Dear Emily,
Today, you received devastating news. You went in for your ultrasound, filled with hope, only to be told that the pregnancy we were all so eager about isn’t progressing. It’s a missed miscarriage, one that has likely been ongoing for longer than you realize.
I understand the heartache you’re feeling; I’ve faced this loss twice myself—once four years ago and again last year. I remember those moments in that dimly lit room, the sheet draped over my legs, anxiously staring at the screen, praying for good news that never came. It’s a profound silence that crushes hope, leaving you feeling empty and lost.
For so long, I struggled to articulate my experiences, even in my journals, where my losses are often just blank pages. Talking about miscarriage feels almost taboo, as though naming it somehow invites more pain. But now that you’re experiencing this heartbreak, I find the courage to speak openly about it, hoping to offer even a bit of comfort.
You’ve been pregnant for eight weeks, and your body has been playing a cruel trick on you. It’s been sending mixed signals—urging you to indulge in cravings and causing emotional swings, all while hiding the truth. They say it’s common for these situations to occur, that you can try again soon. But having lived through this myself, I know it feels like a betrayal, a cruel twist of fate. I wish I could shield you from the heartache; it’s going to be unbearably tough.
You’re 38 and I’m 31, and although we’re both adults, I still see you as my strong, accomplished sister—the one who blazes the trail for the rest of us. It feels surreal to be in this role of offering support when all I want is to take away your pain. I wish I could protect you from the deep sadness, the kind that weighs you down and makes even the simplest tasks feel monumental.
The sadness can hit you like a wave, leaving you questioning your worth and purpose. You had a glimpse of joy; now it feels like a void. What do you do with that emptiness? I wish I could shield you from the creeping sadness that lingers long after the initial shock fades. It can manifest in ways you don’t even notice until it’s too late—like when a memory or a small token from your pregnancy catches you off guard, sending you spiraling.
I want to guard you against the insidious nature of this grief, which might seep into your relationships, leading to unintentional conflicts with your partner, friends, or even me. I promise to be patient with you, even if it feels like you’re lashing out. It’s not you; it’s the pain that’s manifesting in unexpected ways.
Then there’s the anger—the Hateful Rage—that can consume you. It’ll turn your body into an enemy instead of a friend. You may find yourself resenting the happiness of others, feeling guilty for those feelings, especially towards loved ones who are blissfully unaware of your struggle. Be cautious of that anger; it can be corrosive if left unchecked.
If you choose to try again—and I truly hope you do—there’s the Fear that will linger. It’ll make you second-guess every symptom, every feeling. You think it’ll dissipate once you see that heartbeat, but it clings tenaciously, shadowing your joy. I wish I could take that away, but I can’t.
The only reassurance I can offer is that I love you deeply. My hope is that you emerge from this stronger than I did. I wish for the day when the weight of this grief lifts and you can look forward with hope again. Remember, resources like ACOG can provide guidance, and for those looking to boost fertility, consider these supplements.
You don’t have to navigate this path alone. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.
With all my love,
Sophia