A personal journey through grief, growth, and gentle healing
Introduction
Miscarriage is something many people go through, yet it’s often spoken about in whispers. This was the second part of my story—about healing, grieving, and finding light in the dark. If you missed Part 1, you can read it here.
I’m sharing this not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I’m still learning what helps. Healing isn’t linear, and it doesn’t look the same for everyone. But maybe, just maybe, something here will resonate with you.
The First Days: Numb and Broken
I didn’t know if I would ever fully heal from a miscarriage. Maybe time would soften the pain. Maybe having a baby later would bring a new kind of peace. But in those first days, I felt shattered.
I doubted everything—my body, my choices, my strength. The grief was so heavy. I remember staring into space for hours, unable to cry, unable to move. Just numb. It felt like the world had stopped, and I didn’t know how to restart it.
Support Groups: A Brave First Step
Not long after, I read about a support group and decided to go—with my husband. He was the only man there. Sharing our story helped, especially because it was still so fresh.
But hearing others speak about their losses opened up things I hadn’t even begun to process. It was comforting and overwhelming at the same time. We didn’t go back, but I still believe support groups are a good place to start. You meet people who understand your pain—people who’ve walked through it too. And sometimes, just knowing you’re not alone can be a lifeline.
Symbolic Healing: Giving Grief a Place to Grow
Grief doesn’t always speak in words. Sometimes it shows up in rituals, in symbols, in quiet acts of remembrance.
Some people write in journals. One of my friends drew a picture of a mother holding a baby. For us, it was a tree—a dark purple magnolia. We planted it in our garden as a way to honor the baby we lost. It was our way of saying, “You were here. You mattered.”
That tree hasn’t thrived. The leaves are sparse, and the blooms are fewer. But it still means something. It’s a living symbol of love and loss, of memory and hope. Every time I walk past it, I remember. And somehow, that helps.
Symbolic healing doesn’t have to be grand. It can be lighting a candle, writing a letter, creating art, or simply sitting in silence. What matters is that it gives grief a place to go—a shape, a voice, a ritual.
Healing Together: Navigating Grief as a Couple
Going through a miscarriage as a couple was complicated. Even though my husband was right beside me, he experienced it in a completely different way.
He didn’t go through the physical side of it, and that created a gap I didn’t know how to bridge. He tried to be supportive, but sometimes even that felt too much.
I learned to be patient—with him and with myself. Just because he didn’t carry the baby didn’t mean he wasn’t grieving. Couples often process pain differently, and that’s okay. What matters is staying open, staying kind, and remembering that both partners are hurting—even if it looks different.
Therapy: Unpacking the Layers of Loss
Losing a baby wasn’t just physically painful—it was emotionally unraveling. The miscarriage stirred up old wounds from my childhood, and I sank into a deep depression.
I started therapy. I was lucky to try different types—some free, some costly. Some helped, some didn’t. Healing wasn’t linear. It was messy. But therapy gave me tools to understand my grief and begin to rebuild. It helped me name the pain, sit with it, and slowly move through it.
Even now, I’m still healing, still learning, still growing.
Opening Up: How Talking Helped Me Heal
Everyone processes miscarriage differently. Some people keep it private. Others need to talk. I was someone who had to share—at least with a few close friends.
I was surprised by how many people opened up about their own losses or other painful experiences. In some ways, these conversations deepened my relationships.
So if you feel like no one will understand, you might be wrong. Opening up can be healing. It can remind you that you’re not alone—and that your story matters.
Conclusion: A Gentle Reminder
Healing after miscarriage isn’t a straight line. It’s a winding path filled with quiet moments, unexpected triggers, and small victories. I’m still walking it.
If you are too, I hope this post reminds you that you’re not alone—and that healing is possible, even if it looks different for everyone.
Your Turn
If you’ve been through something similar, I’d love to hear your healing journey. What helped you? What gave you comfort? Let’s hold space for each other.
