Baby Loss

There is no pain like the pain of empty arms.

Babies aren’t supposed to die – that’s what we’re raised to believe, with the advances in science and modern medicine.

And yet they do. They die in the crib or the NICU. They die in our arms or inside our bodies. Sometimes, we must choose when and how they die because the alternatives are much worse.

If this has happened to you, you know the depth of the despair, the absolute crushing pain of this loss. You know, feeling like your heart is being torn from your chest. You know how it is when the life goes out of your limbs, and you collapse to the floor. You know how the animal wail sounds as it escapes from your body.

Make it make sense.

“What went wrong?” You replay all the details leading up to the loss; everything you ate or didn’t eat during your pregnancy and every decision you made as the crisis unfolded, looking for answers.

You feel the void in your womb like an injury. Nothing could replace your lost baby, even if you could get pregnant immediately. It’s so easy to feel angry at your body, which couldn’t save your baby. Angry at yourself for failing this test of motherhood.

“Why me? Why my baby?”

Nothing can make it make sense. It feels like you’re the only person in the world who has ever felt this pain. Your loved ones try to help. If you’re lucky, they avoid saying horrible platitudes like “everything happens for a reason” and “at least you know you can get pregnant.”

But even the most thoughtful, sensitive friends can’t reach you out on Planet-My-Baby-Died.

You’re not alone.

I lost my baby, too. I have felt what you are feeling.

There were days I wanted to unzip my body and float right out of it – I hated it that much.

When my best friend fell pregnant, I ugly-cried right there on the spot. Hospitals terrified me, and I distrusted my doctors after all that happened in my crisis. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to get a physical checkup, go to a baby shower, or even look at myself in the mirror again. It is HARD.

I am here for your grief.

You need someone who understands both the grief and the taboo of this loss on a deep level. If anybody ever promises to fix it for you, they’re a liar and a cheat. There’s just no fixing a dead baby.

I would never promise to cure you when you’re not broken – you’re just hurting. However, I can share the truths and tools I’ve gathered.

The truth is that grieving IS healing, and it deserves deep reverence. Nothing is more worthy than this sadness, but it is so scary to face it. Let me hold you while you hold your sadness. Let me peel away the extra layers of your suffering so that you can find peace right in the center of this grief. There is peace inside of the pain. I promise.

New grief is raw and dark and intense. It is overwhelming and exhausting, and it lasts a lot longer than we want it to.

Mature grief feels different. In mature grief, you can stretch in both directions. Yes, the sorrow is immense. But as grief matures, the well of sorrow is matched by the well of light emotions, joy, love, and inspiration. That is the other side of grief. I’ve found it. I’d love to bring you with me when the time is right.

When you’re ready, I’m here. Let’s talk.