When Grief Feels Invisible: A Note for Women Who Have Lost a Baby
(For miscarriage, pregnancy loss, or early infant loss)
You may not have had a baby shower.
You may not have held your baby in your arms.
There may be no birth certificate, no funeral, no framed photo on the wall.
But the grief is suffocating.
And sometimes the hardest part… is how invisible it all feels.
The world keeps spinning.
People don’t always know what to say — or they say the wrong thing.
They rush past it.
They want you to feel better.
They offer silver linings you didn’t ask for:
“At least it was early.”
“You can try again.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
But what you needed was for someone to say:
I’m so sorry. This matters. Your baby matters. And your grief is real.
You’re not being dramatic. You’re being human.
Grief doesn’t require a timeline, a headstone, or a full-term pregnancy to be valid.
Grief can come crashing in:
When you see someone else’s bump or ultrasound photo
When your body still feels pregnant, but your arms are empty
When you’re smiling through someone’s baby shower, barely breathing
When you’re navigating postpartum symptoms without a baby to show for it
This pain doesn’t have to be justified.
Maybe you tell yourself that you’re not allowed to grieve because this “isn’t like losing a grandma or someone who has lived a long time.” But I’m here to tell you that may make it even more painful. It’s so hard when there’s nothing tangible to hold onto and you’re just left with empty arms.
If you’ve felt like you had to keep it quiet…
If you’ve minimized your own loss because you didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable…
If you’ve avoided bringing it up because people don’t “get it”…
If you’ve wondered if it even counts as grief…
Let me gently remind you:
Your loss counts.
Your story counts.
Your grief counts.
And you don’t have to carry it alone.
You’re allowed to slow down.
If getting through the day takes more effort than you thought…
If you feel exhausted, numb, angry, or guilty…
If joy feels far away right now…
That’s not weakness. That’s grief.
And grief is not something to fix.
It’s something to honor.
You don’t have to be “strong” right now.
You don’t have to find the lesson or make meaning right away.
You don’t have to be okay.
You get to fall apart.
You get to weep, rage, feel nothing, or feel everything.
You get to miss someone who was real — even if the world didn’t get to meet them.
And you deserve space to do that with someone who gets it.
You are not alone.
And you don’t have to grieve in silence.
If you’re ready to talk with someone who will hold this with you — gently, safely, and without rushing — I’m here.
