Back in college, my roommates and I placed bets on who’d become a mom first, and I voted for myself unapologetically. Those close to me know that I’d wanted to be a mom more than anything and I couldn’t wait until it was my turn one day.
When I became pregnant earlier this year, my husband and my conversations were filled with topics like how we’d furnish the second bedroom, baby name ideas, and our imaginations of what was to come. It was pure bliss — like the opening scene of Up.
Several weeks and one doctor appointment later, the bliss quickly turned into a nightmarish roller coaster. I began to show early signs of an impending miscarriage and soon, my body confirmed those signs and began to reject the baby’s growth.
Miscarriage is not only emotionally painful but also physically horrible, as your body prepares to dispel your once-growing life. Your body mimics contractions, which are similar to those when you go into labor, but it is to deliver a lifeless life.
For me, this began while I was in Palm Springs for a bachelorette party. By nightfall, the pain was so unbearable that I had to excuse myself. I just had to be home. Pushing 90 mph, barely seeing through the tears, and squeezing my stomach the whole 3-hour drive home, I finally fell into my parents’ couch — bleeding and bleeding and bleeding — and eventually cried myself to sleep.
The days surrounding the miscarriage were numbing. I tried my best to “show up,” whether it was at work or church or social events. Even in front of my husband, I tried to hold it together and I know he hid his own pain for my sake too.
But during the commutes and the drives alone, I let myself break down. By then, I had learned that it’s not uncommon for women to miscarry — in fact, it’s 1 in 4 (likely higher). I never asked God, “Why me?” but rather, “Why?”. And I’d venture to guess that most women are asking the same question.
“Why, God?”
Six months later, I write and I’m not sure why. What do I want to say? Who am I writing for? What am I trying to remember?
Last night, my short devotional centered on these verses:
“For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer.” (2 Corinthians 1:5-6)
The takeaway is that our individual sufferings can somehow bring comfort to someone. So here is an attempt to be vulnerable and share how I struggled — how I still struggle — with what happened at the beginning of this year.
Part of me writes to encourage compassion in those who may not know someone who’s miscarried or doesn’t know how to respond. For me, the most unhelpful responses were:
- People saying that miscarriage is very common,
- Others dismissing the miscarriage because it was earlier on,
- Saying I’m young so that’s “good,” or
- Asking when we’d start trying again.
None of these responses were ill-intended but they almost seemed to suggest that the moment was fleeting and I was ready (or should be ready) to pick myself up.
Part of me also writes to reach whoever is going through one of the most heartbreaking moments a woman can go through and to simply say I grieve with you. I’ve not healed yet and I continue to wrestle with God. There was and is a lot of anger, resentment, disappointment, and confusion. For a period of time, I struggled with bad habits and thoughts, hating my body, questioning my worth, and resenting the past moments of joy and anticipation.
During moments alone, I played Through It All by Hillsong on repeat and slowly the words began to speak truth into my heart. The chorus is simple, but it pushed me to seek His face and to turn away from my demons.
“Through it all, through it all, my eyes are on You.
Through it all, through it all, it is well.Through it all, through it all, my eyes are on You.
Through it all, through it all, it is well.”
While some responses I received weren’t the most comforting, the most helpful response came from closest friends, my husband, and my family, who simply mourned and wept with me because they had grown to love the unborn baby as much as I had. And beyond my earthly family was my heavenly Father who grieved even more. For my baby. For me. For my husband. For my broken dreams. For my hopelessness.
I am reminded that He is the only One who’s been with me through all phases of my life, and He has never left my side when I’ve turned ugly, rebellious, and sinful. In the same way, my family wept with my loss at the news of my miscarriage, my God wept.
Now 6 months later, these song lyrics still play through my mind from time to time. And this is what I’ve sought to do, to simply keep my eyes lifted. I don’t know when I’ll heal and how and if God will redeem the miscarriage, but I do know that when my strength and my faith are small, God still walks with me.
And this is my prayer — for myself and for you — that we are reminded that He has already walked many valleys with us. That He grieves more and He does not rush the healing process. That we cast our heaviest burdens on Him. That our eyes will remain on Christ.
Through it all, my eyes are on You.
And He responds that His eyes are on me, too.