Grief Was My Darkest Teacher

I became a different person on July 14, 2024. The day I miscarried my first pregnancy. 

From the moment I found out I was pregnant in mid-June, I had a pit in my stomach, combined with some unnatural cramping. I think I was unable to ease my anxiety because I knew something was wrong, which was more or less confirmed when I went to my first appointment. Though Anthony and I got to see the beautiful flicker of its heartbeat, the baby was measuring about two weeks too small—an impossibility considering I’d been cycle tracking and we'd only had sex during my fertile window. The doctor I saw seemed nonchalant about this news. If she’d had any concerns, she didn’t voice them. I wish she would’ve. I wish it hadn’t taken over a week to process my bloodwork (results that came in after I’d already begun miscarrying) to see that my progesterone was low, something I wonder could’ve saved the baby. 

The doctor’s office was horrendous in their response to my initial fear of seeing brown discharge late the night before, followed by my full-blown panic at red bleeding on the morning of July 14. They were completely unreachable and, once I did get in touch with someone, frankly callous. I decided to contact a whole different doctor at another practice, who told me to immediately visit the ER. My original doctor didn’t even follow up with me after I called to inform them of my miscarriage. I was livid, but my anger was eclipsed by profound grief. To blame them for what happened isn’t something I have the energy or mental space for, to this day. The second and better doctor I spoke with brought me in for a follow-up a few days later and explained that the loss was likely due to a genetic defect. They treated me with such kindness and respect, and I will always be grateful for that.

The thing with pregnancy loss is that you, the mother, are the only one feeling the physical aspects. Your hormones are in disarray. You blame yourself for what went wrong. You’re the one witnessing the constant trauma in the toilet every few hours until the bleeding stops a week later. It's incredibly isolating and overwhelming. Even as Anthony, my family, and my friends were more than supportive, I felt alone.

So much of the time that followed my miscarriage is a blur. I felt everything, and I felt nothing. I felt like crying every single hour. I felt exhausted from said crying. I felt guilty on days when I’d laugh or if I went too long without thinking of my baby. I felt resentful when Anthony seemed okay quicker than I did. I felt like I would explode into a million tiny pieces if anyone I knew announced that they were pregnant. I feared that more than anything because I knew I didn’t have what they had. I felt like I was punched in the face when I had two bills come in the mail: $500 for genetic testing that was now defunct and over $1,000 for the ER visit. I wanted to rage, scream, and sob. I did. I had to pay so much money just to lose my baby, even with a “good” insurance plan. Fortunately, we had the means to pay, but I felt wretched thinking of all the other women out there who aren’t as lucky. The American healthcare system, truly, is foul. 

Eventually, I began to feel okay for a longer period, and suddenly would cry harder than I had in months. Time passed. I continued my regular workouts with my trainer, I wrote more than I had in years, and I read more than I had in a decade. I knew I had to actively overcome the depression I was in.

Though my miscarriage was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to cope with, it taught me a remarkable type of strength. I realized how important my voice was in a world where pregnancy loss is far too hushed, considering around 1 in 4 or 1 in 5 women will experience a miscarriage. I felt extreme gratitude for the community of women who shared their similar experiences with me. I set boundaries with people who give unwarranted opinions on our family planning. I cultivated my grief into art. My book Realm would not have been what it became without my experience, and it’s the work I’m most proud of to date.

10,000 times out of 10, I’d go back and rewrite my fate. I would give anything to meet my heavenly baby. But because I can’t, I allowed the grief to seep into me, let it wreak havoc on me like a violent storm. I held on until the dust settled. I rebuilt myself mentally and physically. Cleared the debris from my path. Watched as the sun started shining again. I know one day the rainbow will follow.

❤️🌈

If you’re reading this and have also experienced a pregnancy loss, I send you all my love and support. You are not alone, and you will get through this.