I was grief-shamed into silence after revealing my miscarriage

"I’m not a psychologist or a counsellor, but I know this: Sometimes, when someone tries to tell you something sad, it’s hard to find the words, and that’s OK." Please note: sensitive content

I suffered a miscarriage back in 2021 before falling pregnant with my second child. It was unlike anything I had imagined, or anything like popular culture had portrayed it.

I lurched over in pain and howled.

A guttural scream poured out of me. My body shook with a mixture of horror, anger, pain, and sadness. I kept screaming, even when there was no air left in my lungs, in the hope that I would pass out. But I didn’t. Instead, I just sat, motionless, on the floor. It was this inertia that followed me. Just like Jacob Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol - only instead of money, my boxes were filled with longing and grief.

I took the event and packed it away in one of the boxes, and while I never spoke about it: it was always with me. 

Cruelly, miscarriages don’t just end. Even after the initial bloodletting, your body will still shed blood for day or even weeks to come. 

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I was living in another world 

Two days after the trauma, I had to attend the wedding of a couple who were friends with my partner. Still existing in the strange, surreal world in which nothing bad had happened, I went. 

I smiled during photos and made small talk with all and sundry. People commented on my dress and my makeup and told me how good I looked. 

Then came the reception. 

Like moths to a flame, guests flocked into an adjoining room to dance (terribly). By now, my partner was more ethanol than man and, deciding I was fine as I had not wept or “said anything”, took off.

I sat alone at a table and stared onto the white tablecloth which was now stained with food and wine. Soon, one of the partners of a friend sat opposite me to ask what was wrong. Two champagnes in, I told her.

“Oh yeah, I’ve had, like, three,” she said, smiling. But that was not all. She unfeelingly continued, informing me that going through one just before a wedding was nowhere near as bad as her experience while she was on holiday, guilting me into silence. I think I even apologised.

“And”, she concluded, rising to her feet and pushing in her chair, “I’ve had it happen three times”. She marched off to join the rest of the celebrations, abandoning me at the table alone. By this stage, the cramping was becoming unbearable and the bloating so bad I had to unzip the back of my dress.

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Women shares her shame after miscarriage. Source: iStock

There is no competition for grief 

I’m not a psychologist or a counsellor but I know this: Sometimes when someone tries to tell you something sad it’s hard to find the words, and that’s OK. Sometimes you don’t need words to show you care. Sometimes a gentle touch or hug can be more than enough.

I can also tell you this: don’t hold a grief competition. Wanting to relate with other human beings is a perfectly natural reaction. We want to show others we understand their pain, or, at the very least, can empathise. But there is a difference between empathising and showboating your sorrow. It can be a fine line, but it is there, nonetheless.

My partner refused to leave the party (which is a whole other column) so I asked the wait staff if someone, anyone, could drive me back to the homestead where I could lie down. 

The couch was white, and the heating was sparce. So I lay down on the ground and wrapped my black coat around my legs. Again, I didn’t cry.

It’s now been two years since that night, and I don’t think I’ve cried about it once. Each time I feel the urge to open that box being dragged behind me I only do so momentarily before slamming the lid shut. Since that night I’ve become scared and almost guilty about brining up my only miscarriage for fear of, gosh I don’t know - offending someone? Making a mountain out of molehill? I don’t even know anymore.

What I do know is that had that one pivotal interaction gone in a different direction I don’t think my heart would be so closed off. And so, I can only plead with anyone who is trusted by someone in grief to just listen. Not to showboat or engage in a competition of trauma peacocking. Just listen.

Originally published as I was grief-shamed into silence after revealing my miscarriage