I Had a Miscarriage Jessica Zucker (top 100 books to read txt) 📖

does or does not experience. Rather, as someone who identifies as a cis woman, and as a psychologist who predominately treats cis women, my use of “woman” is simply a way to remain true to my experience and those of my patients. It does not, in any way, erase the experience of trans, nonbinary, genderqueer, and two-spirit people, who—in addition to shouldering what can be a profound, long-lasting grief associated with pregnancy and infant loss—often have to endure discrimination within the medical community and elsewhere, the erasure of their gender identity, and exclusion from loss communities.

Miscarriage, pregnancy, and infant loss is not just a “woman’s experience.” It does not discriminate.

There is also no “one way” to feel about these specific losses, so while this book does primarily center around the grief and mourning that can and does reside in the wake of a miscarriage, I want to acknowledge and make space for the people who feel indifferent toward their pregnancy losses, or even relieved. Far too often, those who do not experience sadness or anger following a miscarriage, be it privately or publicly, are made to feel defective by a society that has long since demanded female bodies not only procreate but express a deep, innate desire to do so. But there is nothing broken about those who feel thankful for no longer being pregnant, just like there was nothing broken about those who wanted to carry a pregnancy to term, but couldn’t. In these pages, all are welcome.

And I also want to acknowledge that my experience represents just that—my experience. Unlike far too many Black and brown women in this country, I do not face a higher rate of maternal mortality. In the throes of my loss, I did not face the fear of being unable to access the care I needed. I have, based on the color of my skin, benefited from white privilege. And while this privilege does not shield any of us from tragedy, including the loss of a pregnancy, it does protect us from the compounding tragedies incurred by systemic racism. It certainly protected me.

It is my desire to cultivate a space where we can all share our stories if and when we want and need to; a space where they can be honored in whatever way we see fit; a space of understanding, support, and continued healing. So as we wade through this transformational time in our lives, I encourage us to remember that we are all deserving of support. Free from grief hierarchies or timelines, we must be gentle with ourselves during this nascent period and resist comparing and contrasting our stories. Your ache, relief, despair, or indifference is uniquely yours. It is yours to navigate in any way you choose, through whatever feelings arise—be they sadness, anger, hopefulness, neutrality, helplessness, fear, or a mix of them all. Throughout, I earnestly urge you to remember that you did absolutely nothing wrong—nothing to deserve this procreative event. Certain areas of our lives are beyond our control, and reproduction is one of them. It can be difficult to wrap our heads around this reality; to come to terms with the fact that we have no answers or that the concrete answers we do get might confound us all the more. And so sometimes we blame ourselves in the absence of clarity, as we search for something to pinpoint; an anchor to keep us grounded as we weather the barrage of emotional responses. We look for reasons when, more often than not, there are none.

Resist hurling blame—it won’t undo what is done. Pregnancy loss is not a disease that can be cured; it’s not going anywhere—it is, in fact, a normative outcome of pregnancy. And it is therefore a topic we would benefit from engaging in candidly and integrating into everyday conversations, devoid of silence, stigma, and shame. To help ourselves and to help future generations. To normalize the experience, its aftermath, and the grief that flows from it. To allow those of us who have gone through it to be simultaneously vulnerable about our circumstances and lovingly embraced for it.

Wherever you are in your journey, you deserve abounding support. And I hope you will find it in these pages. I am honored to share my story (and those of others) with you in the hope of underscoring and illuminating that you are not alone. Millions of people know this complexity, this pain. We have one another. Support is available for you. I hope you find it here.

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“I thought I was out of the woods.”

I was thirty-nine years old, living in Laurel Canyon, tucked in the hills of Hollywood, adjusting to life with a three-and-a-half-year-old, and had only recently coalesced with the idea of having a second child when I found out I was pregnant again.

I was nervous about having another child. The anticipated juggle felt daunting, but ultimately, after taking stock of my life and that of my family’s, I landed on: doable. I began preparing—pulling dusty nursery gear out of the garage and sifting through newborn onesies our son had grown out of by his seventh week, some half-chewed wooden toys, and a jungle-themed mobile I remember tearing up over when I first unwrapped it four years earlier.

My husband and I started preparing in other, more nuanced, heady ways as well. The mechanics of prepping our home for another human being were relatively simple, but what proved to be even more demanding was the work of readying our minds for this significant transition: going from one kid to two seemed like way more than the sum of its parts. We mulled over the intricate details of life with two children: How would we negotiate our time? How would we manage Jason’s extensive travel schedule for work? How could this shift potentially affect our respective work/life goals? We have always been the kind of parents who aimed to share the emotional labor of child-rearing as equally as we could; our marriage was built on a