artificial insemination kit for humans
It’s a phrase often spoken with the best intentions, yet it carries a weight of complex emotions.
After my miscarriage, I heard “everything happens for a reason” countless times. Even now, it’s a phrase that continues to echo in my life. While I understand the sentiment behind it, it often felt like a raw wound being prodded. Each time a well-meaning friend or family member said those words, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger that I knew wasn’t appropriate to express openly. Instead of lashing out, I’d respond with a polite smile, thanking them for their sympathy that I didn’t ask for and didn’t want.
What I truly wanted was my baby back. I was enveloped in a painful mix of anger, shame, and guilt with every overly cheerful message that arrived, each one assuring me that there was a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, or that something better was on the horizon. In those early days, the emotional turmoil was overwhelming. The idea of my loss serving a greater purpose felt impossible to accept, even if that purpose might eventually lead to something beautiful. With each platitude, I retreated deeper into my own grief.
On one hand, I knew these individuals were trying to help. Yet, the question remained: what did they expect me to say in response? Their comforting words seemed more like a way to soothe their own discomfort than to genuinely address my pain. Many messages ended with “you don’t have to reply, just know I’m here.” Honestly, I sensed they didn’t want my response. While expressing sympathy was one thing, diving into the depths of my suffering was another.
Years have passed since my miscarriage in October 2017. I’ve since been blessed with two beautiful daughters. My rainbow baby was born nearly a year after losing my son. With time, I’ve gained a different perspective on the phrase “everything happens for a reason.” Though I still dislike it, my feelings towards it have evolved.
Experiencing my first loss was one of the hardest moments of my life, leaving long-lasting repercussions. It influenced my subsequent pregnancies with an amalgam of fear, hope, and uncertainty. Yet, it also brought me my daughter, who wouldn’t be here had I not experienced that loss. Reconciling that truth is a challenge; I adore my daughter and can’t imagine life without her, yet there’s a reality where she wouldn’t exist if circumstances had been different. This fact doesn’t mean everything happens for a reason.
Some days, I seek solace in the idea of a larger plan. However, more often than not, I feel guilty for reducing my son’s brief existence to some cosmic design. Accepting that everything happens for a reason feels like a way to lessen the significance of his short life. As a compromise — whether to myself, my son, or the universe — I acknowledge that something tragic occurred, but something beautiful arose from the devastation. I allow myself to experience joy and love for one child while mourning another. I refuse to see my love for one as a betrayal of the other. It took time to reach this understanding, and I still stumble along the way. Patience is essential.
Miscarriages affect 10-20% of known pregnancies, yet they remain a largely unspoken topic. Society tends to celebrate pregnant women, showering them with affection and support, while overlooking those who suffer loss. Social media is filled with images of glowing mothers-to-be, sharing every milestone. But what happens to those who lose their pregnancies?
I was one of those women. I had reached the “safe zone,” eagerly sharing my excitement. By seventeen weeks, I even knew my baby’s sex and was preparing the nursery, complete with camping-themed decor and a custom sign bearing my son’s name. Then, in an instant, everything changed.
Instead of leaving the hospital with my baby, I received mesh underwear and maxi-pads to manage the aftermath, along with a bereavement package listing websites to help cope with my loss. Days later, I dealt with the physical changes of motherhood without the joy of a child to hold. I didn’t know how to communicate my pain, and everyone around me was equally at a loss for words. There was no guide for this kind of heartbreak.
How to Support Someone Who Has Experienced a Loss
So how should you approach a friend, sister, or colleague who has experienced a miscarriage or lost a child? Skip the platitudes. Avoid the “everything happens for a reason” rhetoric. Instead, acknowledge her loss, offer your love, and be present. If she wants to talk, listen. Ask if she had chosen a name. Offer to bring food instead of expecting her to cook. Respect her space if she’s not ready to speak yet.
Remember, grief is highly individual. While you may firmly believe everything happens for a reason, allow her to come to that conclusion, if she ever does. Until then, be there to listen and offer support. And please, don’t forget the food.