Dear Losses,
You know, they say every letter should start on a positive note, but I’m struggling to find any warm words for you. Instead, what floods my mind are the heavy feelings you’ve left behind.
You’ve taken three little lives from me. Three precious souls I longed to hold, the ones whose genders I will never know. Three babies who will never feel their mother’s embrace. All that remains are sonogram photos perched on my dresser, constant reminders of what could have been. I gaze at them every day, wondering how things could have unfolded differently.
You’ve deprived my son of his siblings. He may not realize it yet, but he has three little guardians watching over him from afar. You’ve robbed him of the chance to share childhood adventures and build lifelong memories with them.
You forced me into the heartbreaking role of telling my baby it was okay to let go, when all I wanted was to beg it to stay. Watching that tiny heartbeat flicker on the screen, knowing it was fighting for me, was an unbearable truth. Do you even comprehend the agony of saying goodbye to a life that was so fleeting? Probably not, or else you wouldn’t cause such pain.
You’ve etched the image of my still baby into my mind—a haunting moment I both want to forget and desperately cling to. Just a week earlier, I had felt the first flutters of life, and now, the screen showed stillness. That moment shattered the joy of sonograms for me, forever altering how I view that experience.
In fact, you’ve tainted the entire experience of pregnancy. A time that once filled me with excitement is now overshadowed by anxiety. I can never again approach that journey without the fear of heartbreak lurking in the background.
The ache of loss lingers, a constant reminder that a piece of my heart has been taken. I will never feel whole again. You’ve changed me irrevocably, leaving a sadness that simmers below the surface. Most don’t see it, but I feel it in my soul—a quiet reminder etched in my reflection.
You’ve altered my marriage, too. I struggle to be the wife I aspire to be. Grief sometimes overwhelms me, turning me into a shadow of the woman my husband once knew. Trust me, I see the longing in his eyes for the woman I used to be. Unfortunately, I’m still searching for her.
You’ve instilled a deep resentment towards my body. Once a vessel I cherished, it now feels like a failure, unable to carry the babies I’ve dreamed of. What’s the point of taking care of myself if it doesn’t lead to the joy I yearn for?
You’ve shaken my faith. I once believed that everything happened for a reason, but now I question why God allows me to feel such pain. Why grant me the joy of pregnancy only to take it away? What did I do to deserve this heartache?
You’ve filled me with jealousy, too. Each time I see a pregnant woman, the green-eyed monster reminds me of what I lack. It’s a bitter feeling I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try.
You’ve marked my calendar with painful reminders: the dates I learned I was pregnant, the days I lost my babies, and the due dates that will never be. Each year, those days come back to haunt me—unwelcome visitors to my heart.
You’ve made walking past that empty bedroom an exercise in grief. We imagined a nursery for the second baby you took. Now, it stands as a silent testament to what could have been, a lingering reminder of our loss.
So, I can’t find it in me to offer you kindness. You’ve stripped me of my ability to play by the rules of social niceties.
Sincerely,
A Heartbroken Mother