Why I Shared The News of My Miscarriage on Facebook

I lost my baby at 14 weeks, 2 days.

I had gone in for a routine doctor’s appointment by myself, and the nurse’s aide couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat—the heartbeat that had been loud and strong just four weeks earlier at my first ultrasound. The nurse practitioner couldn’t find it either, and another ultrasound confirmed my worst fear: my baby was gone.

As can be expected, I burst into tears when the doctor spoke the words out loud: “Your baby… is not alive anymore.” It was the worst moment of my life, bar none. They told me I would have to deliver the baby the next day.

When I left the doctor’s office, I sat in my car, still crying, and made two phone calls: one to my husband, who was at work, and one to my mom, who was home with my children. I text messaged my best friend, but other than that, I didn’t feel like I wanted many people to know. I felt ashamed, confused, and shocked. I felt like my body had betrayed me. Keeping this tragedy to myself and a few close members of my circle who needed to know felt like a way to protect myself and to protect the memory of the baby whom I’d lost.

But soon, I changed my mind. While I was in the hospital in labor (I was induced the next evening and labored through the night), I decided that the aftermath of this tragedy would be much easier for me personally to handle if I shared what was happening online. I felt that letting 600 of my “closest friends” know all at once would save me from a lot of difficult conversations in person later on and would prevent the awkward, “When’s your due date again?” or “How’s the baby doing?” questions from acquaintances who hadn’t heard what had happened. I talked to my husband about it, and he explained that he supported whatever decision I made regarding social media and our terrible news.

When I really considered the idea of it, of allowing many people (some of whom were practically strangers) into the most fragile time in my life by sharing this news, I felt afraid. But I had posted an adorable photograph of my two older children holding a sign with the words “Oldest” and “Middle” written on it to indicate their “rank” in our family (and to obviously make known the fact that my youngest child would now be in the middle with a younger sibling on the way) just a month or two earlier, so everyone knew that I was pregnant. Wouldn’t it be easier to shed light on our tragedy the same way I had told the world our good news? I felt torn, but it seemed like the easiest way. 

At 5 a.m., shortly before my angel baby was born, I posted to Facebook, “The past few days have been very, very difficult with the loss of the baby we were expecting. Thank you to those who have sent kind words, love, and prayers. Please continue to pray for us.” I didn’t check my Facebook account for a while after that, since I was faced with the actual delivery of the baby and the myriad of emotions that followed.

Over the next few days, I received 139 comments on the post and 86 “Likes,” which I’m assuming were a way of wordlessly showing support for my family and me without having to try to find the right thing to say. I was astonished by the response I received, as the purpose of my post wasn’t to draw attention to my family, but to simply allow many people to quickly and easily learn of what had happened. The messages ranged from words of sympathy to words of emotional support to kindness and love in general. I was blown away by the compassion of my “friends” from Facebook, many of whom I’d lost touch with over the years or didn’t see all that often.

But the comments and likes weren’t all. I received countless inbox messages from women who had been through the same situation. They told me that if I needed anyone to talk to, they were there. They said that they understood the pain I was feeling, and that they were so sorry that I had to undergo the same process many of them had experienced. The words were simple, but they were beautiful and meant everything to me at that point in time.

And the kindness of my friends and family who had read about the loss of our child on Facebook spread to “real life,” too. I received cards from friends and family members, as well as some women whom I’d had no idea had experienced pregnancy loss, but who explained in their messages that they too knew how I felt, and that they were sorry. The cards weren’t all: we received flowers as well.

We named our baby Grant. And on the day of his burial, I hadn’t anticipated anyone other than my immediate family members attending, but when I pulled up to the cemetery in my car, there were about twenty people there waiting with flowers in the freezing cold January weather. I felt angry for a moment, because this felt all too personal and private for these people to see, but when my grandmother said to me “Just remember that they’re here because they care,” I remembered how uplifting the words of those who had reached out to me on social media had been. I welcomed the presence of anyone who wanted to mourn the loss of my child by my side.

Death is a part of life, but it’s a part of life that is difficult to accept, especially when it’s unexpected and we are ill-prepared. I hadn’t expected to lose my baby boy, but reality is that some things are just out of our control, regardless of the rules we follow and the steps we take to ensure good health and safety.

After we experience a loss, grieving is hard, and people grieve in different ways, navigate through the process differently and at different rates. I thought I would grieve alone. I thought I would protect myself and my heart by grieving quietly, by only disclosing the information to those whom it was necessary to tell. But I was so wrong.

Sharing my loss and some of my grief on social media turned out to be a life saver for me. I found myself in the darkest place I had ever been in my life, and I was able to connect, through social media, with others who had been through loss, who understood me, and who offered their support. Looking back, I don’t know what I would have done had I not written that post.

Miscarriage is a taboo subject, and I don’t know why. Why did I feel guilty, ashamed, and embarrassed to tell the world what had happened to me, to my baby? It wasn’t my fault, and I hadn’t caused it.

Why are we sharing only the good parts of our lives on social media? Why are we afraid to show our hurt, our pain, our sadness, yet so eager to share our accomplishments, our moments of pride? Do we not want people to know that we are real? That we feel deep emotions? Are we trying to “hide our crazy” from the public eye? I don’t think it’s necessary. I think it’s okay to tell others what’s happening in our lives, especially in times where we need support, encouragement, and love. That’s what our “friends” are for, isn’t it?

Morgan Starr is a teacher, a wife, and a mother of two little boys, with one more baby on the way. When she isn’t busy ranting about comma splices in her classroom or chasing her kids around the house, she can be found blogging at www.rookiemommyraisingboys.com, tweeting @rookie_mommy, or posting on Facebook at www.facebook.com/rookiemommyraisingboys