Ava Miscarriage Awareness Campaign

Back in October, I received an email from the company Ava, who makes the fertility tracking bracelet that I use. Their head of content and social media, Lindsay, emailed and asked if she could call and chat with me. Based on my answers to a user survey regarding miscarriage, she was interested in hearing my story.

Fertility Nitty Gritty: Ava Bracelet Review

Ava Bracelet

 I stumbled upon an advertisement for a new technology a few years ago: an Ava Bracelet, which was purported to be a wearable fertility tracking technology. It was still in it’s pre-ordering stage, and it was kind of spendy. I read up on the research behind it, and considered all the marketing stuff: videos and explanations for how it worked.

The major reason it drew me in: simplicity.

Fertility challenges often take over your life in a hot hurry. You don’t even realize it’s happened (like the frog in the pot analogy), and soon your whole life seems to revolve around taking pre-natals, false unicorn root (yes, that’s a thing), and taking your Basal Body Temperature every morning. It gets exhausting and time-consuming. But the Ava bracelet was supposed to make all that a little easier, because it’s a wearable tech.

I loved the idea of strapping on the watch-like apparatus, wearing it while I slept, and then syncing it with my phone to collect data that would tell me when I should ovulate. It eliminated the whole “did-I-take-my-temp-at-the-right-time” and “what-if-it-wasn’t-accurate” drama.

So I chatted with my hubs and we decided it was worth a try. I pre-ordered and waited anxiously to get the notification that my Ava shipped.

Fast forward to after’s Ava’s arrival:

I got Ava, started wearing it, and started tracking my cycles. I wore it from the time I got it until I conceived in the summer of 2017, and here are the pros for me:

1.     It’s super easy to use.

2.     The app does all the data tracking/charting/collecting for me, and notifies me when I’m in my fertile window.

3.     I was an “early adopter” of Ava, which meant that I was pulled into an Ava community via Facebook to give feedback on the bracelet. That TTC community was such a great support for me during our fertility journey, plus I loved that Ava was actively seeking out input from real users.

Here’s a few cons:

1.     It’s expensive. Like most new technology, the initial cost is high.

2.     It’s not a magic bullet. I’m not sure this is a “con” exactly, but most of the dissatisfied reviews I have read or come across seem to have this as an underlying theme. Because the user paid a lot of money and didn’t immediately get pregnant, somehow the tech must be faulty. But the good (and bad) news about Ava is that it is, ultimately, just a tool to have in your toolbox for conception.

3.     After becoming pregnant, I found Ava to be a little anxiety inducing, because the temp tracking often dips, and since the temp variation takes place in such a small increment, it can often look like a lot when, in reality, it’s only a tiny drop. But since the chart looks like major change, old-hat BBT charters like me look at the decline and feel a jolt of panic over a possible miscarriage.

Wearable Tech: Ava reads several biometrical
components while you sleep, using them to
calculate your fertile window. 

So here’s my assessment: Ava is an awesome product that can be a really useful tool for those of us that are “reproductively challenged” (to borrow a famous, favorite character). Like any new tech, if you’re going to take the plunge, I think it’s important to remember two major facts: first, that early adopting tech is often expensive; and second, there is no technology that is a magic fix for fertility issues.

I wish I could promise that if you get an Ava and use it, you will conceive. Sadly, that’s just not true. But Ava can help you narrow in on your fertile window, which can dramatically improve your chances of conception. And the simple-to-use concept can also cut down on TTC stress that so many women experience when they spend so much time focused on trying to make a baby.

"Hills and Valleys": Thoughts on Miscarriage and Faith

Back in September, I had the privilege of speaking to the congregation at the local church Hubster and I attend. Our pastor, Ian, has been an incredible support and encouragement to Hubs and I as we've walked through our fertility journey, as have many individuals in our church family.

