Holding On Tightly To Grief
In December I had a second miscarriage, four months after the first (and two weeks before Christmas). And both its discovery and its loss happened in the single span of the week my husband had COVID.
I didn’t mourn the loss of this pregnancy in the same way. I didn’t have time enough to grasp the reality of a new pregnancy before it was gone. And as my midwife warned, it proved a strong reminder of the first experience — which didn’t feel traumatic in the moment, but my mind-body-soul desperately wished to avoid the experience again.
Even so, my heart hurts lately, in that deep, painful way that makes me want to escape — with the anxious realization that I can’t. I understand, intellectually, that this feeling is here for me, purposeful in its embrace of my whole body.
And yet I’m resisting, intensely.
The best metaphor I have to explain this feeling is within the experience of birthing my children — it’s that intensely painful moment called transition, right before it’s time to push, right before it’s time to meet your sweet babe. It hurts (a lot), and all you want to do is escape the pain!
But the only way to get “out” is to move “through.”
For me, both times, intense pain during transition has mixed with intense fear: I’m tired, I can’t do this anymore… but also I’m not ready yet, I’m not strong enough, and what if something goes wrong?
The thing is, I thought the grief I felt during the first miscarriage would be the worst of it. I thought everything after that would move in a mostly positive direction (and not a cyclical one).
Instead I’m cautiously noting every week that brings us closer to Easter: my due date.
Sometimes things do feel better. That’s the thing about feelings: they’re messily packed with good moments and hard ones. And regardless the number of hard moments, I can easily pinpoint a joyful one and another filled with laughter (mine or my girls’).
I just have this sense that I’m moving through something big, like an involuntary metamorphosis. (Though, to be clear: are any metamorphosis-like transitions ever voluntary?)
I just thought it would feel differently, more sacred or something.
A butterfly’s “becoming” appears beautiful, magnificent, stunning! And maybe that’s what I was expecting: the instagram-worthy version. My “becoming” hurts. It’s uncomfortable. I’ve asked for (and gratefully received) so much support, more than I thought I’d need; and I’ve felt all the feelings I’ve ever known, over again.
So why is it taking so long?
I think it’s because… I’m resisting the leap toward what’s next — even though I know it’s close.
Maybe it’s too close.
If I let go of what I know and what’s familiar…
If I release the pain…
Do I release the dream?
Do I release the baby-that-wasn’t?
(And what if the other side sucks, too? What if things don’t get better? What if the other side is worse?)
Part of me feels like the baby is still here, and time can standstill — as long as I hold tightly to this grief. But if I let go, I lose the baby (and the dream for the baby) completely… am I ready for that?
Fear of transition is what keeps me holding on too tightly. So how do I sit inside that fear? How do I show up to that fear, knowing it’s necessary (and not-forever)? How do I let go of what I’m feeling now to embrace what I might experience next?
Next week I’ll share my thoughts on this, plus what it’s been like to orient myself toward the transition I’m afraid of.
xx, alycia buenger
NOTE: This was originally published as an email to my list. If you prefer to receive articles like this right inside your inbox, sign up to hear from me weekly right here — www.alyciabuenger.com/sign-up
