Dear Sister,
Today, you faced some of the hardest news imaginable at your ultrasound appointment. You went in with hopes of seeing that precious heartbeat, only to be told that the pregnancy we all cherished isn’t viable. And it hasn’t been for some time.
I can’t help but think back to my own experiences—twice, I’ve walked this same painful path. I remember those moments in that dimly lit room, lying there with a cloth over my legs, staring at the screen, desperately wishing for good news that just didn’t come. It’s a feeling so heavy that it’s hard to put into words. Even in my journals, those times are marked by silence and blank spaces.
Miscarriage is a topic that often feels like an unspoken tragedy, something that isolates you. Without that pregnancy, it can feel like losing a part of yourself. Opening up about it might seem like tempting fate, as if just saying the words could bring more heartache. But now that you’re experiencing this, I feel I can finally share my thoughts, hoping they might offer you even a sliver of comfort.
For the past eight weeks, your body has been playing a cruel trick, sending you signals—sugar cravings, tenderness, emotional swings—while simultaneously hiding the truth. It’s a missed miscarriage, a term that sounds so clinical and detached. They say it happens more often than we think and that you can try again soon, but having been through it myself, I can only label it as pure heartbreak. I wish with all my heart that you didn’t have to go through this because there’s no sugarcoating the reality: it’s going to be unimaginably tough.
Though we’ve both been adults for a while now, I still see you as my big sister—the one who has always blazed the trail ahead of me. It feels strange to have our roles shift in such a painful way. I want to say the right words and support you, but I feel so unprepared. All I can do is wish to shield you from the emotional turmoil that lies ahead.
I wish I could protect you from the deep sadness that will hit you like a wave. It crushes you, making even simple tasks feel monumental. The emptiness you might feel can be all-consuming, and it’s hard to know how to navigate through it. I wish I could shield you from that overwhelming void.
Even more insidious is the creeping sadness that sneaks in when you least expect it. It lurks in your mind and body, reminding you of what could have been, often at the most inconvenient times. Six months down the line, you might find yourself breaking down over a memory or a tiny piece of clothing you had once hoped for. I want to protect you from that too.
And then there’s the anger—anger at your body, at the world, and at the joy of others around you. You might find yourself grappling with feelings of resentment towards those who seem blissfully unaware of your pain. Be cautious of this Hateful Rage; it can consume you more than you realize. I’ve felt it myself, and it lingers long after the initial pain has faded.
As you consider trying again, I wish I could shield you from the fear that will inevitably accompany a new pregnancy. You’ll find yourself questioning every little sign, every symptom, worried that the happiness may slip away again. The fear is relentless, always in the background, making it hard to truly enjoy what could be a beautiful moment.
I wish I could take all this away and offer you simple reassurances. I wish I could tell you how fortunate we are compared to others who face even tougher challenges. But the only truth I can share is that I love you deeply. My greatest hope is that you will emerge stronger than I did and that the weight of this heartbreak will lessen with time.
I’m here for you, always.