I wrote this poem four years ago, but I today I felt I needed to share it again. I composed it for a dear friend who had just experienced her third miscarriage and who expressed to me that it was hard for her to hear others saying “I know what you’re going through,” even if the person was well-intentioned. Please feel free to share with others, and consider how you might reach out to people in your life who are struggling with miscarriage, infertility, and other types of “invisible grief.”
I don’t know what you’re going through.
But I know how it feels
to grieve without a funeral,
to ask “why?” to the ceiling,
to miss someone you’ve never met.
I have felt the injustice
of reckless insensitivity
of comments that pierce like knives
of children abused, unwanted, abandoned.
I know what it means to carry around an invisible grief on your back every day,
a grief that feels
like it should disable you,
like you should be in a wheelchair.
I’ve memorized all the faces of suffering–anger, fear, jealousy, despair.
People say, “It will get better.”
Which isn’t exactly true.
But you will learn to live with it, like someone who’s lost her right arm learns to live with just the left.
Dear friend, I don’t know what you’re going through.
I’ve never walked the path you’re on.
But I’ve walked the one beside it.
But I have walked the one beside it.