By Sanda Rathamone

Grieving Mother: "Where's My Baby Gone?" Remembrance of Aborignal Children of the "Stolen Generation," South Australia. By, Silvio Appoyi

The end of 2017 is here, but I cannot find it in my heart to make any new years resolutions or even new hopes for 2018. Although we lost Elijah halfway through 2016, this year was the hardest for me.

Especially because I had hoped that this year was going to be "THE YEAR" that we would become pregnant again.

I wish that I could bid farewell to grief, along with a goodbye to 2017, so I could just "move on" with my life. Sadly, I will not be saying goodbye for very long time; the truth is, grief just doesn't end. I will get to say hello to another year of grief, which I'm not looking forward to, but that is the reality of surviving after loss.

There's just no way that grief disappears after one year, two, or even ten, twenty, thirty years and more. We just learn how to live with it. 

Yet, as I look back, there are so many things throughout the year that I am very proud of. Most of which were things I have learned. So below, I made a list of things I learned about grieving the loss of a baby. Things that I have struggled to overcome, accept, or am still struggling with.


1. Grieving solo can be inspiring. 

I took a lot of walks alone and after these walks, I felt so much better. Maybe things haven't been solved or improved or changed in the way I would like, but at least my mind was cleared of clutter.

I found some time to let out tears that were long overdue or heal myself with the beauty of mother nature, which made me so grateful for life. Being and walking alone always gives me inspiration to write a new blog post or discover some new perspective that I couldn't have seen or thought of before, unless I was by myself.

I used to think that grief was a lonely experience because I just felt that no one understood me, but every time I made an effort to "getaway," I could hear myself better. My confusion turned into confidence and although I felt that no one understood me, I understood myself better. It was only during these walks that I knew that I was going to be okay and regained clarity of what I wanted and needed in life.

Being alone also helped me find solace in prayer and talking with God. I have never needed spiritual guidance more than I have before, nor have I ever looked more deeply into my own spiritual needs and spirituality.

2. Infertility is another form of grief and needs to be expressed, too. 

I didn't realize it until much later, but I wasn't just grieving the loss of my son. I was also grieving many more losses.

I was grieving long before I knew I was (before finally conceiving Elijah). I found that infertility can make grieving after stillbirth much more intense than it already was. Every month, there is this cycle of hoping for another baby, along with the disappointment when it doesn't arrive. This cycle of hope and disappointment piled up and at times, went to the extreme.

Some months, I felt that I was going to get pregnant and even believed I was. I thought I had read the "signs" correctly. Then, in many other months, I just cried and cried because I was crushed from the reality that there was no baby. It was overwhelming and made me feel like I didn't deserve a baby at all - it really dug into my self-esteem and made me feel worse.

Every month that a baby doesn't arrive, I grieve the loss of an opportunity and a life that could have been. And there was nothing I could do about it, but to tell the world of how much it hurts. Because there is more to grief than just mourning over life.

I learned that you could grieve over the loss of hope.

3. What works for me may not work for you. What works for you may not work for others. 

We lost Elijah for about a year-and-a-half now and since I have started blogging, I would receive messages from mothers asking for my help. I would never consider myself an expert or even know exactly how to help mothers through their grief, but later learned that not everyone could find healing in the same ways or things as I did.

Some are more private about loss, some are open. Some need to blame and curse, while others just needed a creative outlet. Some find certain things difficult, others find things easier. And that is okay!

The point is: be welcoming and respectful as much as possible.

Awhile back, I thought that the quote,"Everything happens for a reason" was absurd. People would use this as if it was an excuse to say, "I'm not sure what to say, other than that's life. Period." They would further tell me to "be grateful" - not that I wasn't or don't know how to be! Then again, for what reason would I have to lose my baby and am I really being ungrateful?

Soon, I discovered my purpose through loss (as a healer) and surprisingly found comfort in that quote. Unfortunately, some are not at that place in grief, like how I was before, or could ever fathom the idea that there may be a possible purpose in their loss. It didn't take me too long to learn that grief is a part of our journey in life and there are so many ways to grieve and different kinds of grief. I learned that through any kind of loss, we are able to see things in a different and much needed light.

We are exposed to a new kind of knowledge and with that newfound wisdom we are able to live life closer to it's fullest, as well as gain the ability to teach and help others through a similar experience.