Ian had been preaching a series called "Hills and Valleys," focused on the way that the Lord guarantees that He will be with us through the ups and downs of life. And those ups and downs, by the way, are also guaranteed. 

When Ian first started the series, he played a song at the closing of the first week's message, called "Hills and Valleys" by a Christian artist named Tauren Wells. It's such a beautiful song, with a melody and lyrics that cut right to my soul every time. 

If you have a minute, listen up:  

Beautiful, right? 

I love these lines in particular: "On the mountain I will bow my life to one who set me there, and in the valley I will lift my eyes to one who sees me there." The first line strikes me hard because it's so difficult to remember to bow our lives to the Lord when everything is going well--I know I get lulled pretty quickly into a sense of control and stability. And it's hard to lift your eyes to Him when things are dark too, because we're so quick to blame God or get angry at him about the valley we are walking through. 

But this song spoke to me, because this fertility journey that I've been on has caused me to really take a look at myself and my faith. 

So I want to share here what I spoke about at church, because the difficulties of the past few years have been some of the most influential of my entire adult life. 

In January of 2012, if someone had said, “You’ll be married by the end of the year,” I would have laughed (politely, I’m sure) in their face. At the time, I wasn’t walking with the Lord, and the thought of something like happening in my life was absurd.

But around the 1st of February that year, I had what I call a divine appointment that changed

my life. I walked back to the Lord. ON the 10th, I met my future husband, and God set me on a mountaintop higher than I’d ever imagined for myself. Jon and I married in October of 2012, a hilltop moment for sure. But it wasn’t long into married life before we found ourselves trudging into a valley--a valley we would walk from the end of 2013 to the end of 2016.

I was definitely diagnosed with a gynecological disease called Endometriosis, which has all kinds of implications for my overall health. The most significant of which is potential fertility. Endo doesn’t always cause infertility, but in our case, it sure appeared to. As we began trying to have a baby, the valley seemed to get darker, and darker, and longer, and longer.

Soon, I felt as though God had abandoned me. I resonated with David in Psalm 13--”Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?”--and even though I knew the truth of the end of the Psalm--“I will sing the Lord’s praise, for He has been good to me”--I couldn’t seem to find a way to feel it.

Then, in April of 2016, Jon and I experienced an early miscarriage. Our first sweet baby, whom we named Asa Raye, went home to be with Jesus. It was so early that we don’t even know if Asa was a boy or girl; that’s something we won’t know this side of heaven, though we’ll get to know one day. The miscarriage crushed me, utterly. I couldn’t understand how God could let this happen to us. Never before in my life had I experienced a valley this dark, and I’ll be honest--I wasn’t handling this well. I was angry and confused and felt so isolated.

But then, in December, I had another one of those divine appointments. It was right about the time our sweet Asa Raye would have been due. God met me in a big way, and there in that moment, I face what the whole valley had been about. You see, I had been thinking all along that it was about getting pregnant. But the reality was that the journey was really about my faith.

And the key question was: would I continue to let my faith be overtaken by my fear? Fear and anxiety have been companion for many years, and through the valley, I realized my fear had grown so much stronger than my faith. But in that divine appointment, I realized that it was time to let my fear go. As the David says in another Psalm, “I lift my eyes up unto the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from you, maker of heaven and earth.”

That day, I had to make a choice--faith over fear. And then I had to continue making the choice, each day, until it began to feel like a habit. Until it was a habit. That was when God lead me out of the valley and onto a mountaintop called peace. Peace that passes understanding--literally--because my prayers were often “Lord, I don’t understand, but I trust in you” or even “I don’t like this, but I trust you.”

So I want to make something clear here: this journey hasn’t been about getting pregnant. It’s been about growing my faith. And I say that particularly because I am pregnant--which is the most amazing, surprising, miraculous gift. It’s also a mountaintop, but it’s one that sits a little higher than the one I was already on.

