I’ve held off writing this post for a few reasons. Primarily, I needed ample time to heal so that my words wouldn’t be tinted with anger and bitterness. And secondarily, from the day I found out I was pregnant with our rainbow baby, Elliana, I felt a strong conviction that I shouldn’t write or speak much about my miscarriages, but instead focus on the blessing of my pregnancy and fill my heart and mind on the wonderful things mentioned in Philippians 4:8, things that are true, noble, just, pure, lovely, praiseworthy, of any virtue or good report.
Now, just over six weeks postpartum, I feel an easing in my spirit, a release to revisit my pregnancy losses in hopes of encouraging women who have experienced their own losses, and also, as with this post, in a heartfelt effort to help others who may know a grieving woman avoid unintentionally saying something hurtful or dispiriting.
Before I begin, if you find that you have said one of the following, please don’t be hard on yourself. We have all said and done the wrong things when confronted with the terribleness of death, heartache, and depression. We have all wanted so badly to comfort a hurting friend or family member, but have stumbled while trying to match our words with our faultless motives and emotions. Put another way, we’ve all put our feet in our mouths.
So again, show yourself grace if previously your words have been misguided; simply acknowledge your mistake, and aim to speak more mindfully, or not at all, in the future.
Okay, without further ado, here are the six things that I never found helpful, but rather harmful, in the wake of my miscarriages.
I. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
This is a common phrase many people offer to others who are walking through a major life change or have experienced a great loss. After my miscarriages, I always answered this with, “Thank you. I will.”
But I never let them know, because I would have felt foolish asking for anything. After all, I wasn’t debilitated. I could still feed and take care of myself. I wasn’t hospitalized or even injured, at least not physically. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, however, I was broken. I would have loved a doorstep meal, a babysitter for my son while I took some time to cry, or even a small bouquet to add a bit of sunshine to my kitchen. But, again, asking for things often feels so awkward, especially when, on the outside, my life hadn’t really changed.
Instead of telling a woman to let you know if there’s anything you can do, tell them what you’re going to do. Something like this:
“I’m going to bring you a casserole. Is Monday evening a good time for me to drop it off?”
“I’d like to have your son over to play with my kids while you take time to yourself. Does Wednesday around lunchtime work for you?”
“What is your address? I have some things I’d like to send you.”
“I’m going to get your groceries for the week. Send me a list!”
Even if the woman insists that you don’t do any of those things, I promise that your desire to help her will have a powerful impact. It will remind her that she has people in her life who love and are standing by her, that she isn’t alone. It will serve to validate the very real, and extremely devastating, feelings of loss, confusion, even anger and despair.
II. “At least it was early.”
Admittedly, no one said this to me. However, in talking to other women who have had miscarriages, it’s something that’s said all too often. And, as you might imagine, it never helps.
Losing a baby, at whatever stage, is undeniably tragic. Of my four miscarriages, two of them were “chemical pregnancies,” meaning they occurred before or around the fifth week. But there was a fertilized egg. There was an embryo. There was the miraculous, God-designed, God-ordained spark of life. And though it was short-lived, those little lives forever changed mine, and I grieved their deaths with all my being.
While I cannot possibly imagine having a “late miscarriage” or a stillbirth, trying to comfort a woman by bringing to her awareness that her miscarriage was neither of those comes across as insensitive and dismissive. Again, a loss of life, no matter how young that life was, should be grieved, and the grief-stricken should be properly, empathetically, comforted.
III. “Keep trying.”
Man. I grimaced just typing that.
Someone spoke those words to me just minutes after we’d buried our third baby, whom I lost at 10 weeks, on New Year’s Day, of all days. Upon hearing that short, and frankly trite, sentence – intended to encourage, I have no doubt – the tears that had been trembling in my eyes all evening slipped shamelessly down my cheeks, and I tried my best to look appreciative, though the platitude had woefully missed its mark.
I can’t speak for all women, of course, but being told to “keep trying” immediately after having a miscarriage felt similar to hearing my middle school volleyball coach encourage me to “keep trying” to successfully overhand serve, or to hearing my mom, when I was six years old, cheer me on in the living room as I tried and failed, tried and failed, again and again, to nail a cartwheel.
The implication with a spurring-on phrase like “keep trying” is that if we just try harder and persist, hang on tight and persevere, then we will achieve our goal, be it acing an overhand serve, performing a proper cartwheel, or delivering a healthy baby. It puts the onus on us, the grieving women for whom carrying a baby healthily to full term is largely out of our control, to, by our own efforts, essentially do better at pregnancy.
I cannot overemphasize the fact that I know that most people, including the individual who told me to keep trying, don’t say such things with the slightest trace of meanness or malice. But that’s what the post is for, to inform the uninformed regarding the sensitivity of grieving women, and often their spouses, too. With a bit of knowledge and a concerted effort to mentally place themselves in women’s shoes, people can avoid saying empty-sounding words that upset rather than console.
So, what to say instead of “keep trying”? Nothing at all. Listen to anything the bereaved wish to say. Hug them. Pray over them. Recite Scripture for them. Cry with them. Go to their home and tidy up for them. Cook for them, or do any of the things mentioned in Part I.
Remember that miscarriage, like any death, is not something to be coached through, but loved through.
IV. “It will happen when it’s supposed to.”
In my opinion, this is equally as offensive as “keep trying” as it leads a woman to unnecessarily, and detrimentally, question herself.
“What was wrong with this timing?”
“Am I not fit to be a mother yet?”
“Am I not fit to have more kids?”
“Did I do something to deserve this?”
“Why did the timing feel so right?”
