Pregnancy After Loss Awareness Month

From the time I was a little girl, I knew my greatest dream in life was to be a mother. While other kids imagined careers or adventures, I dreamed of raising a family. I wanted a handful of children. I wrote letters to my future kids long before they were even a possibility. Motherhood wasn’t just something I hoped for - it was the goal. I realize this isn’t everyone’s dream and that’s absolutely ok, but it was mine and I couldn’t wait.

I didn’t want a career. I know that in this century, a woman isn’t really supposed to say that. I went to college because that was what my parents wanted, although now I’m grateful that I did. I’ve loved my career, and I don’t regret that path. But the only achievement that has ever truly mattered to me is the beautiful young man and young woman I’m raising. Being their mom is the greatest honor of my life - something no award or recognition could ever come close to touching.

March is Pregnancy After Loss Awareness Month. For many years it has been a time of quiet reflection for me. Because while I get to celebrate my children every day, the miscarriages I experienced remain a hidden sorrow I carry in my heart.

I don’t know that there are words that fully capture the pain of that loss. There is grief, of course - but it goes deeper than grief alone.

Women are given the extraordinary privilege of carrying a tiny human inside their bodies for nine months, becoming their first home. Our bodies nourish them. Our heartbeats soothe them. Our voices are recognized by our babies after they’re born. We are their first protectors, their first sanctuary.

And yet, when a miscarriage happens - despite all the science telling us it can occur for countless reasons beyond a mother’s control - it can still feel like a personal failure. At least it did for me. I felt unworthy of love. I felt angry. I felt scared. I felt lost. I felt like I'd let others down. I felt like it was my burden to carry alone, because I didn't want others to feel as sad as I was. 

Each time, it felt like my body had failed to protect the life growing inside me. How could my fully grown, adult body not protect something smaller than a pea?

When people knew I was pregnant and then I lost the baby, I heard things like, “Maybe it was for the best,” or “At least it was early.” Those words stung deeply. Because no matter how early it was, it was still a baby. It was still mine. It was still a part of me. It was still deeply wanted - even if I was terrified of the journey ahead.

When no one knew - when I was too afraid to share the pregnancy - it was even harder. I grieved alone, without acknowledgment that something beautiful and life-altering had existed and then quietly vanished. It felt like a secret wound, invisible to everyone else, with no proof it had ever been real except the pain and the bleeding - constant reminders in that delicate first week of grieving, of a loss I couldn’t explain and a love I never got to protect and share.

It’s seeing two small lines on a test and realizing you’re about to step into the greatest adventure of your life - one you’ve dreamed of since childhood - only to have it taken from you suddenly and without warning, with nothing you can do to stop it.

As a parent, one of the strongest instincts you have is to protect your kids from everything. So when you can't even protect them in those first months... you feel useless. Pregnancy is already an emotional and hormonal whirlwind. A miscarriage on top of that is devastating. But when you add the guilt many women carry - the feeling that our bodies couldn’t do one of the most important things nature designed them to do - it can be life-shattering.

For men, the loss is real and profound, and I don’t want to diminish that. But for women, it is often compounded by an overwhelming sense of failure - an ache that settles not just in the heart, but in the body itself. And sometimes, even with a partner beside you, the grief can still feel lonely. 

When a miscarriage happens early, there is no baby to bury. No gender to know. No name given and no baby blankets embroidered with Liam or Matthew or Maggie to snuggle when your heart is broken. No memorial. No place to visit. No birthstone ring or necklace to wear proudly. Often, there are no conversations about them after, because of the pain it brings. Sometimes, it's like they never even happened, which is perhaps the most painful thing of all. There is nothing to show the world that a life was created. There is only a quiet memory, tucked away in the heart, that they existed - and that they mattered. I want to remember them; I want to remember that they were loved. As I said... I don't know that there are words to describe the pain.

My losses were early, between five weeks and two months, and I cannot begin to imagine the pain of losing a baby further along. My heart breaks for those mothers as well.

I was blessed with two beautiful children, and I am grateful for them every single day. I know I was one of the lucky ones - someone who went on to experience successful pregnancies - and I will never take that for granted. I also know there are so many women who never get that outcome.

And when March comes and I celebrate the beautiful children I do have here with me, I take time to honor the babies who were deeply loved and desperately wanted, but never got the chance to be held in my arms. I had a handful of babies, you could say - even if only two of them are here with me.

I’m thinking of all the strong women who have walked this path - many of us more than once - and I hope life has brought you comfort, healing, and moments of peace. You are not alone, and your loss matters.