Navigating the journey to parenthood can be quite the rollercoaster, and while my path might be a bit unconventional, the grief that comes with it resonates with many. Last year, I experienced a miscarriage that turned my world upside down.
This pregnancy was a total surprise. In fact, it felt like the least likely scenario considering I was on artificial testosterone to transition my body. Not exactly a conducive environment for ovulation, right? Plus, I had been relying on non-hormonal birth control as my safety net. When I found out I was pregnant, it was only after the loss had occurred, confirmed later by my healthcare provider, leaving me utterly bewildered.
Sitting in the shower, trying to wash away the physical evidence of my loss, I was engulfed in confusion. I had only been married for a month, was still juggling my studies, and my career was just starting to take off. The timing was undeniably awful, but did that mean the child would have been unloved? For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to answer that question.
I tried to keep my emotions in check, leaning on logic rather than maternal instinct. I told myself it was just a cluster of cells—not even a baby yet, right? Surely it felt no pain, and likely had a chromosomal defect. For about a month, this logical detachment helped me avoid the depths of sorrow. But soon enough, the shock wore off and the waves of grief crashed over me, dragging me under.
I felt sadness. Who would that child have become?
I felt fear. Would I ever be able to have a child in the future?
I felt anger. Why did this happen to me?
I felt guilt. Was it my fault?
Despite the common narrative that many trans men shy away from the idea of pregnancy, I always envisioned myself as a parent. I knew the challenges that lay ahead, especially as a gay man. I was just waiting for the right moment.
With the stark reality of loss, the dreams I had of strollers and diapers became painfully vivid. I had to confront the truth: I had lost my baby. I lost the future I had imagined. But acknowledging this loss was also the first step toward healing. My tears flowed freely, regardless of any societal expectations about masculinity. Men have every right to grieve, too.
Now, as I sit here, 27 weeks pregnant with our longed-for child, my thoughts still drift to the baby I lost. Occasionally, I find myself shedding tears, holding onto the belief that perhaps my son is the same little one who left me, returning when I was ready. My faith may waver, but this notion brings me comfort.
Yet, I fear the loss could happen again—this worry keeps me up at night. It’s a fear shared by countless parents. It’s a bond of pain that transcends gender, connecting us in a way that no one wishes to experience.
Throughout this journey, I found a community that embraces love and acceptance, reminding me that it doesn’t matter how we identify. I am united with every parent who has faced loss. I count every kick, every roll, every flutter as a testament to life, just like all parents do. Each moment is a blessing we all share.
For more insights on navigating this journey, check out our post on home insemination or explore resources at UCSF’s Center for more support in your pregnancy journey. Also, if you’re looking for assistance, fertility boosters can be a great addition to your path toward parenthood.
In summary, the journey of miscarriage and the desire to become a parent is a deeply shared experience across all identities. It brings us together through our collective pain, offering a sense of community that helps us navigate the complexities of loss and hope.