Miscarriage Rituals
Today is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Day. It’s a day I never knew about until I needed to know about it. Seven years ago, I had three recurrent miscarriages. That was my entry into the world of fertility and fecundity, learning about estrogen and progesterone for the first time in my life. I felt so ill equipped and wildly unprepared; why didn’t I know more about my own body? Why had no one ever shared how common this was? What was wrong with me?
My first miscarriage caught me by surprise. I knew I was pregnant before the test told me so…I could just feel it. A few weeks later, I started to bleed and I had no idea what to do next. I went to the hospital, thinking that maybe they could help me or offer me something I couldn’t get on my own. I woefully regret that decision. I wish I’d stayed home, in my pjs, with the things that brought me comfort. Instead, I found myself at a place that wasn’t equipped to handle someone like me. I wasn’t in danger, the baby had already passed. They had me sit in the ER waiting room for 4 hours. They told me not to drink or eat anything, so when they came to draw blood 4 hours later, I passed out in the hallway and they were frustrated with me for not telling them I was fasting. They took me to the ultrasound wing and placed me in a cubicle with a paper curtain separating me and the couple next door. They had a heartbeat, I could hear it. They had joy and tears of happiness, and I had to listen to that while I waited for the doctor to come and tell me what I already knew but did not know how to process.
Today is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Day. It’s a day I never knew about until I needed to know about it. Seven years ago, I had three recurrent miscarriages. That was my entry into the world of fertility and fecundity, learning about estrogen and progesterone for the first time in my life. I felt so ill equipped and wildly unprepared; why didn’t I know more about my own body? Why had no one ever shared how common this was? What was wrong with me?
My first miscarriage caught me by surprise. I knew I was pregnant before the test told me so…I could just feel it. A few weeks later, I started to bleed and I had no idea what to do next. I went to the hospital, thinking that maybe they could help me or offer me something I couldn’t get on my own. I woefully regret that decision. I wish I’d stayed home, in my pjs, with the things that brought me comfort. Instead, I found myself at a place that wasn’t equipped to handle someone like me. I wasn’t in danger, the baby had already passed. They had me sit in the ER waiting room for 4 hours. They told me not to drink or eat anything, so when they came to draw blood 4 hours later, I passed out in the hallway and they were frustrated with me for not telling them I was fasting. They took me to the ultrasound wing and placed me in a cubicle with a paper curtain separating me and the couple next door. They had a heartbeat, I could hear it. They had joy and tears of happiness, and I had to listen to that while I waited for the doctor to come and tell me what I already knew but did not know how to process.
When I got pregnant a few months later, I could feel myself holding my breath. I could also feel myself falling in love and being hopeful. It's all in your mindset, right? I remember people telling me to 'think positive' like that could actually save a pregnancy. I miscarried while furniture shopping with a friend. I came out of the store washroom white as a ghost and asked her to drive me home. She didn't know what to say, and I didn't know what to ask for. I still walk by that store and am struck with pangs of grief. That store is part of my story.
My third pregnancy felt more hopeful; I'd had all the tests and everything came back clear. I was told I was lucky I was able to get pregnant (as if that's the goal, not holding a baby in your arms). I remember telling people I was pregnant and a friend whispered, ever so politely, "I don't think you should be telling people yet..." I looked at her in disbelief; I guess that's how she felt and thought, that we should keep our grief hidden. I knew I needed people this go around, no matter the outcome.
After I miscarried for the third time, I had a few ritual muscles in place. All along, I'd been doing things quietly for myself. I didn't know they were rituals, but I felt drawn to doing something to process these complicated emotions. I wrote words on beach rocks and threw them in the ocean to acknowledge each baby, each being of light that started to form in me and then ceased to exist. Society doesn't recognize these losses, and I understand why. I was told, time and time again, that this happens all the time. 1 in 4. They told me that to offer me comfort but it made me feel like a statistic.
When I got pregnant a few months later, I could feel myself holding my breath. I could also feel myself falling in love and being hopeful. It’s all in your mindset, right? I remember people telling me to ‘think positive’ like that could actually save a pregnancy. I miscarried while furniture shopping with a friend. I came out of the store washroom white as a ghost and asked her to drive me home. She didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know what to ask for. I still walk by that store and am struck with pangs of grief. That store is part of my story.
My third pregnancy felt more hopeful; I’d had all the tests and everything came back clear. I was told I was lucky I was able to get pregnant (as if that’s the goal, not holding a baby in your arms). I remember telling people I was pregnant and a friend whispered, ever so politely, “I don’t think you should be telling people yet…” I looked at her in disbelief; I guess that’s how she felt and thought, that we should keep our grief hidden. I knew I needed people this go around, no matter the outcome.
