You Are Not Alone

personal update for my loss mamas

As I write this, it’s November 1st. I have been intending to write this update for the entire month of October, which is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I had a grand vision of showing other loss moms how my journey has evolved and changed since I lost my daughter Elizabeth in May 2019, almost 3.5 years ago. At the beginning of the month, I felt so confident, so hopeful that it would be this beautifully written essay on how to navigate the terrible trauma that is infant loss. I procrastinated writing this for 31 days. I think that says volumes about how hard loss is no matter how long it’s been, the pain/fear/sadness is still uncomfortably close.

I was going to scratch this whole idea. Honestly, I have no idea what to write because every time I think about Elizabeth my eyes fill up with tears. I thought I was stronger than this. I wanted so badly to be a symbol of strength to other moms that might be going through the same thing, to show them that they can one day hope again. That they can be strong and find the will to live amongst the tragedy. That your life isn’t over just because your baby’s never got a chance to start. 

Then I realized that is exactly the message I want to share. That you can find a way back to yourself, your hopes, and dreams, AND you can feel utterly helpless in the face of the trauma, even after all this time. You can have both and most likely you will have both. You will feel periods of healing that piggyback deep dark nights of the soul where you still question your life. I’m not sure what the end game is to healing from a loss. I used to think it was to be able to talk about Elizabeth without crying or to bring up her name in a group of people who don’t know me or her story without debilitating anxiety that they’ll ask me who she is. 

I tried to think of what I wanted to hear when I was in the hospital hoping and praying every day for a miracle and also after her ultimate death. Both were very different situations, one filled with as much sadness as hope and the other a numbed black hole of nothingness. BUT I think I would want to hear the same thing, and that’s nothing. NO amount of words, statistics, or reassurances would have ever been enough. I just wanted to know I wasn’t alone, so here I am. Letting you know, you’re not alone.

There is no miracle book or piece of advice that’s going to get you through. I hate to say that. It’s something you JUST have to walk through. You are going to have to dig deeper than you ever have. You’re going to have to pick yourself up over and over again, until one day it’s a little bit easier than the day before. And in the process, you’re going to become a new person because the person you were no longer exists. You will mourn and you will question the “fairness” of it all more times than you can count. But it won’t change what happened. Your baby is gone, but you, my darling, are still here, and that (while you might not be able to see it) is the blessing. Life is a gift, more precious than I could have ever imagined. It’s funny how the importance of life doesn’t truly make sense until you know great loss.  If you are reading this from a hospital room or an empty nursery, I hope you can imagine my arms wrapping you up in a warm hug, whispering to you I’m sorry, and hopefully, for a minute or two, making you feel not so alone.  

With all my love,

jodi xx