Getting pregnant wasn’t what got me out of the valley. God is what got me out of the valley. The pregnancy is a wonderful gift, but it’s not the answer. And this is important, because I don’t want anyone walking away from this thinking that surrendering to God is some kind of magic answer to getting what you want. It’s not, despite the platitudes we say to one another.

“Give it to God and it will happen.” “Just stop trying and then you’ll get pregnant.” While surrendering to God sometimes yields a result we were hoping for, it really is meant to yield the result He is looking for. And when we trivialize the struggle with platitudes, I think we fail to realize how life changing our walk through the valley can be. How God can use that trial to refine and better us, to grow our faith and make us more fit for the service he intends us for.

So I want to encourage you today to remember that our God is the God of the hills and valleys, and no matter where you are, He wants to do a work in your life. While the valley of infertility has been so dark, it’s also made me better, more, and brought me closer to the Lord.

To end, one last thought. Someone asked me recently why we decided to announce this pregnancy rather early, or at least, before the typical 12 week-ish mark. Why? Because my faith has grown bigger than my fear. Not everyone waits to tell because of fear, but for me, that would have been the case. And no matter what happens with this precious baby, I trust my God, and celebrate this blessing as we stand on the hilltop. And if we find ourselves walking through another valley, then we’ll be sure to keep our eyes, as Tauren Wells so eloquently puts it, on the One who sees us there.

A Change in Perspective

In 2014, Hubster and I decided to start trying to have a family. We had been advised by my OB/GYN to get after it, because my endometriosis could be dealt with by pregnancy. So we thought we would start trying. After all, we had been married for a little over a year, and we had decided that we wanted to have our first year of marriage all to ourselves.

Things didn't go as planned.

A few months in, no pregnancy. I started reading and learning about cycle charting, basal body thermometers, ovulation predictor kits, and a variety of other tools for helping couples get pregnant. There were more visits to the doctor, more trying to figure out what was going on: my period was missing, then my hormones were crazy, and then and then and then.

We went to a naturopathic doctor, then an acupuncturist. There were herbs, supplements, and protocols.

Then surgery, in September of 2015, called a laparoscopy, meant to excise all the Endometrium implants outside my uterus.

It was deemed a success. I was given a three month round of hormone therapy (mood swings, hot flashes, night sweats), and then given the go-ahead to start trying again.

April of 2016 gave us the news we'd been waiting for: a positive pregnancy test. Then, one short week later, I started to bleed. Then cramp.

And as fast as it had started, it was over.

The rest of 2016 passed for me in a haze of grief and anger and frustration.

A moment of truth hit me in December, just before our baby would have been due. It was perhaps one of the most raw and devastating moments I've ever experienced, but with a lot of prayer and faith and support from Hubster, I've made it out the other side with a completely changed perspective in my endometriosis and infertility.

Hubster has long maintained that he believes that we will get pregnant when the time is right, and the Lord will decide that time. I, being a much more stubborn kind of person, fought that for a long time. But in December, when I finally stilled myself enough to really listen, what I heard was a small voice that whispered, "Wait."

It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but there it was, plain as day.

It's what Hubs had been trying to speak to me for months (years, actually), but I hadn't listened. Talk about a real-life lesson about how the Lord uses your spouse in your life spiritually (but that's another post for another time).

So as we came out of our moment of truth, we made a few decisions: first, we were going to follow the instructions that the doctor had given us at our last appointment, and take a three month round of birth control; and second, when that round of birth control was over, we were going to simply continue on with life (no trying, no stressing, just continuing forward); and third, we were going to seek medical treatment to deal with my endometriosis (symptoms of which had recurred).

It's crazy how one change in perspective can change your whole life, because letting go of trying to have a baby has completely changed my life, in several ways.

To start with, I don't feel the devastation that used to plague me on a regular basis. I still feel sad sometimes about our inability to start a family, and about our miscarriage loss (you can read about that here and here), but it doesn't debilitate me like it used to. I've come to a place where I can live with the possibility that Hubster and I might not ever have children.