I have accepted that, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear" and that my position in grief is to allow others the space to grieve - not give advice - but instead, show others that they possess the wisdom and power to heal themselves.

Not to mention how there is no "one-size-fits-all" in grief, everyone grieves and heals differently, and on their own time.

4. Being brave is not always about being present, but also knowing when to rest. 

I would put on a "brave face" every day at work, at school, even at home. I would try to hide my sadness, even though sometimes, my facial expressions completely failed me. I believed that I needed to push myself and be this strong woman that everyone expected me to be or to "suck it up" and "put on my big girl panties."

But, all that pushing and face masking is exhausting and I often didn't want to go anywhere that required me to mask my grief. Sometimes, I couldn't go to work because I was tired of pretending to "be happy" and making others comfortable through a smiley face and a hard working attitude. No matter how much I tried to just focus on work or school, grief was waiting for me to break apart.

It's a brave thing to be fearless and put yourself out there, but it also requires bravery and courage to tell others what you need and unapologetically take care of yourself. Bravery isn't always about being a fierce lion, it's also about being a bear, who knows when to hibernate.

We can only pretend to be strong for so long.

5. What you do matters more than what others do. 

This really took some time to sink in.

After being called "selfish, told "to grow up," and "stop whining and complaining" about my grief and infertility, I had realized how judgments, comments, and actions (or inactions) others had and made didn't really matter.

It didn't even matter if others didn't include my baby or didn't talk about him as much I would have liked. What matters was that I did something to include my baby, what matters is that I talked about my baby, and what matters is that I made the effort to do whatever it was I needed to do to heal and feel better.

Taking care of myself in the way that I knew how and needed to, is and was more important than what others thought of me or about how I was doing it. Even if someone was complimenting me or validated my grief; what matters more is that I empowered myself, as much as I did others.

6. Celebrate your victories. Not just the big ones, but the small ones, too. 

I never thought that I would be able to hold a baby again, but I did. I never thought that my blog about loss would reach over 20,000 views, but it did. I never thought that I could be happy for others, but I can be - even though it still hurts like shit and I want to scream and cry because it still doesn't feel fair that I have to watch everyone else have babies and not me.

My sister texted me, "What do you want for Christmas?" I hesitated for a moment. I felt exhausted just thinking about it. I held back my reply, but wanted to say something like, "I want my baby back. And if not Elijah, I want a rainbow baby."

I thought to myself, "She already knows that!"

But nothing could ever replace the one and only gift that I have waited and wanted for so long. 

No amount of money or materialistic thing could top Elijah or a rainbow baby - absolutely nothing at all. I wished and asked for a baby on my twenty-fourth birthday, last Christmas, every day after last Christmas, my twenty-fifth birthday, and now I'm not so sure if I would like to ask for it again. I have already spent years before Elijah wishing for it. I don't want to cry about it or worry about it or be disappointed because of it anymore.

Yet, the heart wants what it wants and there is no denying it. 

I texted my sister back with, "That's a terrible question, but thanks for asking. Don't really want anything." Because what I wanted most, she wouldn't be able to give or buy it anyway. She probably understood; I didn't mean to sound depressing or ruin her generosity.

She texted back, "Well, what do you like and is interested in so that if by any chance and coincidentally buy you a gift that involved your interest that you would accept around the day of giving..."

The funny thing is, she already knows the things I like. And a gift isn't really a gift if I am having to ask for it. Right? Right??...  Maybe she just wanted to get me something that would make me happy, even if I couldn't get exactly what I wanted.

So, I thought about it and still, a baby just couldn't get out of my mind. I started to cry. I ended up telling her that I wanted to get an angel for Elijah, but couldn't find the right one or never had the opportunity. Funny how if she couldn't get me a baby, she could just get something for Elijah and that would make me "happy."

Even if he would never get to use it, play with it, or see it, or unwrap it himself, it is still a nice thought that someone other than myself or his daddy is thinking of him.

I had hoped that someone would remember to include Elijah this Christmas. I wonder if anyone did or ever will.

Deep down, I feel that Christmas isn't for me - it's for Elijah.

All I could think about is how emotional I get when I think of Christmas without him. Ha, funny how I'm "thinking" about "feeling." But really though, that's why I can't do Christmas eve with the in-laws. I don't want to show up and pretend to be "okay" when I'm really not. I don't want the hug or a pity party either.

I just want my baby. I just want a rainbow.

