Dear Friend,

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

-Maya Angelou 

I want to be happy for you. Deep down I think I am, but it’s hard for me to hit “like” on that picture of your gender reveal, or your baby bump, or your sweet newborn. I think I’ll be able to be happy for you again, but for now it’s too raw, too recent, too much. 

I was supposed to have a baby in my arms by now. And then I was supposed to be pregnant again by now. I put off getting those Lagoon passes in November because I thought I’d at least be pregnant this summer, despite the fact that I’d lost my spring baby. Spring baby. The baby I’ve always wanted. The timing was going to be perfect— pregnancy during the cooler months, skipping cold and flu season, but not the youngest in their future class. I’ve wanted a spring baby with each of my pregnancies, and ended up with December, July, and a miscarriage. I understand that my loss doesn’t mean that no one else is allowed to have babies or share their excitement. I, too, was about to break the news about my pregnancy right before I found out there wasn’t any fetal cardiac activity. I had a shirt picked out for Halloween— printed with a skeleton on it, and a little baby-sized skeleton in the abdomen wearing a pirate hat, to match my other two little pirates. I’d wear it to Disneyland, and post a picture to make the announcement. Now I’m glad I didn’t complete that purchase; it would have just added to the heartache. 

I don’t know or understand why this thing happened. On a basic biological level, I get it— there was probably something not right with the fetus. But on a spiritual level, I cannot see how this was “for my good,” unless it’s to help me feel empathy for others who experience pregnancy loss. That doesn’t feel like a good enough reason though. I don’t know if I’ll ever really understand. My life will always be marked by this event: before and after. My once-due-date that never came to be marking the passage of each year. The baby would have been X years old. I wonder if it would have been a girl or boy? Looked more like me or Andrew? Questions I’ll never have answers to.

Little things remind me of my loss often. The pillowcase that got a tiny bit of blood on it the night of my storm (I took cytotec before bed hoping most everything would happen while I slept, and it did). The small pile of maternity clothes I excitedly purchased, wadded up in a dark corner of my closet. The bins and bins full of clothes my kids have grown out of, half of which I was supposed to have gotten rid of months ago when we knew if we were having a boy or girl. Any baby of any age, in person or photographs. All pregnant women. I often wonder to myself when that hurt will subside. Will it? Will I ever stop thinking about my baby and what I had hoped would be?

I wonder if a new pregnancy will help, but as each month passes with nothing I fee more stretched, more bitter. I wonder to myself if it’s just not meant to be. If God wanted me to have another child, why didn’t he let my baby live and grow to full term? Why did it take so long for my HCG to drop? Why did I have another chemical pregnancy in February? Why am I not pregnant yet? If it was meant to be, it should have been by now. 

When I think about potentially letting go of that hope for another pregnancy, feelings of genuine happiness for others’ babies creeps in. That sounds so selfish— I can’t be happy for you if you have something I want so badly but cant seem to get. But there it is. 

I want to be happy for you, but right now it’s just too hard. I may not like your post on social media, and I may even have to unfollow you for my own peace of mind, because every post reminds me of what was supposed to be mine. I hope you can understand, and I hope that soon I’ll be able to show you happiness and excitement that is genuine, with no buts. I hope that I can find a way for this hurt to heal, this hole in my heart. In the meantime, congratulations. I sincerely wish you the very best, and I hope you are able to have a healthy pregnancy, delivery and baby.