Miscarriages are cruel. They steal your hopes and dash your dreams. They silence you with shame and regret. They make you feel unworthy of the gift of motherhood that comes so freely to others. They make you second-guess every decision and fill future pregnancies with dread. They are unkind and unpredictable. And they lie.
The lies my miscarriages told me were silent and woven deep into my feelings about motherhood and my own worth. I wouldn’t have been able to articulate them at the time, but they came to color my perceptions of the world around me. Maybe miscarriages have lied to you, too.
“You are not woman enough.” My miscarriages told me there was something fundamentally wrong with my body and therefore, my femininity. Women all around me were carrying healthy pregnancies to term (and inviting me to their baby showers) and I felt like less of a woman than they were because my body had failed a primary task of womanhood. It could not sustain life. It didn’t matter how feminine I felt, how girlie I dressed, how much I willed my body to do what it was supposed to do, I didn’t feel like a “real” woman when I couldn’t do the very thing that epitomizes the difference between male and female. I came to view my body with contempt and struggled with feeling self-conscious in the company of pregnant women who were apparently so much better at this womanhood thing.
“You would not be a good mother.” Were miscarriages the universe’s way of telling me I wasn’t cut out for motherhood? Obviously a good mom wouldn’t let her kid die in her womb. A good mom would be able to protect her child. I couldn’t even go 7 weeks without total failure in that department. I felt that not only did my miscarriages think I shouldn’t be a mom, I felt that from other people as I shared my story. I could see their need to believe such a thing couldn’t happen to them. They were looking for The Reason this was happening to me, and I think deciding that I wasn’t mother material seemed like the easiest place to land. I could hardly blame them. There were days I felt that way myself.
“Your marriage isn’t valid.” First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes lost babies and a host of expensive and inconclusive medical tests. This was not the experience I dreamed of when I planned the road to motherhood. I always imagined a fun, surprise, “whoopsie” pregnancy experience that would end in a beautiful baby with blonde curls like mine and her Daddy’s smile. When that dream came crashing down, I began to question not just my body, but the marriage that created these failed pregnancies. Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married at all if something about the two of us was so toxic that we couldn’t create a sustainable life. In the dark moments where we were lying in bed, both lost in our own silent worlds of grief, it was easy to wonder if we’d made a mistake. Miscarriage made me imagine a life where I married someone else and had beautiful healthy babies with him. It made me wish my husband could have sweet biological children of his own, even if they didn’t come from me.
All of these lies were so subtle that I almost didn’t know they were there until I found myself acting like they were true. I hated my body for reasons I couldn’t articulate. I didn’t want to hold other people’s babies anymore. I was unreasonably cranky with my husband and romance became a chore instead of a joy. It took a long time for me to be able to identify the lies underneath my emotions and work to bring truth back into my life.
. . . finish reading at Her View From Home. . .