And on it goes, a treacherous, rapids-filled stream of consciousness that eventually rams into another unprofitable line of thinking:
“What if it’s never supposed to happen? How can this person [the person who told you it will happen] say with any degree of certainty that I’ll have a baby? Maybe I’m not going to.”
You quickly recognize the false hope our well-meaning friend of family member has presented, and if you’re like me, you resent it.
Friends or family members reading this, please avoid speaking wishfully. Instead, speak faithfully and biblically. Let the woman feel what she’s feeling without trying to soften her pain with promises that might never be fulfilled. Remember these wise words from Ecclesiastes:
“There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens …
“a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance …
“a time to be silent and a time to speak” (Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 4, 7, NIV).
When in doubt, err on the side of silence.
V. “Have you had any testing done?”
I get it. If you know someone who’s having health-related issues – and miscarriage qualifies as one – then it’s natural to want to help solve them. After my second miscarriage, several friends asked if I’d a hormone panel done or any other testing to determine whether there were underlying reasons for my recurring losses.
My problem with this question is that it prematurely seeks a solution to the “problem of miscarriage” instead of embracing the visceral emotions that the friend or relative may not be feeling, but the woman most assuredly is.
Thinking about tests and doctors and numbers and charts and potential medicines, etc. would sterilize the grieving process, stripping it of its intangible, individualized, God-given spiritual and physical aspects and replacing it with manmade, material troubleshooting aids and resources. It might temporarily distract the woman from her present sorrow, but soon enough, grief would reemerge and be exacerbated by the formidable mountain of Google searches, doctor appointments, and, God forbid, erroneous self-diagnoses.
Suggesting testing is not a bad idea, but use wisdom when it comes to how and when to raise the subject. Ask God to help you in this. It may be that He nudges you to speak to the woman’s spouse or parent instead of to her directly. Or perhaps He’ll reveal to you that she’s already in the process of seeking medical help. As is a common theme in this post, the important thing is to be there for her, a strong but quiet presence making room for the Spirit’s peace.
VI. “You’re pregnant again?”
Cringe-worthy, right? Or maybe not. I often have to ask myself if I’m overthinking the things that have been said to me, or to others who have had miscarriages. In this case, it wasn’t the three little words themselves that were off-putting to me, but the manner in which they were spoken…
I was at the gym, surrounded by people who knew I’d had at least one miscarriage. I can’t remember if I was pregnant with baby number five or six, but I will never forget the disgust I felt when, after telling my CrossFit coach that I would be modifying the workout a bit due to my pregnancy, a fellow gym member turned to me, eyes wide, mouth spread into an incredulous smile, and loudly said, “You’re pregnant again?”
It was a good thing I was about to exercise, because boy, did I have negative energy to burn. I said, as nicely as possible – probably through gritted teeth – “Yes, sir, I am.”
No congrats from him. Not another word. Maybe he felt ashamed. Maybe he pitied me. I’ll never know. But I do know that his words were spoken on impulse, and so I’ve asked God to help me forgive him, and I think I have. But I definitely haven’t forgotten.
I’ve put a bit of thought into why his words hurt me so much. I think it comes down to the mama bear in me, the protector part of my soul. Each of my babies, whether here on earth or up in heaven, is precious and beloved. They were never just pregnancies. Never, never failed attempts at procreation. They were creations.
The way in which this man said “You’re pregnant again?” with such a mystified, dumbfounded expression was akin to one being perplexed to learn a friend has come down with the flu for the third time in one winter, or blown yet another tire on the freeway. It was as if – at least, in my interpretation, I admit –he viewed my pregnancy as a stroke of bad luck, when to me, it was the exact opposite.
It’s very important – in all cases, especially with those concerning life and death, grief and hope – to think before we speak. To consider the emotional state of the person to whom we’re about to speak. To pause and think about our body language and facial expressions. To ask ourselves, “How can I be as encouraging as possible?” and “Could what I’m thinking possibly hurt instead of help?”
I love this quote from Alan Redpath. Not only is it wise, it’s also an acrostic!
“THINK before you speak. Is it True, Helpful, Inspiring, Necessary, Kind?”
BONUS: A word to grieving women:
Every woman grieves their losses differently.
Some of us wish to be alone with our thoughts and feelings, while others are comforted best in the presence of others.
Some sob rivers, others not at all, although the latter group probably feels pain that’s just as profound as their crying counterparts.
Some may resume their regular routines and activities after a few days, while others may need weeks or months before they feel sufficiently healed and ready to face their new normal.
And some of us may take things more personally than others. (I’m definitely in this camp!)
If you’re the sensitive sort, and/or one who’s prone to be a bit edgier on the heels of grief, then bear in mind that much of what people may say to you, and how they say it, will strike you as callous, crass, tactless or aloof. I’m willing to bet that 99% of the time, these people mean no harm, but are simply ignorant of how their words and demeanors are being perceived, especially if they’ve never experienced a pregnancy loss. Give them grace. In the words of Faith Hill, “just breathe.” Try, hard as it can be, not to replay their words in your head, but instead, pray and find Scriptures that act as a soothing balm on an aching heart.
If there’s someone who repeatedly says or does things that hurt you, then gently, but directly, tell them how it’s making you feel. If they become argumentative or defensive, then perhaps it’s time to distance yourself from them for a while. Surround yourself with people who love and support you and respect you enough to honor your wishes for peace-bringing company and conversations.
I pray this post has been a blessing to you. If you, or anyone you know, could use another pair of listening ears or praying hands, please don’t hesitate to have them reach out to me. My email is diana.tyler86@gmail.com, and I also love chatting on Instagram @authordianatyler.