I Had a Miscarriage: A Memoir, a Movement

by Jessica Zucker

“Pregnancy after pregnancy loss can be exhausting on so many levels. Loss has a way of stealing surrender.”

Why does it matter whose suffering is “worse”? And is this even a thing, comparing and contrasting pain? Pain is pain. Grief is grief. Incalculable at their best, sadistic at their worst,

“Your pain is just as real and valid and important as anybody else’s. Your loss matters because it is your loss. Your hope, dashed. Your body, grieving. Your sadness. Your love. Try to resist the urge to compare and contrast. There needn’t be a loss/grief hierarchy. It only serves to minimize your experience. Face your pain without distracting it by somehow making it less than. Or too much. You are significant. Your heart is shattered. Lean into the ache. It’s yours.”

Sometimes—I found rather quickly—having history with someone doesn’t necessarily protect you from egregious statements, unintended harsh comments, or unfortunate stalemates. Sometimes, instead, hearing afflictive words from someone you’ve known your entire life can be arresting, blanketing you in an isolation no one should ever know.

Suspended in sheer vulnerability—wanting something so badly but not having a semblance of control, nothing to ensure it will come to pass—is the place of humanity. These are the heart-opening moments we wish we could evade, but can’t.

Between loved ones, I felt such a confounding sense of isolation. A feeling so searing, no one should know it. A feeling that should be rendered obsolete.

Dear Miscarriage, Oh, how you have changed it all. You give me no choice other than to dedicate much of my heart, energy, and love to you—to change how culture silences you, shrouds you in shame. You deserve serious and pointed attention. I love you for helping me better understand suffering and resilience. I’ve opened my heart fully to you. I loathe you for the droplets of hopelessness interspersed. And the terrorizing anxiety that clung to my subsequent pregnancy. But here’s the thing, miscarriage: I’ve spent so much time getting to know you and my deepest self, my fundamental strength. I think—or more accurately, I know—it’s time (long overdue, perhaps) that society spotlight you. Highlight you. In neon. No more shadowed, isolated grievers. No more mourners wondering if they did something to deserve this. Nope. No more. Just love. Tenderness. Honesty. Hope. And the ever-present proof that being human renders us vulnerable. It’s tough to say I love you, but I will say this: I love who you’ve helped me become. With fortitude and a dedication to changing the dialogue around you, Jessica (a.k.a. @IHadaMiscarriage) PS I’m sticking around. Don’t think I’m going anywhere when it comes to you, miscarriage. You indelibly changed my emotional landscape, so you better believe I’m gonna do my best to evolve you, too.