Do you have kids?



So, I’m feeling called to continue talking about my journey through two miscarriages. Not because I’m in a feel bad for me kind of place, but because I’ve been connecting with a lot of women lately and they are overwhelmingly asking for my story and asking how I got through the initial dark days. When you ask I deliver, dear friends.

I recently met a new friend and like most women do when meeting for the first time we share a little bit about ourselves. What do you do? Massage therapist, office manager…and now blogger. Are you married? Not yet, but our love is strong…I’m not the most traditional of women anyways. Do you have any children? The question that strikes fear in the heart of most miscarriage mamas.

I used to get terribly awkward when people would ask this question. In the beginning I would full on burst into tears. I struggled with how on earth I could possible explain that I’ve been pregnant twice and miscarried both times. I struggled because I felt like it was an admission of failure. I struggled because I was embarrassed that my body couldn’t do what it was designed to do. I struggled because talking about the death of a loved one, and miscarriage is a death of a loved one, is incredibly hard regardless of what stage of life the person who died was.

Then I went to therapy (I love therapy. I love my therapist. My love letter to my therapist is coming soon) and learned how to say what I needed to say. I learned that it’s not my responsibility to make the person asking the question comfortable. I learned to simply state the facts. To simply state I had miscarried twice. To simply state I had no living children. To simply state that my children live in heaven. And then just release it. I learned to accept that stating these facts was no different than stating that I had blonde hair and a bachelors degree in child development.

I also learned that my children will always be my children. Their short lives in my womb don’t change that. I gave them life. I carried them every second of their lives and unfortunately for whatever reason, my body couldn’t hold them any longer and I birthed them far too soon.

But the fact is, they will forever be my children.

You know what else I learned…it’s okay for me to get all kinds of awkward. It’s okay for me to burst into tears. It’s okay for me to feel emotional when asked about my babies. And it’s also okay for you, the person asking me, to get all kinds of awkward in response to what I said. I can accept that. I can accept it, because talking about death is hard. Talking about the death of a mother’s child is even harder. Talking about miscarriage is really hard, because up until recently nobody talked about it at all.

That’s where I come in. I’m talking about it. I’m letting you know it’s okay. I’m letting you know that even in your darkest of days there is still hope. I’m letting you know that when you feel like all of the color has left your world and it feels like the pain will consume you, there is hope. The color will return. The pain will not be successful in consuming you completely. You will find your smile again. And you will continue to love and honor your child for the rest of your life, for they will always have a piece of your heart and that is where they will live on.

As always if you are hurting, if you have miscarried yourself, know that I am here for you. Reach out. I’ve got some great shoulders for leaning on and some great ears for listening.

I’m sending you so much love.
Marieke xo

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