I stared at myself in the mirror, repulsed by the girl I saw. I wasn’t pregnant or unpregnant. Our baby was gone, but my body didn’t get the memo. My breasts were leaking milk, I felt covered in blood, my waist had expanded two pants sizes, and yet I was empty. No baby. I’ve never felt like such a failure in my whole life. This one thing that’s meant to distinguish us as women, or so I thought, was the one thing I couldn’t manage: I simply couldn’t stay pregnant. I felt so ashamed and embarrassed and ugly. It took all my reserves just to show my face to the world—go to work, attend church—much less get naked with my husband. I just wanted to hide all of my mess. I felt unlovely and unlovable.
Megan
Every time someone found out I had a miscarriage, the first question they asked was, “How far along were you?” And every single time I felt ashamed to say “seven weeks,” as if the short length of my pregnancy meant it mattered less and shouldn’t have affected me so much.
Dana
Shame corrodes us. It corrodes our confidence, our sense of worth, our ability to give and receive love, our understanding of justice, our freedom, our courage. It corrodes our ability to see clearly. It’s an acid to our souls and will undercut our relationships if we leave it unattended.
Have you ever felt ashamed about your miscarriage? Of your body? Of your weakness? Of your tenuous faith? Of your response to your grief? Of yourself?
I still sometimes feel silly. Like somehow my pain—or my reaction to it—is ridiculous. This, too, is shame.
Shame Sneaks in When You’re Not Looking
When I was a child, I was often called dramatic. And I was. I loved singing and acting and dancing and dreamed of being a Broadway star. (My backup plan was to become the next Amy Grant if Broadway didn’t work out.) But somewhere in the coming-of-age process I learned that being called dramatic was not a compliment but an insult. It wasn’t a bolster to my creativity or an encouragement to explore expression; it was a prescription to tame my “too muchness,” an antidote to my big feelings, a shush to being me. As an adult I can now see how the childhood version of me misinterpreted and assimilated these faulty notions into my subconscious. But still, they lodged: I was dramatic and that made me foolish.
During a sixth-grade sleepover with friends, we played “crack the whip” in the front yard, holding hands and running as fast as we possibly could until the circle broke and one of us went flying. I was that one. I screamed in pain and cried as my friends gathered around me with mixed reactions to the accident. Mostly they said things like, “Are you okay? You’ll be fine,” and kept right on playing. I felt stupid for reacting to pain the way I did and tried to act like it was no big deal. According to my friends it was an unfortunate little blip. Clearly I was overreacting.
It wasn’t until hours later, when they were all giggling over movies, that my friend’s mother noticed me on the couch burning up with a fever. She called my dad and, soon after, an emergency room visit confirmed a fracture in my arm. See? My pain was real. But that didn’t erase the fact that I felt silly for how it moved me.
I’ve had decades to work through a lot of the damage done to my young soul by that one little word, dramatic, but here’s the honest truth: I’m thirty-nine years old and I still worry about being too dramatic. I still sometimes worry that others might think I’m silly. (Admitting that feels so vulnerable.)
After my first miscarriage, I wasn’t ashamed of my body. I suspect already having two kids loaned courage to my belief that the miscarriage happened to me—this was not my fault. I wasn’t ashamed by what had happened, or even my part in it, but I did struggle to not be ashamed by how I felt. I simply couldn’t harness my agony. It was wild, and I hoped that didn’t make me ridiculous.
No one told me so, but I felt like my reaction was dramatic. I felt like my loneliness was dramatic. I felt like my despair was dramatic. I felt like my suffering was dramatic. I felt like my unrelenting tears were dramatic. The immensity of my own emotions frightened me, but they also whispered back to me: You’re being dramatic. This is all a bit much now, isn’t it?
I didn’t need coaxing to “feel what you need to feel” or encouragement to “let yourself grieve.” No, expressing the full weight of my pain and grief came easily to me; I’m demonstrative by nature. What I needed was to remember how to breathe down there at the bottom of my grief when I seriously wondered if the pressure of my own snot could explode my skull from the inside. I needed to know my visceral response was not silly. I needed to know that my full-body reaction to grief did not make me ridiculous.
Shame Is Reinforced over Time
Even if you can’t pinpoint a certain childhood experience when you felt shamed, perhaps shame has woven its way into your subconscious through a series of events or words spoken over you during any stage of your life. In the words of psychiatrist Curt Thompson:
While we may think of large, monolithic, humiliating public events, the reality is that most shame takes place inside your head dozens of times every day. It’s silent, subtle, and characterized by the quiet self-condemning conversation that we’ve learned since we were kids.1
Maybe your miscarriage reinforced already existing feelings of failure or inadequacy or poor self-worth, or maybe it was the first time you ever really felt devastated by trauma, and what the trauma has exposed is surprising to you. In any case, I encourage you now to think deeply and ask yourself this question in the presence of Jesus: Do I feel a sense of shame resulting from this miscarriage?
Here are some specifics you might consider:
Have you felt shame about your response to grief (“too much” or “not enough”)?
