Maybe Say it Anyway

There's this culture that you're not supposed to announce your pregnancy until after 12 weeks, when the risk of miscarriage goes down. Because that way, if you miscarry, you don't have to tell people about it.

The first time I miscarried, I was actually glad, at least for the first few days. I was just so exhausted. I didn't want to say it out loud or talk about it or hear what anybody had to say. But eventually, I needed some form of validation. I needed the general "out there" of people who know me to just understand that I wasn't okay. They didn't need to say anything or even spend too much time thinking about it. I just didn't want to fake like things were fine, and if I wasn't faking, I didn't want people to think, "Wow, she's awfully mopey today. Cheer up, honey!"

I get it, I suppose. When I hear about someone else's personal tragedy, I never know what to say. Grief is so personal, and rarely ever rational. I have no idea what would be comforting to that individual person for that situation, or what might accidentally trigger more grief. And then, when the condolences come in, how does the bereaved know what to say in reply? That's just as tough. 

Either way, the culture says to reduce that situation as much as humanly possible by just not telling anybody you're pregnant in the first place. Nobody wants to hear about your miscarriage, and you don't want to tell them about it.

But to not say anything just leaves the former mom-to-be feeling hollowed out with nobody to understand why. Nobody knows she's not okay.

So here it is:

I'm not okay.

But it's okay.

I'll be okay.

With time.

It's okay not to say anything. Or if you have something to say, it's okay to say it too. Either way, I just needed to get that out.