I know you’re looking for answers.

For reassurance.

You’ve stumbled onto this blog after a quick Google search, desperately hoping for a miracle.

You’re praying that the doctors were wrong. The ultrasound results must be wrong — oh, please God, let them be wrong.

You’re praying that the blood you found on your panties this morning really is just “spotting.” Your heart is crying out that something’s wrong, but maybe, it’s not. Maybe this will all just go away.

You’re praying that the cramping will stop. That this baby would not be making its way into the world so soon — that your body would hold on for a few months longer.

You’re praying for a miracle.

I know, because I’ve prayed for it myself.

As I held my stillborn son in my arms, I prayed for a Lazarus-raised-from-the-dead moment. I prayed for little lungs to fill with oxygen and a damaged heart to be restored.

When I started bleeding at eight weeks, I prayed for the flow to stop. I prayed for a baby to hold on a little while longer.

When an ultrasound showed a baby three weeks behind its gestational age, I prayed for growth. I prayed for a heart to begin beating.

I’ve prayed those prayers. I’ve stood where you now stand: uncertain and confused, hurting and mourning.

You’re losing you’re baby.

You’re losing the hopes and dreams you’ve gently cradled in your heart for these past few weeks or months.

And it hurts. Oh, how it hurts.

Lying on the bathroom floor, your face is stained with tears and etched in sorrow. You’ve said good-bye to your child, to this pregnancy, and you don’t know how to go on from here. You don’t know what to do now.

I wish that there were some magical words to ease the pain you’re feeling right now. But there isn’t. This moment, right here, will stay with you for the rest of your life. The searing pain may eventually remould itself into something else, but the memory of this baby will be carried in your heart forever.

So grieve, dear one. 

Give yourself permission to cry. To wail. To scream. To feel.

And know that you are not alone in this.

What you’re feeling right now? That depth of pain and grief? That’s normal.

And if you’re feeling nothing at all? That’s normal too.

Know this, dear friend: your grief is an act of love. You didn’t even know this wee one, but because you LOVED, you mourn them with such weight. That love is a gift — something to be tucked close and cherished.

And know this too — there is hope here.

Even here in the muddiest of trenches. Even here in the brokenness and the ashes. Even here in the desperation and the anguish. There. Is. Hope.

Although it may feel like it right now, this is not the end of your story.

There is comfort in the cross.

I know that this parting doesn’t feel so temporary right now. You long for the weight of a newborn in your arms, for that baby scent nestled against your chest. You dreamt of forever and you wound up with today — a day filled with more heartache than you thought imaginable.  Life is messy and exhausting and right now, you’re just tired. Tired of the pain and the blood and the needless good-byes.

Sweet mama, as you walk through this fire, know that I am praying for you and offering up what little bit of encouragement I have. Know that there is a God whose comfort flows deep and fulfilling. Lean on Him. With empty hands and bruised hearts, come to the cross. Cling to Jesus. When you hit the lowest of the low, your legs too weak to stand, let Him be your strength. There is no burden too heavy for Him to carry, no mountain too tall for Him to climb.

Let Him carry you.

We’ve prayed for a miracle. Maybe we got it. Maybe we didn’t. But as we walk through the fire, I pray that we would respond with the same hope that three men in the book of Daniel did — we know that God can deliver us but even if He does not, our trust in Him remains. Our hope holds fast in Him. Our very lives belong to Him.

Rest in Him, dear friend.

In the deepest of pains, let yourself be carried.



** This post is written to stand with the mamas who are experiencing a loss right now — but it is definitely NOT medical advice. If you’re experiencing symptoms of a miscarriage or have concerns about your current pregnancy, please contact a medical professional. **

To the Mama Miscarrying Right Now -- I See You

2 replies
  1. Sunnie
    Sunnie says:

    I needed this. I needed every word. I lost my baby boy unexpectedly Tuesday morning at around 7:45am. We had done our second IVF transfer for baby number two. Every thing was going so well until it wasn’t. It happened so quickly. There was so much blood. Before we even got to the doctors I knew I had passed him already. My husband and I cried in the ultrasound room when they confirmed what I already knew. Since then I’ve been so numb. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I feel like I’m lacking emotion. I should be more expressive. I don’t understand. I’ve felt so lost in numbness and then I read your words. For one the first times since Tuesday morning — I FELT. I felt the pain and the anger. It makes me hopeful that my mind and body will allow me to truly grieve soon. Thank you so much. Thank you for saying all the right things. I wish I could hug you. God bless you.

    • Liz Mannegren
      Liz Mannegren says:

      Oh Sunnie, my heart is hurting with you. Know that I am sitting here, crying as I read this comment, and lifting you up in prayer right now. Grief is such a messy, confusing process and I remember so many days when I didn’t feel like my body was grieving the way I “thought” it should. It’s okay (and normal!) to feel that way. Thank you so much for sharing a little bit of your story and your sweet babe with me here, and letting me enter into that grief with you. Sending much love. <3


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