The second part is that I've come to terms with viewing my endometriosis as a medical condition separate from infertility. You see, endometriosis affects my life in much bigger ways than just my fertility. I have a range of symptoms that vary from not-that-big-of-a-deal to a serious problem. Without the added stress of trying to make a baby, I think we're actually making some progress in dealing with a problem that has much bigger implications for me.

I've said many times that I wish I could go back to the girl I was when Hubs and I got married: to me, she was far more carefree and joyful than the woman I've been living with for the past few years. But in the past six months, I have finally started to feel like myself again. I won't ever be the girl I was when I got married, because that was almost five years ago now, and life changes us. We grow and mature and (hopefully) become better versions of ourselves. Going through infertility and a miscarriage have changed me, but I think that it's changed me for the better now, not for worse.

I am so thankful for Hubs' faithfulness and support through this process, as well as the myriads of people that have been praying for us as we've been walking this road. I am grateful that no matter where I go, the Lord is faithful to stay with me, guiding and comforting and quietly calling me back when I get stubborn and frustrated.

And I am so thankful that I've found other women who struggle with endometriosis and fertility just like I do. They have been encouraging and helpful and comforted me in knowing that I'm not alone.

In fact, it's been one of those awesome women who recently shared the information for an Endometriosis Clinic in Salt Lake, which is run by--get this--an endometriosis specialist. I had no idea that such a thing even existed (and from what my friend tells me, there's only about 100 of them in the world), because in all my appointments and time in OB/GYN clinics, literally no one ever mentioned seeing an endo specialist.

So, armed with our new perspective, Hubs and I are making the trek to Salt Lake in August to chat with an endo specialist about next steps for treatment. I'm hoping that this doctor will have some more effective ways to treat my endo as we go forward.

And, if that treatment helps us have a baby sometime down the road? That will be awesome. But if it only serves to help alleviate symptoms and improve overall health, that will be great too. Whenever I feel discouraged about the pregnancy thing, I remember the sound of that small voice that whispered, "wait."

Maybe No Baby

Happy New Year!

I can't believe it's already February.

Seriously, guys.

Where does the time go?

I am staring down the five year anniversary of my first date with Hubs (Valentine's Day) and my (gulp) THIRTIETH birthday (the 23rd). I can't even get my head around that one.

Since I wrote last, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Processing, more specifically, my emotions in the wake of Asa Raye's due date in December.

Here's the quick details of where Hubs and I are at in our quest for a baby:

We are working once again with the Ob/Gyn who performed my laparoscopy in September 2015. There's a real possibility that I've had a recurrence of Endometriosis since the surgery, which is why we haven't been able to get pregnant again since the miscarriage in April. So, we're heading into a three month round of medication to suppress the Endo, and then we can start trying again.

It's amazing how life-changing infertility can be for couples, if I am honest. It's a frog-in-the-pot kind of thing; you know, where you can boil a frog if you put them in cold water and slowly warm it up?

Fertility struggles are like that.

First, you start trying, and when it doesn't happen after a few months, you suddenly find yourself sucked into a vortex of doctor's appointments, medications, charting, supplements, and then suddenly, years may have passed.

It's been three years for me and Hubster.

Three years filled with some pretty tough moments. Infertility presents you with all kinds of dark holes to fall into: marriage tension, self-loathing, faith crisis, isolation, and that's just to name a few. Anyone who has suffered through a major medical situation in their life knows how fast your whole world can become wrapped up in the stresses that accompany it: insurance, blood tests, doctors, clinics, hospitals...uncertainty.

Fear.

Anxiety.

I've learned that the best antidote for anxiety and fear is a heart of thankfulness--keeping your eyes on what you have, rather than what you don't have. And if you are interested in reading about how life-changing thankfulness can be, check out Ann Voskamp's book, One Thousand Gifts.

