I am one in three
And we discover, we’re a lot less alone than we originally felt.
I want to share something deeply personal in this post—my own reflections on miscarriage and the raw, painful journey that followed. If you’ve experienced loss or think this might be too heavy right now, please take care of yourself and know that it’s completely okay to step back. Your well-being comes first. I personally found this resource very helpful. All the love, ER.
“What do I buy?” I whisper into the phone.
My heart’s racing; I feel panicked.
Tears prick the corners of my eye as I scan the shelves in front of me.
The grip on my phone is deadly.
My mom answers, but I don’t really hear her.
I’m alone in this aisle.
I feel lonelier in the world.
They say it’ll be like a bad period—some cramping, some bleeding. It shouldn’t last too long.
They don’t often talk about the waiting period in between.
The fact is, you have an understanding of what’s to happen—mentally you’re there, but your body hasn’t gotten the memo yet.
You have time to prepare for something you never envisioned happening.
Pads. Tylenol. Heating pack. Adult diapers.
The basket filled slowly.
Chocolate for the soul.
Tissues for the tears.
The cashier asks how my day is going. I smiled tightly, said “fine,” tapped the card, and walked to the car.
The ride home is a blur.
I parked the car, left the bags on the counter.
I crawled into bed.
And waited.
And when the waiting stopped, you realized that they lied.
Tried to put you at ease.
Make you feel like you’ve got this. You can handle it.
But it’s worse than you thought.
It’s terrifying. It’s painful.
You get the care you need.
The physical is over.
But the emotional, mental wound is raw, open, festering.
It will take time—so much more than you’re anticipating—to heal, and sometimes it will feel like it never has or never will.
There’s a photo your husband took while you were in hospital. Sometimes you pull it out when it’s quiet and things feel a bit heavy, and you just stare at it. You take in the young woman lying there, and you wish with all your heart that you were able to wrap your arms around her and just hold her so incredibly tight.
My story is different from others, but at the same time it’s much the same.
Heartbreaking.
Becoming a part of a club that’s not talked about, hidden away, feels shameful to join.
Uttering the words feels like you’re cursing someone else.
Every time I put it out into the world, I feel a little weight lift, but at the same time, nervous energy follows me.
It’s not a story anyone wants to hear, but it feels like one that needs to be told.
Because it happens more often than you think.
And all it takes is one woman to say something, and suddenly they’re there—nodding their heads, murmuring “the same happened to me.”
Sharing stories of heartbreak and hope.
Advice is given, shoulders are cried on.
Hands are held, a bond is formed.
Like the statistic we’ve now become, welcoming us into a club we didn’t know about—one we didn’t want.
But in the end, it gives us a place. A space.
And we discover, we’re a lot less alone than we originally felt.
If you or someone you know has experienced a miscarriage or pregnancy loss before or currently, I highly encourage you to reach out to a trust family member or friend. No one should ever have to navigate this season of life alone. If you’re feeling like you need support and are not sure where to turn, please check out some of these resources I personally found them very helpful:
Thank you for sharing this Emma. 💕