Have you felt shame about your body’s (perceived) failure?
Have you felt shame about your womanhood?
Have you felt shame about what this crisis has revealed about your faith or perception of God?
Have you felt shame for not wanting the baby in the first place?
Have you felt shame that you “mis-carried” the baby, as if somehow it’s all your fault?
Almost 30 percent of the bereaved parents I surveyed said they experienced shame after their miscarriages, and these are the ones who could easily identify it; there could be far more.
Shame tells us we are deeply flawed; not that we’ve done something wrong—that’s guilt—but that we are wrong. Whereas guilt can be alleviated through confession, asking forgiveness, and making restitution, shame hangs around without regard to your morality. Shame says you’re inherently defective, that you are the problem.
Stigma Surrounding Miscarriage Is a Breeding Ground for Shame
Since first experiencing miscarriage, I’ve often wondered why women aren’t talking about it more. If it’s so prevalent, why is it still such a culturally taboo topic? (And why aren’t men talking about it? What about the grieving dads?) As I’ve turned these questions over in my mind, I keep coming back to this issue of shame. We may or may not think we’ve done something to cause the miscarriage (guilt), but do we know—deep in our bones—that we aren’t intrinsically faulty human beings? Do we secretly think we aren’t good enough? Do we fear we’re deeply flawed as women?
So many things can contribute to feeling a sense of shame over miscarriages: the inconclusive nature of the loss, the lack of social validation, the societal expectation that we bear our loss in private (such as the belief that we should keep a pregnancy secret until after twelve weeks have passed), the absence of a cultural ritual to invite others to participate in mourning or commemorating a lost life, the risk of our vulnerability being judged or brushed off, the expectation that we can quickly get over it, the assumption that all women can have babies. There’s a whole lot of overt and subtle stigma hinting that we should be ashamed.
Shame makes us turn our pain inward. Not in a constructive, soul-searching way, but in a destructive, soul-decimating way. Shame keeps a woman paralyzed in fear as she tries to convince herself and the world that “everything is okay,” when really she has no idea what to do with her grief. Shame accommodates the inner critic telling her no one understands and no one cares anyway. Shame draws us into ourselves, leads us into hiding, and keeps us separated from the very things that can bring healing: the light of Jesus and the love and acceptance of others.
The truth is when we dare to open ourselves up before others in our pain, something powerful can be birthed between us. Brené Brown calls this the “gift of vulnerability,”2 and the writer of Hebrews calls it grace.3 When we humble ourselves enough to let down our guard and be known for who we really are, grace is released. We are free to love and be loved.
Shame Alienates Us from Love
The first instance of shame ever recorded in human history takes place in Eden. In Genesis 2 we see that Adam and Eve were naked but not ashamed.4 In chapter 3, after they rebelled against God, they hid from him, ashamed.5 What caused their leap from unashamed to ashamed? It wasn’t merely sin; it was the result of sin—separation from God. Shame alienates us from love. That’s true of our relationship with God and it’s true of every human relationship that exists. When we are ashamed, we are hindered in our ability to experience the fullness of the love, connection, and belonging we were created for.
When Adam and Eve’s shame drove them into hiding, God’s response was to call for them, draw them out, and cover them.6 He always addresses our shame by first entering into it and then extending love. He showed us this in the garden, and again in graphic detail on the cross.
“This is why the Crucifixion and Jesus’ naked body is such a big deal,” says Thompson.
Even in our artwork depicting the event, we don’t strip him naked. We have a loincloth around him, and that’s all well and good, but it suggests that we don’t want God going that far. But he does. God himself submitted to the shame of the Cross. He has been there. And he says, “I’m willing to go with you where you’re not even willing to go.”7
Shame cannot exist in the presence of love, therefore shame can’t exist in the presence of God, for he is Love.8 When we look into the disarming eyes of Jesus, he sees us naked and loves us anyway. Our masks are irrelevant, our coping mechanisms are rendered useless, our clichéd responses are defused of their power, and all we have left is ourselves, stripped bare of our defenses in the best possible way. Our most carefully erected fortification schemes don’t stand a chance against his love. Shame is given no oxygen to breathe in the presence of love, whether human or divine, and our nakedness and vulnerability become a gift.
