I have spent the past few days working on my posts for Baby Loss Awareness. And, as every year, I notice how much this subject affects me. Sometimes I linger over a sentence, read something again and think about the people for whom this is their story.
A few years ago, I first heard about Wave of Light. At the time, I really had no idea what it was. Before becoming a mother myself, I did not give it much thought either. Yet there were couples around me who had lost a baby. Mothers who had experienced a miscarriage. So many, when I think about it now. I knew, and I felt sad for them, but I did not really understand what it meant.
I was also the person who said, “Oh, but you already have one.” Or, “You were only a few weeks pregnant.” I find that difficult to write here. Especially as a doula. But I said those things, so I am not going to pretend that I always knew how to respond.
Only when I was pregnant with my daughter did I begin to feel differently. Someone was growing inside me. It was still so early, but in my mind she was already my child. I saw her on the scans, later felt her move, and started imagining what it would be like when she was here. That was when I realised how cold my responses had been. How, without really thinking about it, I had diminished those mothers’ grief.
Thankfully, I have since gained so much more knowledge and experience. Through my training, through my work and, above all, by listening. And I have been incredibly fortunate: I have not experienced pregnancy or baby loss myself. I am deeply grateful for that.
So I do not know how it feels. But pregnancy and motherhood have made me realise how much I did not understand before. Now that I know what it is to carry life and bring my daughter into the world, I can barely imagine the depth of sadness that losing your baby must bring. However early or late it happens.
What I would want to tell her today
If I were sitting with a mother who had just had a miscarriage today, what I would want most is for her to feel that all her emotions are welcome. That she does not have to explain or justify anything. She carried life. However early it was. That remains part of her story. I would want to tell her that she is allowed to feel like a mother, and that no one can take that away from her. That there are no rules she has to follow to grieve in the right way.
Because we can be very quick to have an opinion, can’t we? About someone who withdraws, or goes straight back to work. About someone who talks about it a lot, or says nothing at all. Yet these are her emotions. Her loss. No one else can decide what is appropriate for her. And she may also feel okay again quite soon. Pick up her life, laugh, make plans. That is allowed too. She does not have to be sad for long enough to prove that her baby mattered.
That is what I want to share through this blog. Every loss deserves recognition. You do not have to have been pregnant for a certain number of weeks to be allowed to grieve. A child you already have does not take away the sadness of losing another. Just because you do not feel something or have not experienced it does not make it any less real for someone else.
The pressure to move on
Something else I find difficult is the pressure to function again. You are back at work, doing the things expected of you, and it looks as though you are doing better. Yet the next day, you may fall apart all over again. Grief is not linear. Some days are better than others. There should be room for that, but of course it is not easy in a society that expects so much of us. Where doing less can quickly feel like falling short.
I do not have a simple solution either. I just wish we paid more attention to what someone needs. That we looked beyond the question of when they can return to work. That coming back did not automatically mean everything was fine again. And that we kept asking how they were doing later on, too. When those first messages have stopped and everyone else has gone back to their own lives. Just letting them know we are still thinking of them. Giving them space to talk about their baby, if they need to.
Who I light my candle for
Tonight, I will light a candle too.
On a very personal level, I also think of the children I read about in the news. Children who have died, whose lives were far too short. Their stories stay with me. I hope all those little souls can find peace somewhere. To me, it feels as though the warmth and light of that candle can reach them. Upwards, to all those souls. I do not know how that works. I simply hope it does.
No one outside my home can see the candle burning on my coffee table. By writing here, though, I hope to raise awareness. Including among people who, like me in the past, do not really understand what such a loss can mean.
That candle is something personal. A small light I keep burning for the children who should have been here. In the hope that its warmth reaches them somewhere.
And here, I hope we can become a little more gentle with one another. That we keep listening, including to grief we have never known ourselves.