To the mom who’s grieving on her baby’s due date

Today was meant to be special. 

From the moment you tested positive, imaginations ran wild picturing the life you’d soon hold in your hands. 

Will it be a boy or girl? Will my first find it difficult to adjust? Will he or she resemble me, or be yet another carbon copy of my husband? Will this baby like our pets? Will our pets like this baby? What items do I need to prepare for this baby’s arrival? 

The excitement grew each day. Life felt a bit fuller, a bit more magical while that baby was growing in your tummy.

And then, one day, the magic faded. But not like a gradual fade—more like a violent gust of wind that takes the breath from your lungs. 

And when that baby left your body, it felt as if a small piece of you left too. 

Miscarriages happen all the time. You know several friends or family members who have angel babies of their own. But just because they are common doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to mourn each and every loss you experience. 

To the mom who’s grieving on her baby’s due date:

Mom to mom, I want you to know that it does get easier. With time—and through allowing yourself to mourn—it stings a little less. You’ll be able to talk about your experience with others without crumbling. You may never be okay with losing your baby, but it’s possible to learn ways to accept it. 

But today, on your baby’s due date, I encourage you to make room for whatever emotions come up. 

Sadness. 

Peace. 

Anger. 

Numbness. 

Resentment. 

Hope. 

It’s all valid. There is no guidebook for pregnancy loss. I’m not anyone special, but I’m a mom who’s grieving, too. And I can say I’m feeling all of the above on the day my baby was projected to be born. 

Today, I find myself wanting to steal some moments of solitude when I can.

To hug my husband in silence—because I know what he’s feeling, too.

To close my eyes in solemn concentration to feel a connection to the being I lost months ago.

And in my head, my words echo on repeat, like a letter or prayer that I desperately hope my baby can hear. They sound a little bit like this:

Hi baby, can you hear me? I really wish I could hold you. 

Today was supposed to be your due date. You left my body months ago, and yet I still feel a part of my soul intertwined with yours. Do you feel it too? 

It’s been six months and sometimes, when my mind has drifted from this reality, I still reach down to caress the soft spot on my tummy where you once grew. Today, I feel sad because you’re not where I am. I can’t reach down to feel your presence—I can only try my best to feel it in the breeze. 

Today, I choose to honor you. Instead of celebrating your birthday, I’ll acknowledge the pain we felt from losing you as what it was at its core—love. We really loved you, and we always will. 

I don’t know why you’re gone, but I know where you are is where we all hope to be one day. 

There are so many things I wish I could know about you. But I do know this—I miss you, I love you, and one day I’ll see you again. ❤

Love, your mama. 

Until we meet again, my baby—due April 20, 2020. ❤️