Can you do self-insemination at home ?
Trigger warning: child loss
Yesterday, I took the step of donating my daughter’s clothes. It’s a stark statement, and I admit I’ve tried to soften it, to make it less painful for others to digest. But the truth remains raw and jagged, and there’s no way to change that. Nearly seven years have passed since Emma died, and still, those words—“my deceased child”—cause discomfort. People’s eyes widen, and the air becomes thick with tension. I’ve lost friendships over my refusal to conceal this truth, which is often too much for others to bear.
The reality of child loss is an uncomfortable one. The existence of boxes and urns for tiny remains is a harsh reminder of the fragility of life. That a death certificate could be issued for someone so small feels completely wrong. In Emma’s case, those moments of birth and death were intertwined in an unfathomable tragedy, a truth I grapple with often.
When I returned home without Emma, I couldn’t bring myself to part with her belongings. I understood logically that these items were never truly hers, as she never wore or played with them. Yet I remembered selecting them, my pregnant belly content after indulging in a food court cinnamon roll, each piece sparking joy as I imagined my daughter in them. As a more alternative shopper, I was nervous about raising a girl, so I bought plenty of blues and Roxy to match her surfer-themed nursery, envisioning beachy waves that would never come. Those items have remained in bins in my closet for almost seven years, still referred to as Emma’s things, as if she might one day return to claim them.
While organizing yesterday, I found myself sorting through the tangible memories of my living children: school pictures, artwork, and portfolios that traced their growth through the years. This process of aging and growing makes sense. However, Emma’s items sat there, gathering dust—a painful reminder of the child I said hello and goodbye to on the same day. For the first time, I felt that perhaps those clothes, chosen with love, could bring joy to another mother. I imagined her daughter wearing them, marveling at the beauty of growing up, while sunlight cascaded over her.
I felt a sense of peace and readiness. Consulting a friend, I held each item, reflecting on how it felt, and gradually, I began to say farewell. Each piece of never-worn clothing moved from bin to donation box, and as I touched the baby jeggings and sparkly tops, I felt a healing sadness. I kept one onesie—blue, pink, and green, embroidered with “Little Sister.” My hands wouldn’t let it go, recalling the joy on my son’s face when he picked it out, announcing his excitement of becoming a big brother. I placed it gently beside the few photos I have of Emma and continued on.
Motherhood has been a winding journey fraught with challenges. It has been a series of starts and stops, and I’ve learned to appreciate the perspective it offers. Yesterday, I was introduced to a woman whose path to motherhood resonated with me. I recognized the pain she carried, the kind of news no mother wishes to receive. I offered her Emma’s clothes, and she accepted, promising to cherish them just as I had.
I donated my daughter’s clothing yesterday and took another step in my lifelong journey of grief. I remembered the early days when well-meaning friends urged me to give everything away, thinking it would help me forget. I knew that one day, I would feel ready, and that I would find the right person for these items. I felt certain that from this pain, hope would blossom, and that little girl would wear clothes once chosen by a mother filled with love.
If you’re interested in more stories like this, check out one of our other blog posts here. For further information on pregnancy and home insemination, visit this excellent resource.
- Explore more about self insemination here
- Learn about home insemination kits here
- Understand the journey of motherhood here
- Read about coping with child loss here
- Discover parenting tips here
In summary, this heartfelt reflection on grief outlines the emotional journey of a mother who donated her deceased daughter’s clothes, revealing the complexities of loss and the desire to find peace by allowing another child to experience the love once intended for her own.