I always worry when I meet new people.
Whether it be at the playground or in a moms group, because one of the questions that always casually comes up is, “What do you do for a living?”
I dread this question because if I am honest and tell them, they will look at me differently, and sometimes I just don’t want to deal with all of that emotion.
But, if I am feeling up to it and someone asks me what I do, I will tell them, “I write about my miscarriages and try to help other women and families who are going through loss.”
I say this quickly and nonchalantly to lessen the blow of such an honest and intimate topic, hoping that the listener doesn’t treat me like a leper after oversharing something so private.
Usually, at this point, I can see it in their eyes—a once happy conversation can turn into a somber moment real quick.
They seem to feel “sorry” for me.
They begin to search for something to say that would break the awkwardness of my blunt candor. Which, for them usually comes in the form of, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
And while I do appreciate the kind words, because I KNOW it comes from a sincere heart, I really don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” seems to be the proper protocol when it comes to the topic of grief and loss.
Yes, this is my story, and I own it.
And guess what, I’m not the only person to walk this path. It has happened to so many women and families, too.
I don’t need to be talked to or treated like I am made out of glass.
I am not glass and I will not break if you ask me about miscarriages.
In fact, I love when people ask me questions about my miscarriages because it shows that they care or at the very least are curious and want to understand more about the topic.
I enjoy bringing awareness to a topic that is so sensitive and intimate, it’s deemed “taboo” in our society.
Having a miscarriage has made me stronger, it has made me more empathetic, it has made hyper-aware of the inner battles we all struggle with.
You know, the ones we deal with in secret.
Yes, my miscarriage broke me down and brought me to a place of rock-bottom darkness.
It brought me to a place of questioning, a place of deep heartache, and emotional pain.
But, it also brought me to a community of women who understand my hurt, a secret sisterhood of women who encouraged and lifted me up when I needed the strength.
Don’t feel sorry for me because I had a miscarriage.
Because from that deepest pain, my purpose and passion were born.
I don’t need you to tiptoe around me because you think I am too broken to talk about my loss.
Instead of saying “I’m sorry” and rushing along to the next subject . . .
Ask me about my story.
Ask me what happened.
Ask about my babies’ names and how long it’s been since my loss.
Instead of treating my miscarriages like some kind of forbidden topic, TALK to me about it.
Chances are, I will be more than OK with that conversation.
Please don’t treat me like glass or feel sorry for me.
I survived a tragic loss, but in talking about my miscarriages, I can honor my babies and help others on the same healing journey.