Dear Grieving Mama,
You are not alone. I know it feels like you are, as you cry in the suffocating darkness of your bedroom, filled with sorrow and heartbreak. I know if feels like you are, as the day breaks and you wake up, feeling normal for only a second, until you remember everything that has happened. I know how lonely you feel as you see the other mothers, the other babies, the other people who are happy, everywhere that you go. They are at the park, at the local café, at the shops, on the train. I know the loneliness and longing that consume you as you try to turn up for your friends – their baby showers, baptisms, first birthday parties.
I know it feels like you are alone, as everyone else’s perfectly laid plans come to fruition. They get married after you, start trying for children later than you. They “accidentally” get pregnant and have a healthy baby with no complications. They plan the timing of their babies down to not only the year, but the month, after a promotion at work and at the optimal time for their career. I know it feels like you are alone, as you look at them and wonder why it has been so hard for you. Why are you facing into this incomprehensible grief? Perhaps it is the grief of a miscarriage, perhaps it is the grief of infertility. Maybe it is both.
I know it feels like you are alone, as you and your husband sit in silence, words escaping you, your relationship burdened by the grief of loss and wanting something you can’t yet have. You wonder if it will ever be your turn. You wonder what your relationship, your marriage, your life, would look like if things were different. Would you be 6 months pregnant now? Would you have a newborn baby? Would you have a 3 year old child running around your empty house?
I know it feels like you are alone, as you navigate this unexpected suffering, wondering what you have done wrong. Was it the sushi you ate, the glass of wine when you didn’t know you were pregnant. Did you lift something too heavy? Was it always going to happen or was it your fault?
You are not alone. So many mothers have walked this road before you. It feels lonely, but that is only because no one talks about it. It is clandestine and secret. It is uncomfortable.
This grief, this ache in your chest that feels like it will never go away, is a language that so many women understand but rarely speak. It’s the tears cried in silence, the screams muffled into pillows, the ache felt in the middle of the grocery store when you see a mother pushing her toddler in a cart. It’s the pull in your heart when you see tiny shoes in a shop window, or the heaviness that settles on you when someone asks, “Do you have kids?”
It’s a road paved with a million “what ifs” and “if onlys.” If only you could go back and change something, or even anything. If only your body had done what it was supposed to do. If only the world made sense. It’s filled with the nagging ache of comparison, of seeing others’ lives unfold so effortlessly, while yours feels suspended, stuck in a moment of loss that won’t let you go.
But you are not the only one feeling this. You are not the only one questioning every detail, replaying every moment, and wondering if there was something you could have done differently. You are not the only one whose heart clenches every time someone announces a pregnancy. It doesn’t matter whether you are close to them or they are friends of friends, you feel the sting just the same.
There are others who know the weight of your pain. Mothers who sit in the same silence, who carry the same ache, who wonder if the hole in their heart will ever feel smaller. They may not always speak of it, but they are out there. They understand the way grief can wash over you in waves – some small enough to keep your head above water, others so large they leave you gasping for air.
And though it may feel like your world has stopped, there will come a day when the waves feel smaller, when the sharp edges of your pain begin to soften. This doesn’t mean you will forget or that your grief will disappear, it will always be a part of you. But little by little, you’ll find ways to carry it. You’ll learn to live alongside it, to fold it into your story without letting it consume you.
It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to scream. It’s okay to feel like you’ve been shattered into a thousand pieces. Let yourself feel it all. Let yourself mourn, because your pain is a reflection of your love, and that love is infinite.
And as you navigate this road, be gentle with yourself. Grief is not linear; it doesn’t follow a schedule or obey rules. Some days will feel almost normal, and others will bring you to your knees. Give yourself permission to feel it all without judgment.
You are not alone. You are part of an unseen sisterhood, a community of mothers who know the pain of loss, who understand the heaviness of longing. And though you may not hear their voices or see their faces, they are with you, walking this path beside you in their own way. It is an ancient path of sorrow winding back through the history of the humanity. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
So hold on to the hope that one day, the heaviness will lift. One day, you will breathe a little easier. One day, you will find moments of joy again. And until then, take it moment by moment, knowing that you are not alone.
With love and understanding,
A Fellow Mama
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