(Trigger warning: miscarriage)
Over the last three months, my husband and I have experienced two miscarriages. One just before 5 weeks and now currently one in the process at 8.5 weeks.
I’ve heard this described as such a strange and lonely grief—indeed it is.
I find myself simultaneously wanting to tell everyone and also not tell a soul; to scream at God (which He can take) and also defend that He is still the giver of life (which He is); to go the full sackcloth and ashes route while also fearing that others will judge my grief because it’s not like I lost a “real” child; to question my very design as a woman and also remember a woman’s worth is not tied to their child-rearing abilities; to plunge into all the doubts that I will ever carry another child and also recall the sobering truth that my twin brother and I might not be here had my parents not experienced their grueling miscarriage.
As I have been in a process of waiting this week for my body to do what it must, I have noticed a peace that somehow seems to still be underneath it all. Peace that permeated the atmosphere when we saw this baby’s heartbeat on the ultrasound and peace that was still there just a week later when no signs of life were found. Peace that holds space for the tears, questions, anger, fear, and the moments I am numb. Peace that breathes life even in the midst of death, though maybe not in the way I expected. Peace that has called me to reach out for community and has connected me with women across the country who have walked this very road so we can be reminded we are not alone.
The grief is raw, and my mind continues to grasp for words to give it voice, even just for myself. I want to wait and share when I have more fully processed these back-to-back losses or when the promise has come true for another longed-for child. But I also want to declare into the dark NOW and in the middle of the unanswered questions that this will not defeat me. That what I believed on the mountaintop with a clear view of the goodness of God is still true in the fog of the valley when I cannot see the next step ahead. That I can still trust Him HERE in the waiting. And today, that is enough.