I am thankful for so many things in my life, not the least of which is the faith that's helped sustained me through this process, as well as Hubster's solid faith and unfailing support.

It's that support and faith that seems to have brought us to a place of rest recently.

Choosing to take a break from trying to have a baby is scary. After all, I am about to roll over to my thirties, and the years of childbearing are dwindling. A few months of not trying feels like major missed opportunities. And my approaching thirtieth birthday reminds me of how long we've been trying to have a baby. I was twenty-seven when we started making the effort to conceive. Now, here I am, heading into a new decade, still without a family. That makes me sad.

But choosing to take a break from baby making is also liberating.

Hubs and I are working on a few big projects right now: ranch plans, finances, and my Master's thesis. We have plans to take a big trip this summer after my graduation.

It doesn't seem so bad to not have kids or be pregnant at the moment.

Taking a break from baby making means I redirect a lot of my mental and physical energy, and I need all the energy I can get right now. Writing a Master's thesis, as it turns out, is pretty taxing!

And as we've been talking and thinking about this break, I have come to a place of peace about it, because I can finally say: maybe we won't have children, and that will be okay.

I'm not saying I suddenly don't want to have a baby; I still do. And my heart still carries sadness over the loss of Asa Raye, and over the difficulty we've faced in starting a family. I don't believe that sadness will ever go away.

Yet I am finally in a place where I can see that a life with no children wouldn't be less of a life, it would just be a different life. I don't know what it will look like anymore than I know what a life with children of our own might look like.

But I do know this: first, I am forever grateful for my marriage, which isn't somehow "incomplete" without a baby. And second, kids or no kids, I know that the Lord has good plans for us, because that's what He's promised.

So maybe we'll have babies. Maybe we won't.

But either way, it's all right.

I'm all right.

Due Date

Today is my due date. 

That was strange knowledge to wake up with this morning. It felt a little surreal. The drive to work was beautiful—a crimson horizon and cold, crisp aquiline sky, with temperatures below zero around me. 

I drove, thinking about what this day might have been like, had my pregnancy not slipped away last April in a storm of cramps and heartbreak and hot blood that wouldn’t stop. 

This might have been the day that my Asa Raye arrived, or perhaps, like so many other babies belonging to friends, he or she would have had other ideas. Asa might have arrived earlier, or I might have been sitting here, writing about feeling miserable and on the precipice of being overdue. 

But the truth is that I only know what this day has been. 

And today has been a gift. 

Grieving the loss of Asa has been devastating. Difficult. Dreary. It’s been a lot of work, and a lot of heartache, and a lot of unanswered questions. And it’s taken me almost all nine months since losing Asa to find a place where peace abounds and my sorrows are real, but they are not the only truth in my life. 

I began reading Ann Voskamp’s book, One Thousand Gifts, recently, and if you’re familiar with it, then you know that the book itself is a gift, filled with words of wisdom and faith and comfort in a world where heartache is rampant. Ann’s words have touched my heart in a way that’s surprised me, but they helped point me to this place. Her idea is simple: that faith and peace come from a heart that is attuned to giving God thanks for the many gifts he blesses us with each and every day. 

Today is a gift, even though it is one tinged with a bittersweet taste. 

I spent much of my day with Asa on my mind, thinking about the sweet baby that I love so dearly, without ever having had the chance to hold him or her in my arms. While I am sure that my feelings will change yet again when and if I am ever able to carry a baby to term, I do know that having become a mother has changed who I am. It’s taught me about how much love my heart is able to hold, and it’s taught me about why I need God so desperately. John Newton once said that “I remember two things very clearly: I am a great sinner and Christ is a great savior.” Being Asa’s mama has reminded me of why I need Christ, who is my great Savior, to live and breathe and have life. What a dark and lonely road this grieving has taken me down, and how much darker might it have been were I not walking with my Lord? How much more afraid might I have been? 

Ah. 

Fear. 

