Growing up a Jewish girl in the midwest, I was taught that expectant mothers don’t announce their pregnancy until the second trimester. Twelve weeks was the time when we were miraculously saved from loss. Passing that landmark is like a guarantee for having a live baby.
Once I passed the 12th week of pregnancy with my first child, I felt I had the ability to share an early ultrasound photo with my husband and two dogs. I am eager to be showered with support, advice and lots of diapers. I followed this unspoken rule and never had reason to question it, but that all changed when I experienced a pregnancy loss.
On the day before Thanksgiving in 2021, I was told five words no parent wants to hear: “Your baby doesn’t have a heartbeat.” After three excruciating ultrasounds to confirm death, I lay on the table, 8 months pregnant, unable to move or breathe.
It took all my strength to call my husband, who was at the park with my daughter enjoying an unusually warm day. Little did he know that his life, would now be stained with great sadness and all-consuming. My OB said I can go celebrate Thanksgiving with my family and let labor begin on its own, but the thought of carrying a dead baby into my body for another day, let alone another second, sent me racing to Triage for an induction.
That day, I learned that stillbirth mothers had to deliver their sleeping babies and leave the hospital empty-handed. I will not be the mother of my child on earth. Devastation doesn’t seem to fully encompass how deep the grief is.
At the time, only a few people knew I was expecting—close family, close friends and my yoga students who saw me go round and round with each passing month. I chose not to announce that pregnancy (a complicated decision to announce early) because it came directly after a missed miscarriage 10 months prior.
Out of superstition and fear, I thought that keeping my pregnancy to myself might protect me from bad things happening, but I was totally wrong. Instead, it made the job of sharing my loss harder and more shocking. The act of withholding the announcement and loss of my pregnancy isolated me and further stigmatized pregnancy loss as something wrong or shameful.
I did not intentionally isolate myself at a time when I needed support.
I shared my story the only way I knew how—vulnerably and widely on Twitter. I posted a picture holding my son, Fox, after the delivery. My tear-soaked face and the purple baby hit the thousands of people who flocked to me in support.
Related: Heartfelt quotes for grieving a stillbirth
What had been the most isolating, questionable topic of conversation was out in the open, and that felt like a relief. I don’t have to keep quiet. I can practice conversations with safe people who have been through the same horror. I will find organized support groups, foundations and, most importantly, I will learn how to better communicate my needs in the future.
After burying my son, slogging through every month after, shedding my past self afraid of what other people think, my husband and I decided to try again for a live baby. Instead of waiting to announce we were pregnant after 12 weeks, we announced as soon as we heard a heartbeat with our own ears (and we weren’t alone in that decision.)
Sharing a pregnancy announcement after a loss
We quickly realized that getting pregnant after a loss isn’t hard because you’re simultaneously grieving your loss while also preparing for a new life (spoiler: almost impossible.) It’s hard because of the conversations and opinions that invite such news—it turns out people believe in what our timeline of grief and pregnancy will look like after a loss.
Our pregnancy announcement invited all kinds of responses from, “Don’t you think you should torture your son longer?” in “You are very brave. I will never survive a loss like that and try again” until “Stay positive. It will work this time.
Related: What is a rainbow baby? What to know about getting pregnant after pregnancy loss
Some want us to mourn our baby forever and others want to cling to our good news in the hope that it will take away or replace our tragic death.
Sharing is work. Sharing means answering personal questions and teaching others that it’s OK to accept the meaning of preventing death and growing life in the same small space. Sharing means defining what support looks like. Sharing means asking for help, giving grace to those who don’t understand, and letting go of relationships that don’t feel supportive.
The surprising benefits of an early pregnancy announcement
Despite all the work, announcing our pregnancy early gave us a chance to heal from the times we chose to keep quiet.
At 34 weeks, I continue to have open conversations with friends, strangers, on social media. Every week I post pictures of my stretchy stomach, bruised from daily blood-thinning injections. Just being present as a pregnant missing mother creates a space for others to share their own journeys, wisdom, and concerns. It gives families, lost at sea, a rough navigation system in times of distress.
Breaking the stigma of pregnancy loss is empowering, even though I won’t have a live baby (although we hope so!) Mothers and birthers don’t have to be silent just because that’s our historical narrative.
We are slowly breaking down those walls and finally, more people are realizing that our babies, whether in utero or outside, thing. Our stories thingso make an early announcement.