Every time we see a rainbow or two - or two pink lines - we will always look at it in amazement, at how magnificent the sight of it truly is. We wonder, how did it get here? Does it have an ending? Will it stay?

Where does it go after it disappears?

That's how I feel about rainbow babies and two pink lines; it's all alluring, breathtaking, but could also be an illusion. My biggest fear is that if there is a rainbow - now or someday - that it could be taken back and disappear like it never existed, like what happened to Elijah. Maybe not in the same way as Elijah, but in whatever way, I'm not sure I could "re-live" my life all over again.

Besides that fear, there is the possibility that not all storms end with rainbows. Or that I just might not ever see two lines again. I'm not sure if I could accept that just yet.

But, I do understand and can accept that rainbows don't belong under a tree, rainbows belong in our hearts, no matter how much we ache to witness its glory with our eyes and our empty arms.

~

So, Dear Santa,

I'd understand if you can't put a rainbow under the tree. Instead, I'd like the little box of hope that I lost 23 days ago, even though with it comes a little pain and the possibility that I will have to make some more of it again.

Sanda.

YOU MAY ALSO LIKE:

By Sanda Rathamone

Artwork by, Aidan Koch.

We were in the kitchen, eating together. It was amusing to watch how my husband's infant niece just couldn't stay still in his arms while he was trying to feed her. So, back to grandpa she goes.

It has now been seventeen months without Elijah and I wish that I could find the right words to describe how painful the holidays feel without him. The only word that I could think of is: incomplete.

It's not a real Thanksgiving without Elijah. 

This year's Thanksgiving would be Elijah's first (where he could actually be seated at the table)... oh how there are so many firsts that I wish we could witness with him...

Today, he would be a year-and-almost-a-month-old, nearly thirteen months. He would be the light in my eyes and the joy in my smile, while we enjoy Thanksgiving dinner. He, along with Jazmine - his younger cousin - would be the highlight of our family bonding, they would be playing together.

It was not only difficult for me to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday the past week, it was also a dreadful couple of days before Thanksgiving.

My health professor ended our class with a video about gratitude from the perspectives of a young girl and an old man. And while watching this video, I couldn't help but feel so ungrateful. It's strange because the past few or so months, I have felt so grateful for life! It just didn't make any sense of how watching this video now made me feel that there was nothing left to be grateful for. I just couldn't shun the thought that Elijah should be here.

Moreover, this Thanksgiving would be the first holiday that I would actually stay home and celebrate with my husband's family. I knew that a part of me would struggle in keeping my grief "in check."

And then yesterday, my child development professor mentioned the very question that shattered my heart.

She asked, "Could you please raise your hands if you are a parent?"

Of course, we talk about preschoolers, babies, and pregnancy in this class - I'm a child development major and know to expect questions like this - but it still hurts to hear this question. Because I know that she is asking based on the intent to receive answers from or explain something to "experienced" parents. I also know that she does not mean to cause any emotional harm to stillbirth parents and most likely is unaware of the effects of this question to those who grieve a loss or even struggle with infertility.

But it hurts and that's my truth. It. hurts. 

I wanted to raise my hand, I wanted to say, "me, too." when she said, "oh, there's only just a few of us." She made it sound like it was a "club" to be a parent. But, I didn't say anything nor raised my hand. I just sat there feeling like I betrayed Elijah - I should have raised my hand.

Is it stupid to admit that I feel guilty for not doing so?

Thanksgiving dinner turned out to be just as I expected: a house full of family, a busy kitchen, lots of food, some conversations, a bit of laughter, and most of all, all eyes on Jazmine, including mine. I only wish that she was not the only baby present and that she and Elijah would be sharing toys and crawling and climbing on all and any surface they could reach.

Elijah would be just four months older than Jazmine, possibly showing her the ropes to things he has learned to do...

I sat just across from Jazmine and her mother and felt that Elijah should be in my lap, eating with me -  even something as small as this means so much to me. But, my lap felt empty, my arms incomplete. Although, I did feel that Elijah was trying to comfort me - he sent me his numbers to remind me that he is always with me.

Maybe that is why I am writing this: to show parents with living children that it is such a blessing to be in the presence of your children and them of you. To cherish every moment with your child, to hold on tight to them, and to kiss them every chance you get. Because there will never be another moment just like this one.

