15 minutes. My husband wanted me to make the decision. He would be there for me with anything I decided to do. These were my personal thoughts on the three options.
If this has happened to you, I am so sorry. I understand your hurt. I know that you remember this like it was yesterday. If you chose an option that I didn't, that's okay. You need to take care of yourself the best way that you can. This is just what I reconciled in my own mind at that moment. I am not telling you what the best option is/was. This is just my story.
D&C (Dilation and curettage)
Me: I don't want the doctors to tear baby away from me with cold tools. I don't think I can show up at the hospital willingly knowing what's about to happen. Recovery time is longer. There is always risk involved with a surgical procedure. No, that's okay. I'll pass.
Natural Completion
Me: I can't. This can take weeks. It can happen at any moment. I can’t live with that kind of anticipation. I just can't do it.
Medicine
Me: I'm scared, but at least I can do this at home tonight. My husband will be there with me. Okay...I think this is the one. I'm not sure, but I'll pick this one.
My doctor finally came back in the room, and I hesitated. "I"ll take the medicine," I said. She prescribed me two different medications, one of them was a pill to begin the process and the other was a narcotic to help with the pain.
This is the part of my story that is very vivid in detail.
We went to pick up the medications, and we made the calls to our family. We let our bosses know that we would be missing work. With every call, my eyes swelled and my head pounded, while my heart broke into tinier pieces. My doctor recommended taking the medicine during the day, but I was comfortable in the dark. After we finished contacting our family and close friends, I took the medications.
It was a long night. Unseen. Unheard. Untouched by light. Suddenly it was happening. The contractions that I had no experience or personal knowledge of began. I wondered if the pain medicine was helping at all, because I had to breathe through it. I was experiencing labor pains, and my body ached like it never had before or since. I wasn’t prepared. I had to learn on the go. I was sweating. I was vomiting. We were scared. My dear husband was right by my side for every second of it, experiencing miscarriage in his own way while trying to comfort me all at the same time the best he knew how. I was trying to catch my breath in between it all. I tried to find comfort in every position I could. The physical pain was almost overwhelming, but the human body is resilient even still. Finally, I passed my baby after 8 hours.
The days following my miscarriage I felt as though I was absent from my body. My grief swallowed me up. I bled for another week after. It was like a heavy period. With every visit to the restroom, I was reminded of my loss.
My body still had a good amount of pregnancy hormone after the miscarriage, but my brain knew I wasn’t pregnant. My levels needed to go back to normal on their own. In other words, my body thought I was still pregnant. Your hormones are out of whack. It can make you feel like you are crazy. I didn’t know even though your baby is gone that the pregnancy symptoms don’t just disappear with baby. I felt pregnant still. And I had to give myself grace. As much as I wanted it to be over, it still took time for me to get back to normal not just emotionally but physically too. And time stood still. I had to figure out a way to move forward.
This is my story. I’ve shared it the best I know how with hope that it would help you navigate your hurt in some way. Though the details may be different, we share the same loss, the same hurt. I am so very sorry. You are not alone in trying to navigate through miscarriage. You are seen.
It’s not a fairytale ending. It’s not pretty. But I don’t want to leave you here. So, when you are ready, here are a few ways I came up with that helped me memorialize my baby and take my first step towards healing. Here are a few ways to memorialize the child that was lost.