Five years ago I had a dream. I had a dream that I gave birth to a son, our second son. His name was Josiah, and I was told Josiah meant ‘God heals’.
Little did I know months later I would become pregnant with this second son of mine, and I would have to say goodbye too soon.
I can still feel the cold jelly on my bare stomach as the ultrasound tech left the room to ‘check that the images were turning out okay.’ My swollen belly exposed to an empty room, the minutes passing, and my mind running rampant with the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what’s wrongs’. I can still hear the conversation I had with myself that day.
It’s probably nothing.
Don’t freak yourself out.
You’re being paranoid.
I can still hear my wails echoing off the hospital walls as the words ‘there’s no longer a heart beat’ reached my ears.
How could this be? How could this happen? How could my baby’s heart be beating one moment, and then just stop without any warning, without my body recognizing anything was wrong?
I clung to my swollen belly as I called my husband continents away to repeat the very words that just ripped into my soul.
Our baby was dead. Our Josiah, our second son, was dead. And his lifeless body lay resting in my womb.
What I didn’t realize after birthing our tiny, breathless baby, was that out of our tremendous heartbreak would come great healing.
Josiah’s brief life, and his death, sparked in me a fire to share our story and break the silence around miscarriage. So many women walk this journey alone, in silence, fearful of others’ response to their grief. I’ve learned, for me, that healing comes from speaking my grief out loud, giving myself the freedom and the space to grieve a loss such as this, and empowering others to navigate their grief journey.
Josiah’s tiny life, his tiny hands, taught me that I’m not alone, and that in our grief we need to carry each other.