The moment you realize you are losing someone you love, you can see the grief coming, approaching like an endless ocean that you know you are about to jump into and attempt to swim across. My first miscarriage came two weeks after finding out I was pregnant, and when I started to bleed, I watched as that ocean came closer and closer, until finally it was there, enveloping me in darkness and water. Our second came with no warning - three weeks after seeing a heartbeat, suddenly it was still, no flicker on the ultrasound screen, just a little gummy bear that had once been my living child, floating in that bubble of space. While the world continued around me, my life stopped, as if on pause, and I was plunged into the cold, dark sea.
At first, grief envelops you completely. It is a heavy load to bear, and that weight consumes your every thought. After each loss, simple "how are you" questions felt insensitive, and I sometimes imagined responding honestly with words that reflected the jagged edges inside me, cutting deeper with even the slightest of movements. I saw no light at the end of the tunnel, only perpetual darkness. Moving on wasn't an option, as it implied leaving my grief behind. These were my children. They would always be a part of me. But I wasn't living. I was going through the motions, a shadow of my former self, with grief slowing my movements and darkening my thoughts.
Now, looking back, I can't say I know exactly how I got from there to here. Somehow, the grief became less heavy, less enveloping. Rather than feeling as though I was drowning in a personal ocean of grief, I wore it like a winter coat, occasionally able to put down the hood and experience other things, while my grief kept my arms and heart warm. It continued to shrink, like a magic trick you'd pay to witness. Today, my grief is like a favorite piece of jewelry: I wear it most of the time, and on a rare occasion swap it out for another piece. I will never donate it to the Goodwill, or leave it behind on accident while on a business trip. But it no longer obscures my view of the world.
Mari Andrew, an illustrator who has one of my all-time favorite Instagram accounts, illustrated this phenomenon one day earlier this year. When I saw this drawing, I thought "YES! This is what is happening to me!" I had been feeling guilty that my grief was no longer so heavy, no longer the first thing I thought of when I awoke in the morning, or the last thing I thought of before bed. Did I love my babies less, now that I thought of them less?
When what might have been the first birthday of my second child came and went, and I didn't feel the raw pain in my chest I have felt for so many years, triggered by so many things, I wondered if it was okay to feel okay. Was my grief, now that it had shrunk down to a much smaller size, still honoring them? Am I remembering them enough, if I am not constantly wondering what they would have been like, what our days would look like if they were here?
Why do we torture ourselves in this way? When I was in the depths of the ocean of grief, I told myself I was grieving too much. "You should be living your life. You're not really living. This can't be your everything." And now when my grief is much smaller, I tell myself I am not grieving enough. Well, neither of these inner voices are right, because: THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY TO GRIEVE.
It's okay to not be okay, and it's okay to be okay. You are doing the right thing when you honor the ones you have lost through reminiscing, writing, dreaming, having a memorial. And you are doing the right thing when you live your life, thinking of them occasionally, surprised and pleased to see that your day did not revolve around your grief.
Today, October 15th, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. In past years, I wanted my babies to be seen, remembered, thought of. I cried and wrote to them and asked others not to forget them. This year, I only remembered this day because of a social media post of another loss mom. This realization led to a crashing wave of guilt, but that guilt is mixed with a new feeling - I am also proud of myself. The milestones no longer crush me, and in the shrinking of my grief, I have shifted from floating through life to actively living it.
This morning, Ben and I went to a harvest festival with my siblings and their children, and I only realized when we got home that I hadn't thought of my own little ones all day. I had played in the corn pit with my niece and nephew without wondering whether my 15 month old and 2 1/2 year old would have covered themselves in corn and begged for piggyback rides. We wandered through the corn maze and I never imagined my children peeking through the stalks, Ben chasing after them and reminding them that running was against the rules. The "what if"s are always there, but they are no longer the loudest voices. They have merely become part of the choir, the diverse voices inside us that remind us to be our best selves, to do what we love, to care for ourselves and others.
Not everyone who takes a pregnancy test and sees: PREGNANT takes home a baby. Not everyone who gives birth gets to raise that child. This day brings awareness to these parents. And if you discover that you know some of them, offer support and empathy. If their grief has shrunk down to an accessory, a piece of statement jewelry that does not define their day-to-day, remind them that you see it, and it is a beautiful part of who they are. And if they are still swimming in the dark, cold ocean of grief, offer to swim with them, or at the very least, bring them some snacks.
You write so beautifully! Thank you for being able to say what so many couldn’t. You have a gift.
❤