Living life after pregnancy loss: the devastating grief and the joy of hope

As we walked into my aunt’s house for Thanksgiving, I felt like everyone was staring at me, listening to my thoughts and trying to make sense of the person I was as a mother whose daughter died in stillbirth just five months ago. I told myself I would try to see family, get out of the house and continue life. Still, I didn’t know if I’d have the courage to face family until moments before we had to leave. My husband promised me if it was too much we could leave. I felt excited to see family and incredibly guilty for wanting to leave the house instead of staying home, crying into a bowl of popcorn—my grief food. 

I could feel my whole body freezing up and remembered what my therapist told me—breathe, Jenn, breathe. So I did, slowly, and it worked. 

My cousin approached me and took my hand and led me to the drinks table, where I said a very eager yes to a glass of wine, hoping that would calm my nerves. I took a sip, looked around the room and thought, how can you all be having a great time knowing that my daughter died. I felt rage and confusion. A sharp pain in my throat pulsed loudly, and I wondered if anyone heard it besides me. I ran to the bathroom, wine in hand and cried like a mother whose baby had just died.

I washed my face, took a sip and stuffed copious amounts of toilet paper in my pocket in case I couldn’t run to the bathroom again and had to hide somewhere to cry. I walked to the kitchen and interrupted a conversation my husband was having.

“It’s nice to see you, Jenn, and I am sorry to hear about your daughter.” my cousin said.

It was nice to have someone recognize what happened, as a lot of people feel uncomfortable with death, especially when a baby or child dies. No one really knows what to do or say. They switched to light-hearted conversation, and I started to feel safer in my body. I laughed and then laughed some more. It was nice to feel laughter in my body and be part of a conversation that was more than my husband and I. 

“Jenn, it’s so nice to see you laughing,” someone said. I smiled back but it was as if they had burst my little bubble.

Living a life after pregnancy loss is acknowledging the duality of pain and hope.

I felt a sense of shame creeping in about how I shouldn’t be laughing because I should be sad and mourning. Grief is painful. Grief isn’t laughing at stories and drinking wine. Pain isn’t smiling, and pain is definitely not being at a Thanksgiving dinner party. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed. 

Breathe, Jenn. Breathe

I excused myself to sit alone with my thoughts. I questioned whether I should laugh or just be sad and sit in my pain and emptiness. There isn’t a manual on how to grieve your unborn child, nor is there a script to download to navigate conversations or awkward moments. All these people were having a good time but, all I wanted to do was to hold my beautiful daughter. I felt like a failure for not having my daughter here, for not being a mother. 

“You just have to find the strength to live life for her, and when you do, you will find life easier,” someone preached. “It all happens for a reason, and life goes on.”

The shame of not being able to live a “normal” life invaded my headspace. I should get on with life because it’s too short, right? Then, I flipped to an incredible sense of injustice and anger because I didn’t validate my pain or grief. 

When food was finally served, I found my husband and raced towards him like a child running to grab her security blanket. We talked about our week with another family member, and we shared a funny story about our beagle. We laughed, and it felt fantastic—so good for my soul. It might have been the second glass of wine or having my husband by my side again, but there was a point where I felt like, yes, I could live life after pregnancy loss. 

My daughter died at 39 weeks and 5 days. We went to the hospital the morning before our due date. After several attempts by nurses to find her heartbeat, a doctor softly called it. I don’t know how I gave birth to her, and I don’t know how we said goodbye, and I don’t know how we are living life without her, but we do.

Living a life after pregnancy loss is acknowledging the duality of pain and hope. By creating space for the pain and celebrating the hope of trying again, going into the coffee shop again, and seeing friends again, you invite yourself to know this dance. There is no this or that when living life after loss. There is the constant push and pull between the necessary pain and the joy of walking on a sandy beach, laughing at a joke or hugging a friend. Feeling into these moments has helped me redefine my life and understand the vastness of my emotional intelligence. This strengthens me to normalize the dance between pain and joy, grief and hope. There is no shame in feeling it all one moment and feeling something immensely different the next. 

This awareness between emotions supported my healing. It allowed me the grace to love my daughter, miss my daughter, talk about my daughter and continue to live life after pregnancy loss.