Finding strength in shared stories: removing the taboo of pregnancy loss

I wrote this over 6 months ago...

The past few weeks have been a surprising testament to the power of open conversation. When I recently experienced an early miscarriage, something shifted in how I approached sharing my pregnancy journey—and the subsequent loss. Instead of waiting for some arbitrary "safe" point, I had shared my hopeful news relatively early on. And in turn, when things took an unexpected turn, I continued to be open. What followed was far from the isolation I might have anticipated; instead, I found a network of understanding and support that was incredibly helpful.

Looking back, the decision to share my early pregnancy felt natural. There was an excitement, a budding hope that I wanted to acknowledge and share with the people in my life. Perhaps this openness set the stage for what came next. When the pregnancy ended, the instinct to withdraw wasn't there. Instead, I found myself talking about it—with close friends, family, and even some colleagues. The reality was, miscarriage is a really awful experience, and I couldn't sit there without acknowledging it. And if this wasn't a time to lean on those close to you, well when is?

What surprised me most was the outpouring of support and shared experiences that followed. Far from feeling alone, I was met with empathy, understanding, and a willingness from others to share their own stories of loss - all of those that I had no idea about until I shared my own grief. Suddenly, this experience, which can often feel so isolating—making you feel like you are the only one—became a point of connection. Friends and acquaintances confided in me, sharing their own journeys with miscarriage, often experiences they had kept private for years.

These conversations were incredibly validating. They were a powerful reminder that this is a common reality, even if our communities aren't yet fully aware. For too long, the silence surrounding early pregnancy loss has created a damaging taboo, where everything is kept a little "hush hush." This forces people to carry their grief in secret, leading to the devastating internal burden that something must be profoundly wrong with their own experience or body. Early pregnancy already takes an incredibly hard toll, and since hormones don't just "switch off" at the time of miscarriage, the process requires not just emotional but also physical recovery—a moment that demands more support from others than is often realized until you're going through it yourself.

The staggering reality of loss

The narrative often portrayed in both our own communities and in the media tends to jump from the excitement of a positive test to a healthy, viable pregnancy, completely glossing over the messy, sometimes heartbreaking, reality of pregnancy struggles and loss. When we talk about this, it helps equip our community with the knowledge of just how common this is.

Consider the statistics: around 10% to 20% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage (the loss of a pregnancy before 20 weeks). Some experts even suggest the actual number is higher, as many very early losses happen before a person even realizes they were pregnant. These aren't rare, isolated incidents; they are a fact of reproductive life for countless people trying to conceive.

Knowing this, how can we, as a supportive community, expect individuals to navigate this pain in complete silence? How can we know what to say, or how to offer comfort, if we don't feel comfortable talking openly about the heartbreaking reality that is so prevalent?

My experience has led me to believe that by being open, we might be able to shed light on the less-discussed aspects of the pregnancy journey—the emotional rollercoaster, the physical realities, and the surprising lack of a clear "script" for navigating early loss. It’s not always a dramatic, movie-style event; it can be a gradual realization, a series of appointments, and a quiet grief that unfolds over time.

By sharing my hopes and, subsequently, my loss, I didn't find myself in a vacuum of grief. Instead, I was embraced by a community willing to listen, share, and support. This isn't to say that the pain wasn't real, but it was a pain shared, a burden lightened by the understanding of others who could put themselves in my shoes and even those who had walked a similar path.

If we collectively choose to remove the taboo, and naturally share more about the early stages of pregnancy and the very real possibility of loss, we might be better equipped as a community; we would be able to know what to say, understand the heartbreak without asking intrusive questions, and prevent others from being burdened with the feeling that their common, yet painful, experience is somehow wrong or shameful. My experience has shown me that sometimes, the greatest strength can be found in shared vulnerability.

Published on our baby's due date