The common line of thinking is that in the first trimester you should "only tell people you are willing to also tell about a miscarriage." The problem with this piece of advice is that it also leaves us with the impression that we're not SUPPOSED to talk about miscarriage.
I don't harbor resentment about being given up for adoption. I don't see the point, because constantly questioning my identity would just eat me up. Instead, I'm grateful, and I can't begin to explain how liberating that is.
Whether or not you hold your own baby in your arms, squirming with life and constant need, you are still a mother. With the weight of your loss, you are not diminished. You are not other. You are one of us -- one of the club.
To understand why Texas' new anti-abortion law is an invasion of privacy, you have to know my friend. It's a sad story, and despite what Texas Republicans might claim, it has nothing to do with abortion.
How do you say goodbye to someone with whom you shared not a past full of memories, but a future made of fantasies? How do you make space for sadness when you're surrounded by messages, both internal and external, telling you to buck up and move on?
Miscarriage isn't about pregnancy ambivalence or anxiety, prior abortions or outbursts of venomous anger, feelings of sadness or anything else that you can seemingly control. Miscarriage is simpler than all of that. It is loss of life that wasn't sustainable.
This was a major turning point in my life. It didn't make sense to me, and it did not seem right. It is one of the reasons I gave up my former career path, went back to school, and became an infertility counsellor.
Anyone who has had a miscarriage, or even worse a several pregnancy losses, can't help but ask herself, "what is wrong with me? Why can't my body hold onto a baby?" Oddly enough, scientists are asking just the opposite.
In the midst of your Mother's Day celebrations, take some time to remember your cousin in Houston whose fertility treatments are failing, your next-door neighbor who had a stillbirth three years ago, or your grandmother who lost a child but could never bring herself to tell anyone.