The taboo surrounding conversations about infant loss has become clearer to me as time has gone by in this loss journey. Sometimes, I feel like I have to justify talking about Lucy… maybe not out loud always, but it’s certainly something I do in my mind often. I hate it. I’ve come to accept two things: 1) our situation makes many people uncomfortable, and continuing to talk about it doesn’t change that, and 2) life goes on, and people don’t like to dwell on that which is sad.

I’ve frivolously taken the time to make up the pie chart you see in the photo. Yes, it’s a bit lopsided, and yes, it gave me an excuse to play with gel pens whilst avoiding housework and back-to-school prep! I guess what inspired me to do that is my latest article that went up for Still Standing. (It’s right here) I know the dangers of relying at all upon social media to determine the worth of something, but I couldn’t help but do a little reflection and analysis when I checked out the numbers. I hesitated to post the article on my personal Facebook page but ended up doing it anyway. I’m not doing it for attention or ‘likes’, but to be REAL, as in here’s my life, and here’s what I’m up to lately, ugliness and all. I was super raw in the writing of the “Welcome to My Reality” article, and I’m actually rather proud of it. I did some comparison with this piece and my first one, “Mailbox Triggers” (that’s right here) and there was a stunning difference in reader responses. The mailbox article was much less in-your-face, and it ended up getting lots of comments and thought from my friends and family on Facebook, yet very little response from the loss community. I think this is because I wasn’t being as real as I could have been. This latest one had exactly the opposite impact: LOTS of great feedback and response from the loss community and very little engagement from the people who know me personally (except for those who seem to fall into the small percentage shown in pink and blue on the pie chart!). I believe this is because it’s so honest and real. And THAT kind of ‘realness’ is too much for most people.

Here’s the thing, I don’t begrudge any of those people for their lack of response. In fact, I don’t blame them. It’s easier to carry on with positivity when you aren’t immersing yourself in things that are sad, uncomfortable, or negative. I understand why they’d scroll on past or just not know how to respond. It’s a lot to take in, and it’s a lot to have to continuously read. I cannot honestly say I’d have been any different if I were an outsider to infant loss. It’s a terrible truth to face, and it’s also natural to wonder just how long someone could grieve like this. What I’m learning from these people is that life does indeed carry on, in spite of the fact that I lost my little baby. It must. This is my reality to bear, not theirs. The ‘majority’ group typically does feel sympathy for our situation, but empathy is harder to come by in situations like ours. Empathy requires a deeper understanding, and most people are afraid to put themselves in the shoes of the loss parent because that reality, that kind of horror, is unbearable. Unimaginable. I believe the only way to know what it’s like is to become part of the club, so I am okay with the fact that so many people simply cannot imagine it. Because if they could, then it would mean they’ve been through it too, that more babies have died, more families have been shattered by infant loss. I would never want that. It’s an odd thing, feeling so isolated, yet being grateful that more people DON’T understand what we’re going through.

I’ve decided, since starting these reflections about the types of people being exposed to my talk of loss, that I will no longer be sharing my articles from Still Standing where the only audience is those who haven’t experienced infant loss. I realize that by doing this, I am probably upholding this ‘taboo’ of talking so openly about infant loss. I don’t know if I can stop feeling the sting of isolation when I put something so real and personal out there and it is ignored. As an English teacher, I am always reminding my students to remember who their audience is for any given piece of writing, and for now, I’m going to take my own advice. I will reserve my writing of loss and missing Lucy for the audience that intentionally seeks it out. That works for this blog, Still Standing, the Lucy Rose’s Light Facebook page, and my Instagram (I’ve found such a community there! Their posts have made many a day better since losing Lucy.). Those places are my reach, my audience, my fellow seekers of comfort in this loss community. Anyone looking in those places is intentionally going there to hear my story, so those are the ones I write for. It’s hard to accept some of this, because there IS so much avoidance of this topic from the general population, and there’s little I can do about it. I feel my vulnerability amplifying itself when I share the rawness of loss with those who aren’t necessarily asking to hear it. It makes me feel like a nuisance and a crazy person. I have a valid voice, but that voice apparently does not belong in the general population. I feel judged, which also makes me feel defensive, which in turn, stunts my own personal growth and healing. I cannot make others understand unless they want to, and I must be okay with that. This makes me feel even more powerless, but it is what it is.

And so, referring back to my lopsided gel-penned pie chart, I will write for the pink and blue categories. That’s my audience right there, and I appreciate them immensely. They are the exception to the majority, and that’s where my voice can do the most good. I should specify that I will only be sharing the raw, ugly sides of grief with this group. I will likely still be sharing the hopeful, healing parts of grief, but I will hesitate to be ‘real’ with the rest because I don’t think anyone really wants to hear about the dark sides of it all unless they are seeking it out intentionally. I think I am feeling okay about this, and I believe it will help me to narrow my focus and produce better writing, at least for now. Someday maybe I will get back to working more productively toward overall awareness of Pregnancy and Infant Loss, but for now, I will keep focusing on connecting to others like me and comforting others who’ve lost their babies. I will help them remember that they are not alone in their pain. That’s a purpose I can embrace and be proud of.