After I miscarried for the third time, I had a few ritual muscles in place. All along, I’d been doing things quietly for myself. I didn’t know they were rituals, but I felt drawn to doing something to process these complicated emotions. I wrote words on beach rocks and threw them in the ocean to acknowledge each baby, each being of light that started to form in me and then ceased to exist. Society doesn’t recognize these losses, and I understand why. I was told, time and time again, that this happens all the time. 1 in 4. They told me that to offer me comfort but it made me feel like a statistic.
I started to hold gatherings for people who had been through this too; I now know those gatherings to be ceremonies, but I didn’t have that awareness at the time. I thought ceremonies were only for big occasions, and that rituals came from religious and cultural institutions. I was grieving the loss of these pregnancies and the loss of a way to honour them. I felt pressure and expectations inside me and all around me. This timeline I thought I was supposed to follow, this biological clock, this idea of being an older mom…all of these feelings were bubbling up in me. And so I set out to create my own rituals and ceremonies.
I found my way to the forest that I had cried in so many times. I intentionally sought out a quiet grove, a space between the trees where I felt safe. I wrote down three words that had been stuck on a loop inside my brain. Timeline. Expectations. Pressure. I could barely breath I felt these words so much. They were getting in the way of me feeling my grief. They were stopping me from trying again. They needed to be seen and acknowledge and released.
So I wrote them down and then carefully burned them. I watched the words disappear and the smoke dance in the wind before dropping them into a small bowl of water. I took three deep breaths, feeling my grief, feeling my babies, feeling myself. And then I cried.
I started to hold gatherings for people who had been through this too; I now know those gatherings to be ceremonies, but I didn't have that awareness at the time. I thought ceremonies were only for big occasions, and that rituals came from religious and cultural institutions. I was grieving the loss of these pregnancies and the loss of a way to honour them. I felt pressure and expectations inside me and all around me. This timeline I thought I was supposed to follow, this biological clock, this idea of being an older mom...all of these feelings were bubbling up in me. And so I set out to create my own rituals and ceremonies.
I found my way to the forest that I had cried in so many times. I intentionally sought out a quiet grove, a space between the trees where I felt safe. I wrote down three words that had been stuck on a loop inside my brain. Timeline. Expectations. Pressure. I could barely breath I felt these words so much. They were getting in the way of me feeling my grief. They were stopping me from trying again. They needed to be seen and acknowledge and released.
So I wrote them down and then carefully burned them. I watched the words disappear and the smoke dance in the wind before dropping them into a small bowl of water. I took three deep breaths, feeling my grief, feeling my babies, feeling myself. And then I cried.
I don't know exactly what it was that day, but somehow I walked out of that forest renewed. I looked my grief in the eye and I acknowledged it. I created space for all of the other emotions that were stirring in me, and I acknowledged them. I didn't try to replace one feeling with another; I simply let them all be. Too often we are told to get passed our grief, to get over it, to put it behind us. But what I realized that day, in my grief ceremony, was that this grief would always be with me.
This grief was a reflection of the love I felt for each being that started to grow and form inside me. I walked down to the bridge over the canyon and I dropped a rock over the railing. I watched it plunk into the water, creating a series of ripples that seemed to go on forever. I knew, in that moment, that this would be my ritual moving forward.
I don't know exactly what it was that day, but somehow I walked out of that forest renewed. I looked my grief in the eye and I acknowledged it. I created space for all of the other emotions that were stirring in me, and I acknowledged them. I didn't try to replace one feeling with another; I simply let them all be. Too often we are told to get passed our grief, to get over it, to put it behind us. But what I realized that day, in my grief ceremony, was that this grief would always be with me.
This grief was a reflection of the love I felt for each being that started to grow and form inside me. I walked down to the bridge over the canyon and I dropped a rock over the railing. I watched it plunk into the water, creating a series of ripples that seemed to go on forever. I knew, in that moment, that this would be my ritual moving forward.
Seven years later, and still everything time I cross that bridge I drop a rock over the railing. I watch it plunk into the water, sometimes making a big splash, sometimes making a small splash. I choose the rock according to what I’m carrying that day. Big rock, big feelings. Small rock, smaller feelings. Always ripples.
The photos above are part of a project called Unspoken: Exploration of perinatal loss & grief, by Felicia Chang Photography
About Megan Sheldon
Megan started Seeking Ceremony with Kate Love after our own experiences with grief, loss, and unyielding love. In 2020, Megan and her husband Johan started Be Ceremonial, a ritual library that inspires people to create their own ceremonies and to share their stories along the way.
About Megan Sheldon
Megan started Seeking Ceremony with Kate Love after our own experiences with grief, loss, and unyielding love. In 2020, Megan and her husband Johan started Be Ceremonial, a ritual library that inspires people to create their own ceremonies and to share their stories along the way.