I always schedule my social media content in advance. As a full-time freelancer, "showing up" online is pretty critical to maintaining a healthy pipeline of work.
I sat down last week to write posts, and got to February 13th.
She died seven years ago.
And I don't care that most of my online audience doesn't know me personally. I don't care that LinkedIn is a "professional" network and some people ignore or scroll past the "personal" posts because they think that work and life shouldn't be mixed.
I cried as I typed out the scheduled post.
It's February 13th.
My daughter's birthday.
Her heart stopped beating during my 16th week of pregnancy.
It's easy to gloss over what happened with words like "pregnancy loss" and "miscarriage."
It's uncomfortable for people to talk about.
My daughter died.
I felt her move.
I'd picked out a name.
And I never got to meet her.
I look at my living children and think, "She would be seven years old."
This day will never stop being hard.
Even though I don't talk about pregnancy loss frequently, I talk openly. Because I know so many women suffer in silence.
I was a guest on a podcast recently, talking about career pivots. The host reached out to me as she was editing and told me that she had looked at my Instagram account. I share a lot about pregnancy loss Instagram — the photos I share are often in honor of my babies.
The podcast host thanked me for my vulnerability and asked that I come back to talk about my babies someday. She said that most people don't have a clue how to support women who have lost babies.
And that is the reason I keep talking. Writing. Sharing. Because most people don't have a clue, even though 1 in 4 women pregnancies end in miscarriage. For some reason, the topic is still taboo.
I write about my pain — the pain that I still experience, seven years later — to let other women know that they're not alone.
Happy birthday, baby girl. I will always love you and always wonder who you would have been.