My Whispered "Me Too".

Wednesday Morning Matt woke up at 430. He thought it would be a good idea to work out at 530 in the morning. That is a poor idea, always. I woke to him trying to quietly roll his body out of bed and then watched as he fumbled around the room trying to get all his things together. Actually, to be fair, I was already kind of awake thanks to the gentle nervous shaking of the butterflies in my stomach, the same ones that are with me now as I sit here typing.

I spent the next few hours tossing and turning, trying to convince myself that sleep was possible, all the while knowing what we were going to do when Matt got home.

I had been feeling a little off the past few days, but I had also just got back in country, so that could have been to blame. For every feeling that I had, I had a possible reason to write it off, trying to ward of the excitement that I wasn’t sure was mine to have yet.

Matt got home and showered, because sweat. I attempted to nonchalantly roll out of bed and join him in the bathroom where I then attempted to open the packaging. I’m not sure why they make those tests so hard to open, especially since I can only imagine that most are opened with shaking hands.

The next few minutes we stood there waiting and praying. And then together we turned it over, revealing two pink lines.

I was pregnant.

I had taken enough of those tests throughout our marriage to know the subtle disappointment that usually follows after the results are read. I had no clue how to process this.

We were having a baby. A real live human!

He laughed, I cried, and we sat and stared at each other for a long time, giggling, dreaming, planning.

We spent the next two days telling our sweet families. They each celebrated in their own way, excited for this coming generation. Three out of four of the brothers expressed their selfless willingness to share their name with the baby.

We managed to tell a handful of extras before Matt went into surgery Friday afternoon. Apparently, you do not need a gallbladder.

I get him back to our house by Friday evening.

Saturday the cramping started. But that’s normal, so I push through.

Sunday the bleeding started, and by Sunday afternoon we knew we had lost the baby.


And as my hands continue to shake, what can I say after that?

It is a weird sense of loss.  

We couldn’t hold or grasp or cling to what we lost. It was not someone that we felt or knew.

But I still feel the loss.


I am physically in pain as my body says goodbye to the life I have been praying for, and my heart hurts as my dreams for that life are painfully paused.

And these are some of the feelings I am feeling: Sad, confused, angry, disappointed, guilty, thankful, grateful.

Then, in the midst of all these feelings, I struggle through if I am even allowed to feel these things. There are others all around who have experienced loss further into pregnancy, and even into life, a loss I can’t even begin to imagine. But now I do have a piece of that.

Over and over again, I have heard people caution telling others about pregnancy before the week that is deemed safe. And now, over and over again I cry for and with you sweet people who felt this weird sense of loss, alone.

The world screams silence, but it is silence because of pain and for protection.

But while I have fought that silence for a long time, I get it a bit more now.

What am I supposed to say? How do I even start? What if I break down? What if I don’t? I don’t want to put them in a spot where they are uncomfortable and don’t know what to say. What if they think I am making a big deal about this and overreacting?

But God, you don’t belittle my pain and my suffering, so I will let myself feel.

So, we have decided to allow others to be a part of this with us. And goodness it has been painful and sweet.

One of my favorite things one friend said was, “I don’t know if this is the right thing to say, but…”

Because let’s be honest, what the heck are you supposed to say? What am I supposed to say?


So, I am trying to allow myself to fully feel.

I am sad.

I am sad that this baby will not grow inside of me. I am sad that I will not feel the movement inside of me, and that Matt’s hand will not get kicked. I am sad that I do not get to spend the next 9 months making Matt a Daddy.

I am sad that on March 21, 2018, we will not meet our baby, the culmination of the two of us in one tiny human.

And I am grateful.

I am grateful that the baby was too small to see yet. I am grateful that we now know we have the ability to get pregnant, a fear that was taking root in my heart. I am grateful for a family that has chosen to step up and help both Matt and I rest and heal. I am grateful for the healing that Jesus is doing in the family though pain. I am grateful that God can bring incredible good out of sadness, and is choosing, this time, to let us see some of that goodness right away.  

And I am thankful.

I am thankful for the people in our world. I am thankful for strength to allow people in, and for the healing that it brings. Silence creates isolation and loneliness, and loneliness in pain can do unbelievable damage.

The more I talk, the more “me too” whispers are being passed to me.

This reality speaks too truly to so many people.

Honesty moving forward, I am scared. I am scared that the next time that two pink lines appear on the test, fear will be the first emotion that comes over me. I have fought so hard over the past few years to stand up to the fear that consumed my life for so long, and this feels like a win for fear before it even happens. And that protective fear will do no good to protect my heart, as much as it might lie that it will.

I so badly do not want to give my heart in pieces, because fully processed or not, this hurts, and if it happens again, it will hurt.

And if next time it doesn’t happen, I want to say that I loved that baby from the day I knew.

And if next time it does happen, I want to say that I loved my baby from the day I knew.


So here is my whispered “me too” in attempts to quiet the voice of silence and isolation. I am so sorry for this pain so many of you feel along with me. It sucks.

Here’s to laughing together as life moves on and our hearts heal. To crying together as unexpected triggers produce tears and sudden sadness.

Here’s to learning how to love fully and without abandon, and to many more

“me too’s”.