Because finding and connecting with a community when you’re going through it, that can be powerful.

“Why would she post that?” Honestly, I don’t know. I asked myself as well —what was I seeking? Sympathy? Attention? Connection? At the time I couldn’t say because I was shaken by the memories that were flooding in and clarifying the fog of the recent weeks. I had started to rely on that very fog to keep me going each day; so as it began to clear, as it goes with the passing of time, I began to remember and piece things together. The situation seemed like too much to process. I wasn’t seeking attention. I know the times when I’ve looked for that (the cringe), and this wasn’t on the same wavelength. I also didn’t need it in this particular moment, I needed to console the fact that the life I had planned was shattered, yet the world continued to go on.

This dream, fueled by an innocent, unmarked hope, decayed in real time. With the death of the dream also died my ability to truly hope again, as the life that was promised —by myself and from my physicians, the embryologists, my family and friends—ceased to exist. I genuinely believed that, if I was to take the steps, I’d reach the goal. I took every step; yet now the only child that I’ve birthed is cremated and I was left with an urn sized for a puppy. I was looking for someone to tell me that the lack of sleep or even wanting to get dressed was normal and that it would become easier to live again. Or that my body would recover and heal and that PTSD is expected. My body had been through some shit, which frightened the hell out of me. I needed to hear that someone was able to relate. That’s what I wanted when I walked into my living room and spoke with my mom, whom hadn’t left my side since the loss.

“I think I want to post somewhere about this. I think it may help.”

She told me to do whatever it was that made me feel comfort, so I carefully picked out the images I wanted to share to highlight the thoughts floating in my mind. And then I hit post. It was a carousel of shots: one was of Husband and me, standing under a massive sequoia tree in that special Central California forest, with his hand on my pregnant belly. In my Free People dress, my own handmade jewelry, and a growing daughter inside, I felt incredible. That was one of the top 3 favorite days of my life —dancing around in the woods, under those massive trees, and later breathing in a salty ocean breeze as we drove up the coast to San Francisco. Life was complete and it was beautiful and perfect. After the loss, those pictures were all we had left. Suddenly having paid what we did for 45 min with the specific photographer that I had sought out was worth every single penny. I posted one of those shots, along with another of her name with a copy of her little foot and hand print (it looked like a stamp). I felt like I needed to share those with the world, otherwise it would mean she didn’t exist. She absolutely did exist and I didn’t want myself or anyone else to forget her.

What I received in return for clicking on the post button was pretty damn amazing. Many unexpected women reached out —acquaintances, friends, and family, all of whom had been where or near where I was and experienced the feelings that I was feeling. I heard stories of their losses, their babies’ names and birthdays, and how they picked up the pieces from such a crippling setback. I learned how much they love to talk about their babies, especially since society tells us to move on and forget or else be labeled as weird or creepy.

I became a part of a sisterhood, due to a circumstance that I cannot ever wish upon any woman.

It sucks to be here, but it’s comforting to know how many other women are with me and couldn’t give one single fuck about what anyone thinks of their grief process. As crazy as it was, for me at least, posting about my loss gave me so much more than it took from me. I’m now bonded to these women who’ve always hung out in the background and am grateful for the meaningful connections made during this time.

As it goes, though, simple-minded opinions were shared. Some family judged, random people talked shit, and MIL (my mother in law) asked why I felt the need to share. That one stung a bit because she had driven down this road, so I expected empathy at the very least. Instead, she seemed embarrassed that I told people at all. “Why do that? I don’t understand.” And you never will, Ma’am. Older cousins asked around, though never to me, “Why would she post that?” Honestly, I hadn’t truly looked up to any of them, outside of the oldest (not just because he’s old AF, but because he’s emotionally mature), because they seem exhausted from their own inner instability. Most members of Mom’s family, in particular, tend to judge and talk or make jokes rather than try to understand a situation, so my expectation baseline is low (like, essentially in Hell). I can’t say if anyone in MIL’s family judged me or not because nobody reached out, outside of one really sweet cousin of Husband’s that had just moved into our city. She also reassured me that all of the newfound physical things were normal and that I was not crazy for being alarmed. FIL’s nieces came to visit and asked if we were comfortable showing them the box that the hospital supplied with whatever keepsakes we had of her birth —birth and death certificates, some forms about something that didn’t matter to us, a blanket, her tiny knit hat, and photos. Outside of my two very best friends in this city in which I reside, they were the only ones I allowed near that box because, to Husband and me, it is so, so special.

What I needed, and was seeking, was connection. What I received by tapping my finger on “post” far exceeded what I could’ve asked for, so zero regrets there; but I was sad to see that many people, whom I still love and care for today, felt that they were entitled to judge me instead of attempting to empathize (at best). It’s impossible not to look at them differently because I truly expected understanding, at the very least. The comments were whatever, but I was hurt that I was made to feel that my grief was too much. The idea that I needed to get over my loss because it made others uncomfortable was so strange to me. A few months afterwards, at a close cousin‘s wedding, she (the bride) honored the loss in an immensely meaningful way. I appreciated the sentiment with every fiber of my being and tried my best to have a great night, despite being well aware that people in that very room had their opinions. Moments later, a friend of the bride’s came to me and also opened up about her late-term miscarriage. She was genuine and forthcoming and I found myself instantly drawn to her energy. She told me of her baby’s name, the aftermath, and how she allowed herself to move forward.

There we stood, in our beautiful lenghas draped over our incompetent cervixes, bonded before we had even met. And that is why I posted it, to connect with women like her.

I wrote in greater detail about the loss, but it’s a long tale. TW: baby loss and the fuckery that subsequently ensued.