3 Little Words and a Collective Sigh of Relief

After that first miscarriage, I began to immediately comprehend that grief, especially with miscarriage, was a subject most people were uncomfortable talking about.  I remember being in the lobby of my doctor's office, waiting for a follow up blood test back in 2010 and feeling like I needed to bow my head and not make eye contact with the other mothers in the room as if my condition was contagious.  In the beginning, I felt inadequate, incompetent, and guilty.  I felt guilt because I thought I was responsible for the loss of my baby, but I also felt guilty because my grief made it difficult for me to engage with other people.  At times, I felt like a burden.

The feelings I had following the miscarriage were normal responses - sadmess, grief, depression,  but my internal dialogue kept telling me that I shouldn’t feel that way.  I felt ashamed of being so sad and feeling so empty.  I thought I should be stronger, happier, or more graceful.  My internal dialogue told me that I had much to be thankful for; that I could try again; that it could be worse.  
Honestly, though, it wasn’t just my internal dialogue telling me that.  These very statements sound familiar because they are often our own responses when someone around us suffers a great loss.  They seem like natural statements, but in my opinion, are shame based and indicative of the level at which our society is uncomfortable with mortality, loss, and grief.  All things that are a very real part of living.  As Keanu Reeves says, "None of us are getting out of here alive."  

I've spent a large part of the last 8 years contemplating what makes us so uncomfortable with the suffering of others, and part of what I’ve realized is that when we are faced with the reality that what happened to another person could happen to us, we avoid feeling any fear by mindlessly offering up a number of “socially acceptable” one-liners that are neither empathetic nor thoughtful.  Tell me if this sounds familiar:

“I just feel so depressed.”

“Don’t feel depressed! You have so much to be thankful for.”

“I know I do, but I just can’t get up and live life normally after losing my baby.”

“Well, at least you were only 7 weeks along.  It would have been far worse if you’d lost it later in the pregnancy.”

“That’s true, but I’m still sad about it.  I know I shouldn’t be, but …”

“Maybe this was God’s way of taking the baby now so that you didn’t get to attached to it.  Or think of if you’d given birth to it and something was wrong with it.  That would have been devastating.”  

“I would have loved the baby no matter what.”

“Yes, but life would have been very difficult.  What you need is to stay busy.  Take your mind off of it.  Let’s go have lunch. My treat!”

Early on, I didn’t understand why conversations like these left me angry, shameful, and depressed, but they did.  Every time.  I’d come home from work, screaming at my husband because “People are so insensitive!”  Or I’d rage at a car on the road after leaving a party because, “Everyone is an asshole!”  

I felt isolated.  I tried to talk.  I got shut down.  I felt more isolated.  I tried to talk.  I got shut down.  I felt more isolated.  It was a vicious cycle.  What was worse was that I was unaware that all I needed was permission to feel the way I felt.  And most importantly that I could give myself that permission.  I relied on others to allow me to talk and expected them to say the right thing.  I took on their discomfort with my situation as my own and told myself I shouldn’t be feeling as miserable as I was feeling, and the fact that I was feeling so down was proof that I didn’t deserve a child.  I berated myself for grieving.

Until one day at work when I was having an especially rough time.  Here I was trying to push through doing my job while suffering a traumatic loss.  I didn’t recognize myself struggling, but my coworker did when she witnessed me being short and snappy with a customer.  Instead of judging me, she gently pulled me to the side and asked if she could replace me at our service point so that I could go in the back workroom to rest.  My ego that wanted to snap at her, "I'm fine!" almost won out, but her gentle approached caught me just off guard enough to see that I was anything but fine.  I quickly thanked her, ran to the staff area, and proceeded to break down.  A few moments later she came back to check on me.  As I sat there sobbing, which was totally something I did not do at work, she embraced me with her arms and with her acceptance of my emotions.   

She gave me three short words, and three words never had a greater impact on me in my life.  She said, “It is ok.”

  It. Is. Ok.  It was okay to feel the way I felt.  It was ok to break down.  It was ok to not be perfect.  Those who were telling me that I should feel differently, including my own internal dialogue, though well intentioned, were wrong.  It was okay to be exactly where I was at any moment and to feel exactly how I felt.  Simple.  Yet profound.  And life-changing. 

I had never been validated in this way.  But in that moment, with those three words, I had permission to fall apart.  That was the moment that my real healing began.  Not just from the miscarriage but from a life of anxiety and perfectionism that had stolen my voice.  That moment was bigger than the miscarriage and bigger than the infertility. 

Grief, in all forms is such a taboo topic that we are not practiced in what to say or do for those who are suffering.  The grief of the grieving is compounded by shame about how they feel and by feeling responsible for the emotions of those around them.  Despite what we are taught, neglecting our own feelings, especially during times of loss and trauma, does not make us a better person.  It doesn't make us stronger.  And caring for ourselves does not make us selfish.  Since that first miscarriage and that very enlightening conversation with my coworker, I have made it my practice to tell myself that is is ok to feel how I feel and to try to extend that permission to others who are grieving.  And then... simply to just hold space for them.  Sit with them, or with myself, not saying anything.  Allowing our tears to fall or not fall.  The emotions contained in grief are far too complicated for words to assuage them.   

  It’s okay to feel sadness one moment and be laughing the next.  It’s important to speak your truth and to be open and honest with people about the variety of emotions associated with the grief.  As humans, we like to place loss and change into neat, tidy little boxes and trick ourselves into thinking that healing is a linear path.  However, like most of Life, nothing about grief is tidy.  Grief and Life are messy animals.  And the more we learn to  accept ourselves as beautifully messy and complex, the more compassion we are able to give others.  It is only when we give ourselves permission to be messy - to feel complicated and tangled -  that we can extend permission to others to do the same.  I imagine the collective sigh of relief we would all breathe in if we knew how to permit ourselves to just be where we are.  Practice on yourself first.  Today.  Find a moment when you are feeling especially anxious, sad or angry.  Get real quiet, and tell yourself, "It's okay that I feel this way."  Notice your body soften.  Notice your mind go quiet.  Notice your heart feel a little less pained.  Let this be your mantra: It. Is. Ok.