I was young. It wasn’t planned. Many have said it was simply a blessing in disguise: an act of God, even.
But it didn’t matter to me: not when I had that motherly instinct (if you will) that a positive pregnancy test was soon to be my reality and especially not when the digital screen read “pregnant.”
I was bracing myself for “mom” status only minutes after the test confirmed it. I was scared. I was crying. I felt like I was going to fail. I was, still, nonetheless, happy. Excited. And after the past few years, overwhelmed is truly the term that seems to fit best.
Yet, I was ready to tackle the rollercoaster of a ride that carrying a life brings on. Baby names were tossed around every which way. Jokes about hearing the baby’s heartbeat when it was only the size of a pea were told. Joy paired with anxiety was quickly my prescribed dose of emotions.
I couldn’t tell too many of my closest. It was too soon. What if something happened? No, wait. Wait until it’s been long enough. Wait until you know that everything’s fine. So, I did. I waited.
Weeks went by with my secret just dying to be shared. I was having a baby. I was going to be a mom, just recently graduated from college, not married, and yet, still, so excited. The news was sure to hit Instagram as soon as my baby was ready.
Then, it happened. My body didn’t feel right. I called my doctor, scared of what she’d say and knowing deep down that something just wasn’t okay. “Go to the ER,” she said. “This isn’t supposed to be happening,” I heard and, even to this day, still do.
Crying and terrified, I went. With a soon-to-be-broken heart, I waited to be checked in and all I had to show for it was a shattered phone from dropping it on the hospital floor only moments before.
They took me back. Drew my blood. Poked. Prodded. Questioned. Poked. Prodded. Questioned. Soon, the doctor came in to tell me what I already knew. Unlike my pregnancy test, this was a fate I could have waited to hear. I was having a miscarriage.
My baby didn’t make it, and I, too, almost didn’t think I would. Heartbroken and confused, my pregnancy symptoms left me, one-by-one, and they sure didn’t fail to take a piece of my heart every time they decided to disappear.
I was going to do it. I was going to be a mom. I was constantly telling myself to get ready because you’ve got a baby coming, darling. Even still, God had something else in mind for the two of us: my baby and I.
Miscarriage isn’t talked about enough, and because of that, I didn’t know how to communicate my pain, my loss, and eventually, the numbness that I felt. I felt ashamed to acknowledge openly how many Google searches I continued to do after months went by. I was scared to show my hurt. I worried that people would catch on. I felt guilty. Was it my fault?
Though my doctor and loved ones tried giving me constant reassurance, they still couldn’t tell me why. Why me. Why my baby. Why it happened. To this day, I will never know.
Regardless, I know the beauty and absolute strength, no matter how short-lived, it takes to be a mom. I know that one day, when I’m so absolutely ready, I will feel it again and for a lifetime at that.
My hope in sharing my story is to help others find some comfort in knowing that they are not alone. In your 20s or not, financially stable or claiming bankruptcy, married or solo, you are not alone. A loss is a loss, and gosh damn is this one that hurts.
Stay strong. You’ll get through this. That, I can promise.
All my best,
A girl who’s felt it too.