Parenting
The Hidden Moms’ Collective by Emily Thompson
Updated: Aug. 3, 2016
Originally Published: Sep. 24, 2013
Let me tell you something: my kids, Max and Lily, are definitely less of a handful than any children you might have. I can promise you that!
They don’t wake me up multiple times a night with constant calls for the bathroom, a drink, or a snuggle. They don’t wreak havoc on my belongings, break things, bicker with each other, or demand my attention at every turn. In fact, they leave me plenty of time to indulge in my hobbies, enjoy a peaceful shower, and breeze through grocery shopping.
But here’s the catch—Max and Lily didn’t make it to full term. Not even close. And yet, they are my children. They will always be my children.
This creates a complex situation. Setting aside any moral or religious beliefs, science tells us that upon conception, a human being is in its earliest stages of life. They were created from my husband and me, so by all definitions, they are our children. Initially, I thought this was straightforward.
However, the absence of my kids has presented challenges I never anticipated (grief aside). For starters, how do I answer when someone asks if I have children? I often say no, abruptly ending the conversation and wondering if I’ve dismissed the significance of those two little beings who were with me for far too short a time. When I say yes and share our story, the conversation often comes to a halt, sometimes accompanied by the dreaded Pity Face. Neither option feels great.
Invisible motherhood is more common than you might think—until you find yourself in the shoes of a mom with an invisible child. When you manage to hold back tears long enough to discuss your experience, you might be surprised by how many women come forward with similar stories, sharing heartache and empathy in equal measure. I often want to ask them, “Where have you been all this time?”
I used to think of ‘miscarriage’ as a taboo topic, one of those unfortunate events that happen in life—like root canals or the common cold. I knew some family members had experienced it and was aware of a friend who had a stillbirth, but no one ever talked about the emotions or the concept of motherhood tied to those experiences. It was as if those babies didn’t matter.
That’s why my experience hit me like a freight train. I even thought I might miscarry my first child, given my family history, but nothing prepared me for the heavy blanket of sorrow that enveloped me in the months to follow. I was blindsided by waves of anger at seeing pregnant women on the street, and I was completely unready for the blind rage that would leave me trembling when I witnessed unruly children being scolded by their exhausted parents.
I felt isolated from my husband, who initially didn’t understand why I was so deeply affected. The inner critic in my head told me I was unworthy of a baby, that I hadn’t been cautious enough during my pregnancy, or that I must have done something wrong. I was ill-equipped to handle offhand remarks from well-meaning but insensitive people, which left me feeling emotionally battered.
So I dug deep, reached out, and slowly began to forge connections. Since then, I’ve made it my mission to support other invisible mothers by sharing insights from my journey. I started blogging about my experiences, and the response was overwhelmingly positive. People began to understand, and I was thanked for opening up conversations that helped others support friends facing similar heartbreak.
I’ve written guest posts on various platforms to promote understanding of miscarriage and childlessness, hoping to spread empathy and compassion. I’ve even participated in writing challenges that highlight my story to reach a broader audience.
I’m learning to discuss these topics in real life, too. It’s still challenging and painful, but I’m eager to push forward and take my advocacy for breaking taboos into everyday conversations. I want to help create a world where miscarriage isn’t brushed aside; where women can openly mourn their losses without questioning the validity of their feelings. I aspire to be a resource for those seeking information and guidance.
I want to lead a movement that demystifies miscarriage and fosters meaningful dialogue around the subject. Every lost little life matters, and their grieving mothers (and fathers) deserve to be enveloped in empathy and understanding from those around them.
My children matter. They have transformed me, and I carry their legacy with me always.