I’ve realized that’s it, the crux of the matter for me: fear. I have spent so much time afraid since Asa was lost to me. Afraid that I caused the loss, somehow. Afraid that God doesn’t really love me. Afraid I won’t get pregnant again. Afraid that I could miscarry again. Afraid Hubster will grow tired of me and my lack of fertility. Afraid that I will never have the chance to birth a child. 

Afraid, afraid, afraid. 

In One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp says this: “Fear is like this piano wire cutting round the wrists, life-shackled, cutting deep, the hands spasm, fists of control. Fear keeps life small. The music dies and the joy drains…What if I opened the clenched hands wide to receive all that is? A life that receives all of God in this moment?” (145)

What powerful words those are, particularly to my heart at this moment in time. So much of experiencing infertility and pregnancy loss is wrapped up in fear, and what I am realizing is just what Ann says: “Fear keeps life small…the joy drains…”

The Lord and I did some real serious talking in the days leading up to today, my due date. We had the kind of conversations that Hubster’s own father would term an “office talk,” which was only warranted in their household by serious, heavy-hitting subjects. 

Me and God, we’ve been having office talks. 

And the result?

Peace. 

I finally feel some peace about my infertility and miscarriage, and that’s something that has eluded me for longer than I care to admit. 

So, today was a gift. 

It’s the kind that made you both happy and sad at once. Happy to face the day with peace, assurance, and gratitude; and sad to reflect on the loss of a baby that was and is so desperately wanted. 

But on this due date, instead of the crushing  I once anticipated, I instead close my eyes and offer thanks—for this day, for Asa Raye, for Hubs and my marriage, for provision and rescue and grace. 

Psalm 121:1-8

I look up to the mountains—

Does my help come from there? 

My help comes from the Lord, 

Who made heaven and earth.

He will not let you stumble;

The one who watches over you will not slumber.

Indeed, he who watches over Israel 

Never slumbers or sleeps. 

The Lord himself watches over you! 

The Lord stands beside you as 

Your protective shade. 

The sun will not harm you by day,

Nor the moon at night.

The Lord keeps you from all harm

And watches over your life. 

The Lord keeps watch over you as

You come and go, 

Both now and forever. 

#ihadamiscarriage

© Ranch Librarian Designs

#ihadamiscarriage

In April of this year. 

It was painful and terrifying and devastating. It was the end of a brief and happy journey in which Hubster and I thought that our struggles with infertility had ended. 

As it turned out, new struggles were about to begin. 

Until this year, I didn’t know that October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. Nor did I know that October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. If I had ever seen #ihadmiscarriage before, it hadn’t registered. 

Why would I? Until this year, I had experienced the pain of infertility, but not the pain of pregnancy loss. Before now, I wasn’t the mama of a baby I never had the chance to hold in my arms.

But I’m a mama now. I’m Asa Raye’s mama, and that fact has changed me and my life profoundly. 

Back in March, Hubster and I began to try getting pregnant after a six month hiatus from the task. I’d had a laparoscopy in September to clear the endometriosis from my body, followed with hormone therapy meant to help my uterus and ovaries reduce any residual inflammation. We spent February prepping to try again. I took my pre-natal vitamins and we did a Whole30 to detox and prepare. 

And apparently, something worked, because the first of April found me taking a pregnancy test that seemed to have an ever-so-faint line on it. My best friend freaked at seeing a picture, because she called to assure me that if there’s any line at all, you. are. pregnant. 

I took a second pregnancy test. 

Another faint line. 

Hubster and I hugged and cried and stared at each other in wonder. 

Pregnant. 

For one glorious week, we talked and dreamed and expected the fact that we were going to be parents in December.

A week later, I started to spot. Then bleed. Then cramp. 

In a process much slower and more painful that I’d imagined it could be, even at the early stages, it became clear that my pregnancy was slipping away from us. 

There were calls to the doctor, appointments, blood drawn, test results. 

#Ihadamiscarriage. 

