When I was little, I broke my arm trying to climb the tallest tree in our compound. A couple of months later, I broke my leg trying to ‘fly’ from said tree. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, or intentionally cause my parents pain but I really wanted to experience what ‘boyish’ activities felt like. I showed up to school with splints and bandages and garnered more attention, consideration and compassion than I’ve ever been showered with. Every time I had stitches or a large cast on my arm, people would reach out to me. Every single time. They’d ask if I needed help lifting my books, if I was comfortable with the way I was seated, if I needed to drink something cold and refreshing.

I milked all the attention. I wore my cast for weeks even after I was permitted to remove it. Then when I was fifteen, I remember asking to be sent home when I couldn’t concentrate or sit upright because of the extreme menstrual cramps I was experiencing. Instead of the usual empathy and concern bestowed when one is in pain, I was chastised for making excuses. And so I spent the hour fighting tears while struggling not to fall from my seat. I understand that there might have been thousands of teenagers who used ‘cramps’ as an excuse to leave class, but I wasn’t one of them. My teacher couldn’t tell because my pain wasn’t visible. And in that moment, I realized that when the evidence of hurt and pain is absent, empathy, compassion and consideration would also be absent.

I remember this now as I’m walking through life with my heart in pieces. I’m walking with my dead baby in my tummy. A “Missed Miscarriage” they called it. My baby was at 26 weeks, but he was only measuring about 9cm. They explained that he must have passed away a few weeks prior, and my body was just now realizing what had happened. I was told that I had the choice to wait until it passed on its own or to have a D&C. I’d chosen to miscarry naturally. I’d made that decision not because I was strong to bear the labor, but a little part of me was holding on to the ‘What if?”. What if the doctor was wrong? What if my baby was still alive?. Every day for five days, I would wake up early to prepare breakfast for my husband and toddler, I would get him ready for school, drop him off and then head to work myself. I would sit in the office brainstorming ideas with colleagues. I would then go to the market and haggle prices with sellers. Everything appeared to be normal until it was not. Until I carried my baby in my arms. Seeing my baby covered in blood, tiny and unmoving eliminated the ‘What if’. My baby was really gone.
 

After that moment, after my baby bump disappeared, everyone carried on normally. Small talks, dinner invitations, parties. Close friends and family knew I had suffered a miscarriage and would probably be hurt, but there was no stitches or bandage to remind them of the pain. No visible injury. I reckon that most were terrified of talking about it, as if it was a taboo, something to be done in secret. But in being terrified to talk about it, they were ignoring it completely. They were ignoring my pain.  It was only by being able to talk about my experience that they broadened their understanding. So many of us understand the pain of mourning a baby we never got to hold. We understand how it feels but we stop talking about it soon after it happens because we are supposed to get over it. But how about we stop suffering in silence?
If you have found this post because you are going through a miscarriage yourself right now, Let me start by saying that I am so, so sorry. I hope that the choices you make in the days to come bring you and your family peace and rest. However, let’s be frank and honest with our experiences. Talk to your friends about how you’re feeling. Tell them why you wouldn’t be able to make it to that party. Keep in contact with those that understand, cut ties with those that don’t. Imagine what it would be like if we had a safe space where mother’s could openly grieve for their baby instead of suffering in silence. Imagine if we had a safe space of people who understand and are compassionate. Imagine if that circle got bigger.
I can’t say where your journey may lead you or what the future will hold for you. I can’t promise that there will be a baby to fill your arms or a heart that will ever be fully mended, but I can promise that this is a safe space. Speak your pain mama. This is a safe space🖤