The Tangle of Guilt and Shame
The tentacles of guilt and shame can be difficult to untangle. With so much overlap, they can be hard to distinguish. Of my survey participants, 41 percent reported feeling guilty after their miscarriage. Listen to some of their stories:
I felt guilty about some huge life decisions I made just before my miscarriage. Rationally I knew they weren’t the cause, but I think subconsciously I was trying to assign blame somewhere and it was easy to blame myself.—Jen
I had just started a rigorous diet and exercise program with the blessing of my doctor. Although I didn’t know I was pregnant at the time, when I miscarried a few weeks later, I instantly felt guilty and believed I was responsible.—Shana
We had two under two when I got pregnant unexpectedly, and I was already suffering from postpartum depression. I was terrified to be pregnant again and seriously considered abortion. Soon after deciding I couldn’t go through with it I miscarried the baby anyway. I felt so guilty and was sure this was God’s punishment to me.—Anonymous
My husband and I were having significant problems and talking about getting a divorce when I got pregnant. The whole thing was a mess. When I miscarried I felt so relieved, but my relief came with so much guilt. Our marriage has since been reconciled, but I still struggle with the guilt surrounding the miscarriage.—Melissa
We waited a long time before trying to have kids, mostly because I wanted to develop my career while also pursuing my PhD. When I finally agreed to try for a baby, I miscarried and felt so guilty that it was my fault. I’ll always wonder if it would have happened had I not been an “older” mother. I also struggled with a lot of shame because I assumed everyone else thought it was my fault too. Like they were silently judging me for being so into my career and waiting so long.—Steph
I would sometimes make jokes about my baby in heaven. Maybe it sounds weird, but I think it’s how I coped with my sadness. It helped at first, but when I was done laughing, I always felt super guilty. Like I was cheapening the experience.—Tess
We got pregnant with a honeymoon baby and we were not ready to be parents. Then I miscarried the baby and was reeling: Why did God let us get pregnant and then leave me heartbroken? I only knew I was pregnant for two days but suffered tremendous guilt. I didn’t know how or why, but I 100 percent believed it was my fault. The guilt was suffocating, and I couldn’t imagine anything good coming from a marriage that seemed so wrecked from the beginning. The whole thing was traumatic.—Naomi
As I said earlier, shame says that you are wrong, whereas guilt says that you’ve done something wrong. Brené Brown puts it this way: Guilt says, “I’m sorry, I made a mistake,” whereas shame says, “I’m sorry, I am a mistake.”9
Guilt Is Productive, False Guilt Is Destructive
Guilt can be a powerful tool to direct us toward righting our wrongs—finding forgiveness before the Lord and seeking forgiveness and reconciliation in our human relationships. In John 16:13 Jesus tells us that the Holy Spirit will guide us into truth. God works through our conscience and our spirit to convict us when we need to address wrongdoing in our lives. But there is a difference between feeling guilty and being guilty, which is why we need the Spirit’s help to discern the difference.
False guilt is when we feel guilty but aren’t. And guess what? Shame can drive us right into the ditch of false guilt and keep us stuck there.
It’s not uncommon at all for women to feel a sense of guilt over their miscarriages. We’re given laundry lists of “dos and don’ts” for pregnancy, so it seems natural to jump straight to that list after miscarriage and think, What in the world did I do wrong? Did I miss something? Did I not follow the rules closely enough?
Or, if we have a skewed view of God, his role in suffering, and/or his heart for us, we might think, What did I do to deserve this? Is this some sort of divine punishment? Does God not love me enough to save my baby?
If you’ve had any of these thoughts I’d like to gently take you by the shoulders, eyeball you like only a loving, protective big sister can, and tell you two things: (1) You are not responsible for your miscarriage. (2) You’ve got to let this idea go.
False guilt will eat away an already-broken heart if left unresolved. Whether shame led to your false guilt or not, false guilt will lead you to shame. And shame will wreck your relationships. It will wreck how you relate to God and to your loved ones. It will even wreck how you relate to your own soul.
Friend, the enemy of your soul would give anything to see you caught in a crippling cycle of self-loathing, self-criticism, self-doubt, and false accusation driven by a sense of guilt (false guilt!) over circumstances that were completely out of your control. Don’t give in to it. Kick the accuser10 in the shins by asking God to show you truth.
Truth Brings Freedom
Jesus said to the people who believed in him, “You are truly my disciples if you remain faithful to my teachings. And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32)
Did you catch that? The truth will set you free. But knowing the truth doesn’t just come by memorizing this or that biblical principle; it comes by obeying the teachings of Jesus. See the order there? (Go ahead and read the scripture again.) When we remain faithful to the teachings of Jesus, we’ll know truth. This knowledge—this living, breathing, experiential knowledge—will set us free. But we’ve got to trust him enough to obey his teachings first.
So what does he teach?
You are loved exactly as you are.11
He sees you as exquisite.12
When God looks at you, he sees Jesus.13
Nothing can ever separate you from his love.14
Every tear that’s ever fallen from your broken heart will be wiped away.15
God is for you.16
You are worth everything.17
Are you willing to accept these teachings, sweet mama? As you do, you can, and will, be set free from the false things you’re believing about yourself.
Friends of ours, the Helsers, are famous for saying that the greatest journey a person can ever make is the eighteen-inch journey from our head to our heart.18 Do you have beliefs about yourself and about God that are disrupting your heart? Or do you “know” what God says and thinks of you in your head but haven’t yet let that knowledge become living and breathing as a transformative truth buried in your heart?
As you’re dealing with the carnage left behind by your miscarriage, allow God to come alive in the broken places of your heart. Allow your mind to be transformed by truth. And ask him to integrate the two. He will. He does.