When someone asks how many kids I have, I usually say I have two lively boys. However, the truth is I’m a mother to five children—two here on Earth and three beautiful souls in heaven. I often find it difficult to openly share this part of my life; discussions about miscarriage can make others uncomfortable, and that stigma surrounding pregnancy loss tends to silence women like me who are part of a heartbreaking sisterhood that no one wishes to join.
Since my first loss in 2014, I have navigated this complex journey. After the birth of my first son, I tried to put my past grief behind me. I managed to cope relatively well until I experienced two more losses in 2017. The weight of that grief became overwhelming, leading me to seek therapy to address symptoms akin to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Even after welcoming my second healthy child through multiple fertility treatments, I found myself caught in a whirlwind of nightmares, grief, and postpartum hormones. I isolated myself, adhering to the unspoken rule that makes it seem taboo to talk about pregnancy loss.
This silence is perpetuated by the belief that since miscarriages are common, women should simply move on to their next pregnancy. The reality is that these losses are deeply felt, regardless of when they occur in the pregnancy. The pain can linger for months, even years. When we lose loved ones, we follow established practices for mourning—memorials, funerals, and celebrations of life. Why should the process be any different for those of us who experience miscarriage?
During therapy, my counselor prompted me to consider how other cultures acknowledge pregnancy loss. Many have ceremonies and dedicated spaces to honor babies lost before birth, while in the United States, we often lack these intimate customs. As a result, women like me find ourselves creating our own ways to seek closure. I decided to establish personal rituals to remember my three lost babies.
One of these rituals takes place during the holiday season. Each year, I hang three special ornaments on our Christmas tree, each representing a child I lost. This act allows me to celebrate the holidays with my angel babies, who will always be part of our family. As I place the ornaments high on the tree, overlooking our neighborhood, I feel a bittersweet ache—a reminder of the children I will never hold. Yet, knowing they are included in our celebrations brings a sense of peace even as I continue to grieve. We also make charitable donations in their honor during this time, a symbolic gift for each baby.
When my boys are old enough, I plan to share the significance of the ornaments with them. Until then, these cherished symbols of my lost children will grace our tree for many Christmases to come.
If you’re navigating similar feelings, you might find additional comfort in resources like this article on pregnancy loss or insights from experts at this site. For broader information on fertility and pregnancy, Science Daily offers excellent articles.
In summary, acknowledging the loss of my children during the holidays is an essential part of my healing process. By creating rituals and including my angel babies in our family festivities, I honor their memory while navigating my grief.