What Nobody Tells You About Miscarriage Grief
Grief after pregnancy loss is rarely what we expect it to be.
It’s not neat. It’s not linear.
And it certainly doesn’t end the moment your body “recovers.”
Some days, you feel like you can breathe again.
Other days, you can barely make it out of bed.
Anger. Confusion. Numbness. Guilt. Envy. Sadness.
It’s all valid — every emotion, every tear, every fleeting moment of lightness that follows the dark.
Also, don’t force it. Not crying does not mean you’re not grieving either.
The Day I Laughed Again
I remember that week so clearly. I had lunch plans with my friends.
I told them beforehand that I needed to share my news in our chat — because I didn’t think I could say it out loud without breaking down in the restaurant.
But I still wanted to see them.
One of them had just announced she was 10 weeks pregnant — only a week or two ahead of where I would have been. There was that quiet ache of “we could have gone through this together.”
Still, I wanted to celebrate her.
I chose a Japanese restaurant because I could finally eat sushi — something I’d avoided for weeks while pregnant.
And I did laugh that day.
I smiled, I celebrated, I enjoyed the food.
Because I had already let my tears fall before showing up.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
Just because you laugh, doesn’t mean you’re “okay” again.
Grief doesn’t work that way. Healing isn’t a straight line.
Also, don’t force it.
Not crying doesn’t mean you’re not grieving either.
Grief has its own rhythm — some days it roars, and other days it hides in silence.
The Invisible Loss
One of the hardest parts about miscarriage is that so much of it is invisible.
There’s no ceremony, no closure, no public acknowledgment.
Sometimes people don’t even know what you’re going through — and that invisibility can make the loss feel even heavier.
The invisible loss is still real.
Just because we never got to touch this baby doesn’t mean they never existed.
I remember my early chemical pregnancy — a strange, painful experience that felt both ordinary and monumental. Passing that life in the bathroom during what felt like an excruciating period was surreal. It was so physical — my husband was there beside me, holding space in the best way he could — and yet it still felt like something only I could go through. It was happening through me, even as we shared the grief together.
When the Body Grieves Too
Loss doesn’t just live in the heart; it lives in the body.
After my ectopic pregnancy, I remember eating anything and everything I wanted — and I let myself. Comfort food was the only thing that felt grounding at the time. Eventually, my body told me it was ready for something different, and I slowly found my way back to balance and nourishing myself again.
There were days I had bursts of energy and days I could barely focus. My skin broke out again and again. My hormones were all over the place. I didn’t feel like myself — physically or emotionally.
It wasn’t until after my second loss, when I began eating better and moving my body through strength training, that I started to feel some stability return.
Healing came slowly, like a tide — retreating and returning, again and again.
The Both/And of Healing
Grief is both heavy and light.
It’s crying while drying your hair — and then laughing later that same day.
It’s showing up for life, even when your heart still feels like it’s in pieces.
If you’ve had days like this, please know: you’re not doing it wrong.
You’re doing it exactly right.
You are navigating the emotional rollercoaster that no one prepares you for — and still showing up in the world with a tender, open heart.
That is strength. That is healing. That is the quiet strength of motherhood.
Gentle Reflection
If you’ve ever felt the need to “act okay,” even when you weren’t — take a deep breath and remind yourself:
✨ Healing doesn’t mean being fine.
✨ Laughter doesn’t cancel out grief.
✨ You are allowed to hold both joy and sorrow at once.
Your grief may be invisible to others, but it is seen and honored here.
And so are you. 💛
