By Emma Heaphy, originally written for @mumliapp www.mumli.com
Miscarriage is still taboo.
It shouldn’t be. But it is.
I’ve experienced one, which means I am one in four.
Which means I make up a quarter, and a quarter is a reasonable portion of a whole.
Which means it’s common.
Which means it’s a whole lot more than one.
Yet the three remaining get more discussion, more time, and more acknowledgement than the one.
And I get it.
The hardship of sharing something so vulnerable isn’t lost on me.
Loss is hard. So hard. Almost too hard.
And talking about it can be too.
Because it means it’s real.
Because there may be worry about what other people may think.
Because there may even be discomfort about making others feel uncomfortable about a loss.
There are so many feelings.
Hurt, shame, despair, frustration, resentment, and in no particular order but often all at once.
These are all valid feelings.
I felt them all at some point during and after my loss.
Just like I didn’t feel anything at other points.
And to this day, I remember feeling all and nothing.
But I mostly remember the fresh vividness of it all.
Time fading my pain, but not my memory.
I would scroll online for anything I could find on my feelings and questions.
I had so. many. questions.
I felt a deep need to read about others that had gone through it.
A need to hear other’s stories so that my feelings around it were validated and normalised.
A need to be comforted by solidarity.
It was a very real need, in my time of needing.
And the comfort did come, but I felt like I really had to look.
I had to look past all the photos of the pregnancy announcements, the third trimester bump photos and the new baby introductions.
Because it felt like they were everywhere, in deafening numbers.
It was all so loud.
And despite a quarter of these women probably having been through the same thing at some point, statistics were forgotten.
And perspective was lost.