My health professor also said that, "When we are asked what we are grateful for, no one really mentions materialistic things." But, who knows? There might actually be someone who does!

It took me a little while, but I rediscovered what I am grateful for:

I am grateful for having one of two hearts that ultimately knows what it means and how it feels to love Elijah. There is no other deeper love than the love for those we have lost. 

Happy First Thanksgiving, Elijah.
We miss you.

Elijah Rathamone-Saeteurn
Born June 16, 2016 @6:51 a.m.
10 inches 9.9 ounces
Due October 30, 2016

Must Reads: 

Lately, I have been seeing and hearing the names Elizabeth and Sarah. I seem be to attracted to or purchase books whose author has the name Elizabeth or see this name in random places such as someone’s name on social media.

Sure, these names are probably very common, but for someone who does not know many Elizabeths or Sarahs or even come across these names often, well, I know that my encounters are actually not random at all. 

They say that if you tell others your birthday wish that it will not come true. If I do not tell others my birthday wish...

With just days nearing Elijah's Due Date, the anxiety is catching up to me.

A Day before Halloween should be the day that Elijah was supposed to be born. He would be one. He would be mommy's big boy, taking his first wobbly steps. Instead, there will never be any steps or any walking or Elijah at all this coming up Monday.

Instead, his first birthday was this past June - which feels so long ago - and there won't be any cake on his Due Date. Although, there will be moments of memories flooding through my mind and perhaps some tears here and there. Because I am so sure that I will be disappointed in that he should have been born a year ago - around this time of the month.

He should also be among the other little toddlers on Halloween, trick-or-treating in a mini costume.

I really don't want to bring up everything, even though I can remember it all from the moment of finding out that I was pregnant to the moment I felt his tiny body slip out of me. It is because I don't want to relive the terrorizing memories in the hospital all over again. Because repeating his story is like running in circles.

I really just want to close the book.

It's funny though, I have never seen the movie The Book of Eli nor researched about it's relevance to the Prophet Elijah. And I'm pretty sure that Denzel Washington has made the movie worth watching. Maybe the movie will give me some kind of confirmation or closure or help me understand why of all names did I even choose Elijah.

Perhaps, I wasn't the one who choose it anyway - it was him who did. I truly believe that somehow, Elijah choose his own name because it was unlikely that I would have chosen a biblical name if I was not pregnant with him. He would have been 'Kaiden' or my husband's fond in 'Sebastian.' To be honest, Sebastian always reminds me of Ariel's crab from The Little Mermaid and it makes me laugh and I seriously could not take the name seriously... until now.

But, what I do know is that even with disappointment and grief, I have this inner calling telling me to finally say goodbye.

Another funny thing is that my husband and I have said our goodbyes on the day that we placed a strand of my hair in his tiny hands before we gave up his body to the mortician and the five days that we spent traveling, searching for the five perfect places to release his ashes. It's like we could never really say goodbye; we never even got to say 'hello.'

Yet, I have had this feeling for a little while now and I'm not sure where it's coming from or exactly why I'm feeling it. I guess I have never actually "let him go" and couldn't. But somehow, I know that it is time to close the book about Elijah. Though this doesn't mean that I am going to tuck it in and hide it from the world. Rather, I am now putting Elijah's book on a shelf and hope that some day, someone else will want to read about him and take great loving care of his book, because he taught me so many wonderful things.

He taught me more about resilience, faith, trust, forgiveness, acceptance, and motherhood than anyone else ever could. Most of all, he taught me how to love and let go. I have to admit that I am not a professional at loving others or 'letting go,' but if it wasn't for Elijah, would I have truly understood these very basic, but difficult human aspects, especially after death?

Maybe I am too much of a 'life-long learner' for you, but I also have to admit that there were many good things that came out of losing Elijah - one of them being I am much more beautiful, more stronger, more wiser, in the world because of my pain. Though, do not be fooled if you think that I am saying this out of vanity and rather it is more so out of my vulnerability and strength that I didn't know I had and have had to draw upon everything and nothing I had.

When you're a loss mom, you endure one of the most terrible things in life and that makes you one of the most strongest souls out there. 

On the other hand, saying goodbye requires an even stronger soul and that is exactly what I have been working on the past year up until this very moment.

A couple weeks ago, I had this dream - it was unlike any other dream I have had about babies (I have had plenty of baby dreams before I was pregnant and after loss).

