Keep Calm and Miscarry On

A second miscarriage, the need to write about loss and why you shouldn't feel sorry for me

Sunset from our Seattle rooftop, completely unrelated to this post.

A few weeks before our wedding in October, I poured my heart (and other organs) into The Silver Linings of a Miscarriage. Amidst all I was juggling at the time, the feelings and emotions of August’s plights were still raw, still fresh; I wanted to be sure I remembered the harshness, the earthiness, the precariousness precisely as we had lived it. I wanted to paint a vivid picture and share a portrait of loss with urgency, in the name of saying: “I, too, know your pain,” in the name of enlightenment for the uninitiated, in the name of finally exhaling a tiny-giant secret in the way I always prefer—with 3,000 carefully crafted words.

As I began to tidy up my confessions and send out pitches to publications like ELLE and Vogue, Adam lovingly suggested I hold onto the essay a little longer; perhaps revisiting it when the chaos and sheer joy of wedding weekend was in the rearview mirror, when I had more time to absorb and reflect, when the experience could settle deeper into my bones.

And so I did.

We married on an absolutely stunning Saturday in Seattle, surrounded by everyone we love, the most spectacular celebration of all the wild moments that led us here and all the beautiful moments yet to come. We cosplayed as honeymoon hedonists in Greece for three weeks. We indulged, we loved hard, we blissed out. I tried not to let my mind wander, wondering how these opulent occasions might be different if the pregnancy kept. Then I’d take a sip of another delicious cocktail on the bow of a catamaran during a Santorini sunset, quietly recite The Gospel of Silver Linings, and feel at peace with how everything had unfolded.

We came home to our townhouse and our pets and enjoyed routine again, the palpable ecstasy of not having a wedding to plan, the quiet thrill of just being. We went to Houston in November to be with my family for Thanksgiving, and I indulged in Texas-sized margaritas and swam in bowls of queso and connected with old friends. Still, many of those dearest to us knew nothing of the tears we’d cried, the pain I endured, the deep loss we felt.

Part of me hoped, I think, by the time I shared the devastation with those I wanted to most, we’d be able to say, “But wait—there’s good news, too.”

Then, on December 2, one day after my missed period and four months after the last life-changing breaking-news day, I peed on a ClearBlue stick and thought: there’s no way in hell.

But indeed, there was a way.

I didn’t experience the insane post-positive emotional rollercoaster I did the first time around. I didn’t put my hands up and scream in delight, or cry at the sheer shock; I smiled calmly, took deep breaths, peed on a second stick, and refused to truly exhale until there was further proof this pregnancy would be categorically different. I congratulated my 40-year-old eggs for rallying and my 40-year-old body for reminding me anything is possible, even as a vaguely fertile elder millennial.

I couldn’t wait to share the news with Adam. For some reason, instead of just asking him to come downstairs and talk, I said, “Come down and see what the dog did now!” Absurdly funny then, and in retrospect. We hugged for a long time, clinging to each other and absorbing the potent mix of both exhilaration (could this be our miracle baby?!) and genuine trepidation (what if “that” happens again?!). We talked for hours about how we’d approach this round—cautiously optimistic, of course—and how we’d allow ourselves to explore and indulge the what ifs instead of smothering them with positivity. No matter what, we were in this together; that would carry us through the wait, the tests, the uncertainty, the joy, the agony, the hope, the hope, the hope.

I finally decided to self-publish the narrative about my first miscarriage on January 5, while I was actively miscarrying the second pregnancy. Literally cramping and filling maxi pads with blood while simultaneously pouring my heart out online. This time wasn’t as harsh as the last, at least—it was still uncomfortable, painful, tragic—but I didn’t have to self-induce. My body simply said: my bad, we’ll try to get it right next time.

It was comforting to receive such an outpouring of love and thoughtful responses to my essay, especially while enduring a quiet loss once again. There was solace in being honest, in sharing, in comparing, in hearing the countless stories of other families who had experienced the broad range of fertility anxieties and tragedies. Women confided in me they had been through four, six, eight miscarriages, quickly putting my second into perspective and slowly preparing me for what a third might bring.

In an essay I published in 2022 about the uncertainty of motherhood (when you’re the fun, single aunt), I wrote:

“Stories of wanting and waiting and wavering are never clear-cut; they are confusing and convoluted and so often accompanied by heartache. And I never want anyone to feel sorry for me — to think, ‘Oh, she wanted a child, it just never happened.’”

I feel that way now, revealing this second miscarriage months after the first. I don’t want anyone to feel “sorry” for us. I don’t want the world to look at me with a hopeful half-smile that reeks of pity and prayer. I have written about losses in this lifetime for two reasons: I must write to process, to feel the extent of the hurt, and to promise others they’re not alone. I know it’s a delicate dance, communicating with someone who’s grieving—mixing sympathy, sadness and sunshine together in hopes of a palatable comfort cocktail.

But honestly? I am also trying not to feel sorry for myself. As I come to terms with what the next few years may or may not hold, I once again co-exist in two universes: one where all our dreams come true, and one where we’ll need to rewrite, redirect, reimagine those dreams.

And that’s life, sure.

But I have spent the last 20 years doing haphazard exercises in vulnerability—avoiding it when possible, reveling in it when it merited revelation and reconciliation and relief. Through that, I have learned—for me, personally—there is nothing more vulnerable than admitting A Certain Life Moment didn’t go as planned.

For now, we are still swimming in the Sea of Silver Linings, doing backstrokes through the good, staying afloat among a collectively rough tide. (Living our best DINK lives while the egomaniacs in charge try to kill us all.) We have sought out the experts. We have done the follow-up tests. We talk often about how to be rational and positive through the relentless confusion and noise of The Future. We plan for this beautiful life with caution.

But with anything momentous, the window of hope remains confidently, tenderly, eternally open.

So do not feel sorry for me! Do not feel sorry for a sanguine, sturdy soul who’s twice endured one of the body’s cruelest features. Do not feel sorry for a loving couple with the same dream and the strength to delicately pivot. And don’t even think about feeling sorry for a woman who can work through her wants and woes through words.

That kind of golden power will always eclipse the silver linings.

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