The Journal of an Honest Mom

I heard a song today.

Eternity by Alex Warren.

I’ve heard it plenty of times before. It’s a beautiful song, and I know he wrote it about losing his dad. But every once in a while, I hear it and my mind wanders to the people I’ve lost in my own life.

And I’ve lost some people I loved dearly.

But none of those losses have hurt quite like my miscarriage.

I don’t really know how to explain that without sounding like I’m minimizing the grief I’ve felt for other people. Because I’m not. I’ve experienced loss. I’ve experienced heartache. I’ve missed people so much it physically hurt.

But losing my baby was different.

I remember the excitement of that positive pregnancy test. The nerves. The thoughts that immediately started running through my head. Another baby. Another labor. Another little person joining our family.

How were we going to do this? What would life look like? Would it be a boy or a girl?

All those thoughts that come flooding in the moment you realize you’re pregnant.

And then, just like that, it was over.

I was numb.

For weeks, I was barely going through the motions. I had two little children at home who still needed their mom. I had a husband. I had responsibilities. Life didn’t stop just because mine felt like it had.

Breakfast still needed to be made. Clothes still needed to be washed. Children still needed to be loved and cared for.

And I did what I could.

Some days, that wasn’t much.

I think that’s something people don’t always understand about miscarriage.

Other people are sad. Of course they are. Some are genuinely grieving the loss of that baby, too. But often, it seems like people are more sad for you than they are about what they’ve personally lost.

And I don’t mean that unkindly.

How could they feel exactly what I felt?

They didn’t take that pregnancy test. They didn’t experience all those emotions flooding in at once. They didn’t spend those weeks physically carrying another human being.

Even if it was only four, five, or six weeks.

That’s still four, five, or six weeks of another life being completely dependent on yours.

And you don’t realize just how much your life has become dependent on theirs until they’re gone.

I think that’s the part that has stayed with me.

Because eventually, everyone moves on.

And understandably so.

Life continues. People have their own families, their own responsibilities, their own problems. They can’t be expected to carry my grief around with them.

But I do.

Not necessarily every minute of every day. I’m not walking around crying all the time. I’m happy. I laugh. I enjoy my children. I love the life God has blessed me with.

But I haven’t forgotten.

And I don’t think I ever will.

I’ve had five pregnancies.

Five babies.

Four of them made it earthside.

And I am so incredibly thankful for those four.

I’ve even been blessed with two more children since my miscarriage. Two beautiful little boys who have brought so much joy, laughter, and chaos into our home.

But they didn’t replace the baby I lost.

They couldn’t.

They’re their own people. Their own personalities. Their own interests. Their own little lives.

And the baby I lost would have been, too.

I think about that sometimes.

Who would that child have been?

Would they have loved sports? Would they have been quiet? Loud? Stubborn? Would they have looked like their brothers? Would they have been the one who loved to read, or the one who never sat still?

How would they have fit into our family?

Because adding another child doesn’t just mean adding another person to the dinner table.

It changes everything.

The relationships between siblings. The conversations. The laughter. The arguments. The inside jokes. The whole dynamic of a family.

And I’ll never know what ours would have looked like with that child here.

That’s a hard thing to accept.

Sometimes I look at my family and think about how beautiful my life is. Four little boys. A husband I love. A home full of noise and messes and more laundry than any reasonable person should have to wash.

And yet, there’s a piece missing.

It’s like putting together a puzzle and realizing one piece isn’t there.

Everyone else looks at the picture and sees something beautiful.

And it is beautiful.

But I’m the one who knows there’s a piece missing.

I’m the one who knows exactly where it should have gone.

And no matter how many other pieces are added, that particular piece will never be replaced.

I think that’s what makes miscarriage grief so lonely sometimes.

Not necessarily because people don’t care. I know they do.

But because they don’t remember the same way I do.

And how could they?

They didn’t experience it the way I did.

Even my husband experienced it differently. He was worried about me. He wanted to make sure I was okay. And when I started functioning again, life more or less returned to normal.

But functioning again didn’t mean I was okay.

It meant I had learned how to get through the day.

And I don’t blame him for experiencing it differently. I really don’t.

It’s hard to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes when their shoes don’t fit your feet.

I just think there’s something lonely about carrying a grief that nobody else seems to remember is there.

And then a song comes on.

And suddenly, there it is again.

One of the things that gets me about Eternity is the thought of becoming someone the person you lost would no longer recognize.

I think about how much life has changed since my miscarriage.

I’ve had two more babies. I’ve grown as a mother. I’ve learned things. I’ve changed in ways I probably don’t even recognize myself.

And that baby never got to know any of it.

But then again, I never got to know that baby, either.

And goodness, that hurts.

I never got to hold them. Hear them laugh. Watch them take their first steps. Figure out their favorite foods or what makes them giggle uncontrollably.

I never got to find out who they were going to be.

I think that’s one of the hardest parts of losing a baby so early.

You’re not just grieving what happened.

You’re grieving everything that never got the chance to happen.

And years later, that doesn’t magically disappear.

I’ve learned to live with it.

I think that’s probably the best way I can describe it.

I haven’t moved on in the sense that I’ve left my baby behind. I’ve just learned how to keep moving while carrying the loss.

And I pray I never have to experience it again.

I pray the women I love never have to experience it, either.

Because I wouldn’t wish that heartache on anyone.

But I also know there are women out there who understand exactly what I’m talking about.

Women who have gone on to have more children. Women who haven’t. Women whose miscarriages happened last month, last year, or decades ago.

Women who are happy with their lives and still miss the babies they never got to meet.

Maybe they don’t talk about it much, either.

I know I don’t.

Not because I’ve forgotten. Not because it doesn’t matter. But because sometimes it’s easier to carry something quietly than to try to explain it to someone who hasn’t experienced it.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this.

Not because I need anyone to say anything.

Not because I’m looking for sympathy.

But because somewhere, there’s probably another mom who has been carrying this same grief quietly for years.

And I want her to know she’s not the only one.

I have four beautiful boys here on earth.

I love them more than I could ever put into words.

But I’ve had five children.

And I still miss my one.