This is a topic that has come up a couple times both in my therapy sessions and in my loss mom support group. It’s something that I’m guilty of, and I’m sure a lot of us are. It’s this strange need we have as humans to adopt an “it could be worse” mentality. We use “it could be worse” and “at least” statements as coping mechanisms. They’re meant to soothe us in some small way – to make us feel lucky to be alive. It certain situations, it works. Like, say you got in a car accident that could have been detrimental, but walked away unscathed. Now, your car is totaled, but sheesh, it could have been way worse! But in death, there is no “it could be worse”, because it literally cannot be more terrible. No matter who died, no matter how old he or she was, if that person was a loved one, then no, it could not be worse.

And when a baby dies? Please, never utter that phrase or anything like it. My son, Jonah, was diagnosed with a potentially fatal condition at 18 weeks gestation. I carried him for 12 roller coaster weeks of hope, stress, sadness, grief, and just about any emotion you can imagine. My stomach swelled with a son who was alive, but unwell. He enjoyed training for the Olympics in my womb, and was a joy to carry, even through the pain. At 30 weeks, he lost his fight and was stillborn. That’s a pretty terrible story, right? Well, in researching stillbirth in my grief to find resources, I learned that many women who experience stillbirth carry their babies all the way to term, before losing them to some terrible, fateful “accident” or unknown medical issue. When I found this out, you know what I thought? “Oh my gosh, my story sucks, but it doesn’t even compare to what these women experience.” We’ve all been conditioned to believe that lie, that our grief doesn’t compare to that of others. But, thinking about my comparison of griefs now feels terribly misguided. My son died. He did not take a breath on this good green Earth. There is nothing…nothing…more terrible than that in my experience. It does not matter one bit what the worst grief of others are.

Your grief is big and it’s terrible and no, you cannot say it’s any less bad than someone else’s. It is unique and it is yours and it hurts, and you do not need to compare it to anyone else’s. Whether you miscarried at 6 weeks or carried your baby to term, your baby died. Please know that your grief is important, and it is no less than anyone else’s. Your grief is unique and special and yours. It cannot be compared.

Nora McInerny, my grief hero, recently said something in her podcast, Terrible, Thanks for Asking, that perfectly sums up exactly what I’m trying to say: “When we say about our own stories, “this doesn’t compare”, we’ve already made a comparison. And in that comparison, we lost compassion for ourselves, and for other people. You’re right, in that it doesn’t compare…because it doesn’t need to. If you were waiting for a permission slip to feel things; to feel complicated things, all at once, here it is. You are allowed to feel a lot of things, even if they seem to contradict each other. You can be sad about a lot of things; you can be happy about good things, even while you’re sad about terrible things. You are allowed to be wounded by arrows and you are allowed to be proud of every mountain you climb.You are not obligated to qualify or justify. You are not obligated to minimize.”

Yes…yes, yes, yes. Take this to heart, mamas. Take it all to heart. Your grief is not something to be minimized…it’s something to be felt. Feel it all, let it in. Feel all of the feels, tough and good. It sucks, it really sucks, and it’s okay for you to acknowledge that.