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To The Mom Who Just Had a Miscarriage

Photograph by Getty Images/Flickr RF

Dear mom who just had a miscarriage

You may be living in that state of limbo between heaven and hell and wondering why it seems like you are stuck feeling like you really don't know how to feel. You want to tell yourself that it's common and you're not alone, but all you really want to do is still be pregnant.

If you're that mom, there are a few things I want you to know.

I want you to know it's not silly to mourn something so "early."

In the moment you looked at that positive pregnancy test, you lived those nine months of pregnancy, the first day of school, your son's wedding, your daughter's driver's training and endless cuddles around the house. You lived a lifetime with your little one, no matter how little time you had together.

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I want you to know that your way is the only way.

Maybe you want to name your baby, maybe you don't. Maybe you want to keep moving forward or maybe you want to hide under your covers forever. Maybe you want to remember him or her with loved ones or maybe you only want to keep your little one close to your heart. Whatever you choose, this is your journey.

I want you to know that you should never feel guilty for announcing your pregnancy "too soon."

Maybe you're feeling guilty for burdening others with the pain of your pregnancy loss, wondering if you should have kept the news to yourself, to spare the uncomfortable feelings and awkward silences and condolences that ring cliched in your ears. But right now, your feelings are the only ones that matter and there is never such a thing as "too soon." How you want to announce your pregnancy news is yours alone to decide. Please, never feel the burden of making others uncomfortable when you are suffering right now.

You are not broken, even when your heart is breaking.

I want you to know that it's OK to never forget—and never want to forget.

"You'll have more babies," they will inevitably say. But you don't want other babies, you want this baby. And that's OK. The tears may come later, when you least expect it, and you will remember how you felt in this moment, aching for the loss of something you can't exactly put into words.

I want you to know that you haven't failed.

Your body has not failed you. Your body has not failed your baby. You have not failed—not now, not ever. You are not broken, even when your heart is breaking.

I want you to know that there is hope.

I can't say where your journey may lead you or what the future will hold for you. I can't promise that there will be a baby to fill your arms or a heart that will ever be fully mended, but I can promise that there will always be hope. Hope, however it may be tinged with wonder and fear and even pain, will never leave you if you hold on to it.

I want you to know that you can wonder.

You can wonder why on earth we can put a man on the moon but not figure out a more humane way for women to lose their pregnancies. You can wonder why you have crossed the threshold into a world you didn't want to be a part of. You can wonder what went wrong and if it will go wrong again. You can wonder why this happened and if you will ever be the same again.

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I want you to know that you will see yourself in other women.

It may surprise you when you see it for the first time, but it will be there, in their eyes. In women you pass in the grocery store, in women you meet at the park, in friends who will hug you and whisper, "Me too," you will recognize a piece of your own pain reflected back in their eyes. You will see what you missed before, but will never be able to miss again.

I want you to know that there is no place but now.

You don't have to go anywhere but right here. You don't have to think of "trying again" or planning for the future or "getting over it." Right now, you can just be here. And that will be enough.

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