When I went through my miscarriage in February 2022 I was absolutely heartbroken. I was angry at my body for letting me, my husband and our baby down. I knew I didn’t do anything wrong and that there was nothing I could’ve done to change the outcome, but I still felt responsible.
In the weeks that followed, sweet friends sent me beautiful bouquets and called and texted to say that they were thinking of me. But while it seemed like everyone else was thinking of me, I was only thinking of my baby who I’d never get to meet.
I knew right away that I needed to find a way to honor my miscarriage. Even using the word ‘honor’ seems wrong in some way. I’m not holding my miscarriage in high esteem and, in fact, it is one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it would be better to say ‘honor the baby I didn’t get to meet;’ honor my body; honor my unwavering love.
In the weeks following my loss, I struggled to find the perfect way to remember my baby, and thus began the rabbit hole of internet searches for the ‘right’ memento.
There were several suggestions that I knew immediately were not for me. Releasing butterflies? Nope, terrified of them. Name a star? No, I can barely see through the Los Angeles smog long enough to see a single star, let alone a specific one. Framing a sonogram photo? Not an option, I lost my baby before I ever had an ultrasound.
The list of ideas I didn’t like was long—granted, it was easy to “hate” everything in those days. Things that I would ordinarily find so beautiful, like star gazing, seemed pointless. I shut down most suggestions I received from well-meaning friends and family.
During my internet doom scroll for ideas I did discover that it wasn’t enough for me to just remember my baby. I craved a tangible reminder, something more than just a thought. One study published in the journal Chimerism actually found that National “fetal cells are reported to persist in the mother for decades” even in pregnancies that end in miscarriage. This meant that my baby was still with me, in some way, shape or form. That was comforting. But still, I knew I needed something tangible to hold on to, since I never got to hold my baby in my arms.
Among the ideas I scoffed at were some wonderful suggestions that I considered.
Tattoos
I am terrified of needles—terrified to the point where getting a tattoo sounds like a form of torture. But hadn’t I already been tortured in losing a child? Getting a tattoo seemed like a cakewalk in comparison. Brainstorming the perfect tattoo artwork was incredibly cathartic.
Maybe the date I first saw the positive pregnancy test? Maybe the date I started miscarrying? Both of those dates? A small, black bean? Yes, seriously. For the short time I knew I was pregnant my husband and I referred to the baby as “Bean.” I needed something that I could have with me all the time, and what’s more permanent than a tattoo?
Letters
I journaled just before I went to the hospital where my miscarriage was confirmed.. In that entry I wrote, “I woke up cramping and bleeding. I’m terrified. Beanie, I love you so much.” That’s the last thing I journaled about that pregnancy. Once the miscarriage was confirmed I couldn’t write anymore—nothing felt good enough.
I toyed with writing a new, longer letter but didn’t know what to say. Everything I thought came out as guilt and that’s not how I wanted to remember my child. In the immediate aftermath of my miscarriage I felt broken and sometimes useless. I knew I wanted to remember my baby with love but I was constantly thinking negative thoughts about myself and my body. How was I supposed to heal if everything I thought was self-deprecating?
Artwork
I needed to make something. After lots of thought I was only able to smear black and red paint of subpar quality across a subpar canvas. Red for the blood I was losing, black for the anger I felt. I even bought a palette knife to be super sophisticated (which is how you know I am not a sophisticated artist). The painting was far from a work of art, but it was my emotion on full display.
The longer I looked at it the angrier I felt. Why did my body do this? Why wasn’t my body enough for my baby? Looking at the canvas kept me seething. I wanted to remember my baby, but I also wanted to heal. I didn’t want to be angry forever and that is exactly what this art was doing—keeping me angry. I needed something to help me remember my baby with love, not something to remember my loss with anger. I tossed that canvas in the trash.
Gardening
After quickly ruling out a full garden due to space considerations, I pondered the idea of small plants. I pictured a beautiful sunflower on my balcony, growing taller and taller. Maybe a small succulent on my bedside table. But what I was imagining was a successful, thriving flora and not at all considering the truth—I have a black thumb. Like, the blackest thumb you can imagine? Think blacker. I have killed more succulents than anyone (source not found) and I’m pretty sure succulents are the closest you can get to a fake plant without actually being fake.
The thought of planting something knowing I would kill it just made me think “Yeah, you’re failing the plant just like you failed your baby.” I cried at the thought of losing my baby all over again, this time in plant form. That sounds silly. I know a plant is not the same as the baby I lost, but I knew that when I inevitably killed the plant I would mourn as if I had lost my child—that it would rip me open all over again.
Jewelry
I love jewelry. I think there is beauty in the sentimentality, in the meaning behind each piece. But as a jewelry lover, I am most certainly not a jewelry wearer. My earrings are in only so the piercings don’t close. I never remember to wear my wedding ring. If I’m wearing a necklace it’s because I’m at a wedding and someone reminded me to wear jewelry (or, to be honest, because I forgot my jewelry and had to borrow a necklace from another guest). Despite my inability to wear jewelry this didn’t stop me from wanting to go the jewelry route.
Five months after my miscarriage I was pregnant with my rainbow baby and couldn’t get the idea of jewelry out of my head. Would I remember to wear something? (No.) Would the baby grab it, pull it, and rip it off me, breaking it? (Almost certainly yes.) But the thought lingered.
I decided I wanted some permanent jewelry. Something I would always have with me to remind me of my baby. I wouldn’t have to remember to put it on daily, and the likelihood of my child ripping it off was slim. I spent too long looking for the perfect chain and never committed to anything. Nothing ever felt special enough.
In late January 2024, nearly two years after my miscarriage, by happenstance, I walked past a permanent jewelry vendor at a market. Without hesitation I picked out a chain for a bracelet and had it welded on while my husband stood beside me holding our dog and our rainbow baby sat on my lap. Never in the year and a half that I contemplated jewelry did I think about having my family with me when I got it, but having them with me was exactly what I needed.
That night at home I stood in the shower and, without warning, began to sob…like a movie cliche. I hadn’t expected the flood of emotion and certainly didn’t know what to do with myself so I did the only thing I could think of—I held onto the bracelet and talked to my baby. I told them how much I still love them. How I hope they know I think about them every day. I asked if they could see their baby brother. Were they impressed with how fast he was walking? I told them I was sorry we never got to meet, but that they are always with me.
The next day as I sat with my son he grabbed onto the bracelet and I cried again. Not because I thought he would break it, but because I felt like he was holding his sibling’s hand. I felt like we were all together, hugging.
There is no right way to honor a miscarriage. I spent so long trying to find something perfect rather than picking what spoke to me at the time. It was easy to reject ideas—I was in an angry place. I didn’t, and still sometimes don’t, understand “why me.” Maybe there will come a time when I want to honor my baby differently. Maybe I’ll create the perfect piece of artwork one day—art that celebrates the love I have for my baby and not that expresses the pain I felt. Maybe I’ll remove my bracelet. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know, with unwavering certainty, that my baby will always be part of my future.
Read more stories on the Miscarriage Movement.