And like most of these baby dreams, they're always so strange, but a telling of something.

My husband and I have a king-sized bed and in this dream showed me on our bed, but in another bedroom. I couldn't recognize the bedroom, but for sure knew that it was our very same bed because it had the same sheets and blankets. 

On our bed lay so many babies - at least two dozen of them. The strange part is, these babies were... dead. They were all wrapped in a bundle, a receiving blanket and each wore a baby hat - the ones given from the hospital. I felt in this dream that all of these babies belonged to a mother who had lost them and I was somehow connected to them. I wanted to show the world how important these babies were.

And even Elijah was there in his bundle. He looked exactly as he did the day that he passed. I held Elijah for a moment, but felt that my time with him was over. So, I lovingly and gently put him aside. 

I saw that there was this girl who did not look like the other babies and appeared just after I put down Elijah. For some reason, I was so attracted to her, as if she was calling out to me. Moreover, she didn't even look like a baby, she looked a bit like a doll with clothes on. Her eyes looked lively and had curly hair. All I wanted to do was hold her and take a photo of her. It was like she was "the one" that I wanted to take with me and show my husband. 

Another strange thing was that I felt that she had also belonged to someone before, but she was attracted to me. There was this mutual feeling or some kind of connection between the both of us. A part of me felt guilty and confused because I wasn't sure I was to take or leave her. 

After that dream, I have had this strong need to say my final goodbyes to Elijah. And that maybe the next one will be a girl...

Only time will tell.

'Happy Due Date,' Elijah. Mommy loves you.


YOU MAY ALSO LIKE: 

"Dear Elijah,

I am writing this a few days ahead of time. Something's been on my mind a lot or shall I say, it has been a constant thought and worry since you've left.

As I am writing this, I am four days late - now a whole week. I know that in some months, it takes a bit longer to arrive and need to be patient, but I just cannot handle the sight of blood. I just hope not to see it this month. It always brings me back to the harsh times before I was pregnant with you, desperate for a baby. There is just too much reoccurring disappointment and I struggle finding some kind of way to keep me afloat through it all. This faith I have for another baby isn't as strong as I would like it to be; it has already been 16 long and lonely months without and after you.

The night before, I thought it still might be a little too early and should wait at least another week or so or until there was a definite sign. Although, I have this inkling feeling, an inner knowing...

Yet again, it could just all be an illusion and here I go again with doubting myself and what I want.

I awoke this morning (Oct. 13th) with that same feeling, that perhaps it is not the right time.

But I couldn't wait. I had to know. 

A part of me really wants to believe in miracles, the other part of me will not, until something happens. For me, a positive pregnancy test would be considered a miracle. The only time I ever saw two lines was when I found out I was pregnant with you. Sadly, I have thrown away numerous negative tests throughout the past few years or so and have never gotten used to it.

It hurts - every time. 

It's strange to say that it hurts, even though there is no wound, no physical proof that I am hurting. Disappointment actually hurts like a wound, a gash that never heals.

It's funny that I am writing this on October 13th, because today is exactly 20 months from the day that I took a pregnancy test. On February 13, 2016, I was upset over a negative pregnancy test, but just 13 days after that test, I found out I was pregnant with you. Interesting how I am just realizing that this number "13" is somehow significant.

It would be a definite surprise if it happened again in that very same way, but I hope that this time, we get to keep the baby.

Unfortunately, this test like that other one and so many others, came out negative. The thing I hate about negative pregnancy tests is that it starts to make my whole day "negative." It makes me feel sad, frustrated, unworthy; it disrupts my "positive" attitude and my self-worth. I cannot concentrate on anything else because my mind is too wrapped around these stupid questions that visit me over and over again:

"Why am I not pregnant? When will I get pregnant? What is wrong? What am I supposed to do now? What does it take?"

What more DOES it take?

I cannot bear the thought that you might have been the only one I will ever have and that maybe I am just not meant to have children. It makes me cry - it torments me - when I start to think that my "mission" in life will not include creating, birthing, and raising my own children. It's heartbreaking that I sometimes feel that you aren't truly mine, that you belong to God and not with me.

On my way to school, I don't know why I asked you to help me let go. I felt that I had to. 

And then, on the way home, a song came up on Pandora, you probably know it because I believe that you sent it to me.

"Pray" by Sam Smith.