Then I had devastation and loneliness and anger and grief and pain. I cried and clutched at Hubster as he held me, wishing that this hadn’t happened to me.

My miscarriage wasn’t a secret, exactly, but it wasn’t the easiest thing to talk about either. At first, talking about it felt like stabs to the heart—how could I speak about something so big and enormous and overwhelming? 

So we took little steps forward. 

Hubster and I started trying again for a baby. We met with our pastor regularly to talk and pray and process. I discovered that, much like infertility, there are women who have miscarried everywhere around me. 

Eventually, we chose to give our baby a name, even though we never had the chance to find out if we would be snails-and-puppy-dog-tails or sugar-spice-everything-nice parents. 

Gender neutral, we decided. 

We came up with Asa Raye. 

Naming Asa gave me a real sense of peace. A name made Asa’s presence in my life tangible and real in a way that others can acknowledge and appreciate too. 

Miscarriage is so often suffered in silence, or merely whispered about, and it seems that no one is sure how to talk about it. It’s abstract, rather than concrete, and we don’t know how to offer condolences or support. 

When we miscarry our precious babies, we hold that close to the chest, because we somehow feel ashamed, guilty, angry. The world often appears to tell us that our grief should be lessened by the fact that our babies weren’t in our arms yet. But the babies we carry in our bellies, even for a brief time, are carried in our hearts forever. 

So why don’t we talk more about it? 

I don’t know the answer to that question, but I do know this: we need to start talking about it more. We absolutely do. Because I know too many women who have miscarried and said nothing, because they are too ashamed and devastated and eaten with guilt to let anyone know about it. 

And here’s the reality: miscarriage is too painful to go through alone. All women who miscarry need to know that she isn’t the only one to lose a much anticipated baby. She’s not the first to feel guilty because there’s some relief over losing an unexpected pregnancy. She’s not the only one whose anger has actually frightened her when it springs up unexpectedly. She isn’t the only one to questions herself: all women who miscarry wonder if they ate, did, or interacted with something that ultimately caused the loss. 

But the statistics are clear: when you get pregnant, you have a 20-80% chance: 20% that you will miscarry, and 80% that you will carry to term. And if those stats are to be believed, it means that there are LOTS of women around you that have miscarried too. 

#Ihadamiscarriage began with Dr. Jessica Zucker, who lives and works in Los Angeles as a clinical psychologist. She specializes in women’s reproductive and maternal mental health, and she began the movement #ihadamiscarriage because of her own experience with a 16-week miscarriage. She’s doing pioneering work in helping women tell their miscarriage stories, as well as helping them grieve their losses. 

I stumbled upon Jessica Zucker through the Coffee + Crumbs podcast, just this past week (if you haven’t read Coffee + Crumbs, you should). The episode is all about miscarriage and National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, which is today, October 15th. Coincidentally, my own miscarriage had been heavy on my mind, because this week was my wedding anniversary. 

My anniversary gift from Hubs? 

© Ranch Librarian Designs

A stacking sterling silver ring set, handmade by the wonderful artists at The Vintage Pearl, with Asa Raye’s name on a plain band and their birthstone on the other. Blue Topaz, because my baby’s due date was December 8th. 

When Hubster and I decided the time had come to try for a family, I never imagined the journey I was about to embark on. I had no idea. I didn’t know that infertility would change the fabric of my being. I didn’t know that Asa’s loss would be permanently etched into my soul. I didn’t know that #infertility and #ihadamiscarriage would become a part of my life story. 

And I never imagined that in struggling through things so big and enormous and frightening, I would find my voice, and it would be different than I expected. 

© Ranch Librarian Designs

So today, I am giving voice to this miscarriage of mine, hoping that by doing so, I might offer some courage or support or solidarity to someone else out there whose sudden label reads 

#ihadamiscarriage. 

You aren’t alone. You aren’t forgotten. And your baby isn’t either.