The silent trauma of a miscarriage
Oct. 19, 2020 — the day my baby died. My 8-week-old unborn baby that is. Statistics say that 10% to 25% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage, but I didn’t know of anyone in my life who suffered a miscarriage. I felt like no one really understood what I was going through, even my husband. Especially my husband.
This was a pregnancy I hadn’t planned for and never intended to plan for. There was shock, anxiety, and an abundance of questions. But then came the joy, the anticipation, and the thankfulness for this blessing. And as quickly as those emotions came, everything was ripped away from me without warning. Without reason. Without an explanation.
The rollercoaster of emotions didn’t end when my pregnancy ended, actually, they had only just begun. I entered into the next wave of emotions that included anger, guilt, and an unexplainable pain that felt justified, and yet unworthy to be felt by me at the same time. I didn’t even want a baby, so I don’t deserve to be upset about it being taken away from me.
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Once I did want It, the sudden and physically graphic loss of it felt cruel. I wrestled with God for months, wanting to trust Him and His constant faithfulness that I have experienced first-hand, and yet aching from this loss I didn’t understand. Why would He give us an unplanned child with feelings of excitement only to take it away?
My flesh still doesn’t understand the reason for this. But my spirit says that God did not cause my baby to die. In the midst of my mourning and anger I had to return to the basics of my faith. God did not bring death into the world; sin did. Sin is in the world, which brings with it sickness and death. God allows death for His good purpose. However, He doesn't celebrate it. At the end of the day, I knew He did not take my baby from me. Lamentations 3:32-33 says, “Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love. For He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone.”
And still, I didn’t feel compassion or love amidst my heartache. I felt abandoned and alone in every sense. And not because the people in my life directly made me feel that way, but because I felt I couldn’t bring this to anyone. This was a pain that didn’t make sense, and no one could relate to everything I was feeling — they didn’t have this experience. And to a degree that’s true. No one will ever have your exact experience or emotions and won’t be able to truly relate as such. But silently suffering a miscarriage can bring about so much added trauma and wounds, especially when that silence is also directed towards the Lord.
I didn’t want to share this grief with God because I still felt hurt by Him. But through needed counseling and an even more needed conversation with Him, I was reminded of His “loss” and the Cross where His Son’s blood was spilled. We live in a fallen world where things don’t always go the way we think they should. But God sent His only son to meet me and you in our grief. He defeated death, and through Him we can have new life and breath in our suffering. I may never get all the answers, but I can take comfort in knowing that even though my womb and home may be empty, so the tomb is also empty, and Jesus has already won my battles for me — even this one.
To all of the mamas out there who never got to physically experience their child with them on this side of Earth, I see you, I am with you, and know that you deserve to feel every bit of emotion you have, including the pain, anger and confusion. Allow yourself proper time to grieve. You did not just lose out on a dream or experience an unfortunate health issue — you experienced the death of your child, and you deserve to mourn it as such.
Regardless of what titles, holidays or unofficial “clubs” you are often excluded from, make no mistake, you are a mother, and you are not alone, no matter how lonely it can feel. And take comfort in knowing He is with you through it all, even when it’s hard to see it.
And to my baby in Heaven, all I can think is how sweet it is that the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was the face of Jesus. That is the joy I will cling to as I continue to mourn your loss, and the joy I will choose each day until I finally meet you face-to-face in the presence of our good and gracious Father.
Savannah Light is a public relations and communications specialist, writer and editor based in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Light and her husband, Austin, have been married since November 2019 and share two sweet and wild dogs.
