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

of not only sharing my experience but sparking a much-needed reproductive revolution of sorts. As soon as the New York Times accepted my essay to run on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, October 15, I reached out to a talented calligrapher to see if she would be willing to make some signs I could hold for a photo that would accompany the essay. The sign would read “#IHadaMiscarriage” but I would be faceless in it, so that anyone and everyone could picture themselves holding the very same sign. I wanted to send an unabashed message into the world, and this seemed like the best way I could think of to get conversations rolling about this all-too-common, albeit all-too-neglected, topic. The hashtag hearkened back to my frenzied early text messages to my friends and family, when I’d searched for a feeling of community and the grounding presence, even if it was via the phone, of those who would support me. I wanted to create a national discussion that, in some way, would do the same for those who had experienced the same type of loss. #IHadaMiscarriage would be more than a transference of information. It was meant as a call to action. It was meant as an invitation. It was meant to incite an influx of silenced stories. It was meant to normalize grief and invite those who have felt shamed into silence to share theirs as they find comfort and solidarity in others.

And almost two years to the day after my miscarriage, my piece ran, with the image boldly alongside it. I logged on to my Twitter account and watched as people around the world chimed in with their reproductive hopes and hardships, and shared feelings they no longer wanted to keep silent. It was clear: women worldwide were yearning for a cultural shift, one that would allow these stories to flow freely rather than remain shrouded. A simultaneous sense of relief and overwhelm washed over me as I received emails from people who had survived pregnancy and infant loss and continued putting one foot in front of the other in the aftermath.

I vowed that this was just the beginning. I kept writing. It was as if I couldn’t get myself to stop. I put pen to paper and dove into various aspects of pregnancy loss and life after, as it was clear this was not only helping me process my feelings, but also inspiring others to do the same.

To spread the message further, I started an Instagram account: @IHadaMiscarriage. The followers came in by the thousands. It was clear there was not only a willingness, but a burning desire and a pressing need to shift the cultural landscape by opening a dialogue for all who have experienced these painful losses. And as the number of followers continued to increase, it also became apparent that a primal need to be in communion with others, in both grief and hope, was driving the collective demand for the silence surrounding miscarriage and infant loss to end. Women no longer wanted to do this alone. These women wanted their voices to be heard. These women wanted to step out of the shadows.

My Instagram page became a hub where people could share their loss stories, find fellowship, and receive support. The page grew into a place for people to talk candidly about grief and their complex feelings of failure, fear, indifference, relief, desperation, and isolation. A place to share openly about their seedlings of hope, their crushing disappointment, the messiness of moving “forward,” and, in some cases, the freedom of letting their reproductive dreams go entirely. They would meet in the comments and become real-life friends. They’d support one another through both subsequent losses and successful pregnancies. They’d share parenting hacks, relationship advice, lament about quirky in-laws, and discuss the inconsequential moments of their lives that, in the midst of a loss, can feel overwhelming. For many, they found an online home.

What emerged from a simple hashtag and a personal essay was far from what I had initially planned, but the #IHadaMiscarriage campaign took on a life of its own. What began as a social media endeavor quickly evolved into a robust multiplatform effort. It was even the subject of an academic study exploring the shared experience of miscarriage and how it’s discussed online.2 To this day, on an annual basis, I use the movement to highlight various aspects of pregnancy and infant loss worthy of further investigation.

As my voice in this space grew, national media outlets reached out to me to speak on the topic. I inadvertently became one of the go-to psychologists in the media on the topic of pregnancy and infant loss. It was clear: the world seemed more poised than ever to shine light on a dark subject.

Today, I have an eager and robust community on Instagram joining me in rethinking why there’s trepidation and stigma around saying, “I had a miscarriage.” There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t receive a message or see a comment along the lines of “I refuse to silence my pain any longer. This community has helped me see that I am not alone,” and I am further reminded of the power of replacing the silence, stigma, and shame with the truth of our experiences. I’ve collected more stories than I ever thought possible, communicating with people across the world as they navigate their own reproductive roller coasters. People tell me that the @IHadaMiscarriage Instagram account is one of the first places they turned to after experiencing a pregnancy loss, especially since the relative anonymity of the social media world can shield people from the stigma of miscarriage that is far too often perpetuated by even the most well-intended family members, friends, partners, and loved ones.

My role borne out of the #IHadaMiscarrige movement is one I take seriously, and I’m forever honored to be even a small part of people’s journeys toward sharing their experiences. In turn, some of the community