This song reminds me of this one time in middle school that I did a research paper on a gospel singer. Though, I recall that she died from an overdose, which I had hoped wasn't true - she had a beautiful voice. I wish I remembered her name, but do remember listening to her songs and felt her strength and glory. She was powerful and like the song "Pray," it gave me this powerful and overwhelming courage to pray. And so I did. I felt that you wanted me to pray.

The prayers I sent were in clusters, but all of them was about this miracle baby, like how you came to me when I finally prayed to God. All I want is to be blessed with a second chance and let go of the thought that I might never have it.

There's just nothing else in my life that I want more and is ready for than this. 

I just know that I am supposed to be a mom, I can't explain it. I feel it and have lived with it for some time now, even way before you. And it hurts having this phantom feeling that I'm not even sure is really there. Is anything even real anymore?

Lately, I have been hearing the song "You Are My Sunshine." Some mornings, I wake up hearing and singing it in my head. I know that somehow, you are sending me this song, just like how you sent me "Pray." Yet, it makes me very sad when I hear the part that says, "please, don't take my sunshine away." I feel like I am begging to not have you taken away from me. I feel like something or someone is taking away my sunshine.

If I ever had a past life, I wonder if that was what has happened to me before, that my child was stolen from me. Maybe this explains why it took me so long to get pregnant and why I lost you. And just maybe, I am supposed to learn how to let go of everything, but most of all, of fear.

I am afraid that if I let you go, you were the only one I had. But maybe, I am holding on too tight. Maybe I cannot have another baby or truly love another baby, until I have released my yearning and fear of losing you or any other baby. Maybe that is why I asked you to help me in the first place.

When I was reading the book that your daddy picked for your baby cousin Jazmine, again, I think I was right to have asked you for help. Because once I read this one part about "the auntie," I realized that this auntie was me. I still question the title of being her aunt, but the more I open up to her, the more it seems that she is here for a reason - partly on your behalf.

I don't think I could ever love her the way that I love you, but I know that she is here to show me how to love her, without you. Perhaps that is why she is comfortable around me because she believes in me, like you do. And I know that you will always be there to guide us along the way.

I never thought that she would ever be happy to see me or that I would be happy to see her. 


And just maybe, she is showing me how to bravely let go of you and the fear of losing.

P.S. Thank you for showing me the way to the magical jewelry box. You are my SONshine."

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. It is also Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. Founded just 3 years after Breast Cancer Awareness, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month was to help lessen the stigma on sharing experiences concerning miscarriages, stillbirths, and infant loss.

"Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month was first declared by President Ronald Reagan on October 25, 1988. 

On that day he said: 

'When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn’t a word to describe them. This month recognizes the loss so many parents experience across the United States and around the world. It is also meant to inform and provide resources for parents who have lost children due to miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, molar pregnancy, stillbirths, birth defects, SIDS, and other causes.'" 

(From:  Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep)



Below, I made a list on why it's important to talk about Pregnancy and Infant Loss: 

• Talking about it helps parents find and receive support (mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually). 
• Parents of loss need a safe environment to grieve
• Help those who may consider suicide 
• Being heard is the most simple and helpful way to heal
• Friends and family are often the first people they need support from
• Talking about it reveals to others that they are not alone. 
• Many parents will often feel alone with their thoughts and emotions or misunderstood 
• Parents may worry that they cannot cope after loss or know what to do
• Many feel lost, confused, or uncertain
• Talking about it provides others with an awareness. 
• Spread information
• Help prepare and provide resources for others and yourself
• Know that this can happen to anyone
• Understand how to become better at providing support 
• Talking about it is acknowledging that they are also parents. 
• Many parents struggle with identity issues and feel excluded, especially on holidays like Mother's and Father's Day
• They may be highly self-critical and struggle with feelings of unworthiness  
• They may struggle with feelings of emptiness 
• Talking about it using different kinds of outlets helps parents through the grieving process. 
• Freedom to be creative and expressive decreases stress and depression
• Being open about grief is the process of "letting go" and "acceptance"
• Parents can connect with others through shared experiences or hobbies 
• Provide parents with a variety of ways to grieve that is suitable to their needs 

Most importantly, talking about it lessens the unnecessary misconceptions and silencing of pregnancy and infant loss. Pregnancy, infant, and child loss is WORLDWIDE. Let's talk about it.

"Remember what it felt like to be excluded so that you can help build a community where everyone is included."



With love,
Must Read: