6 Unhelpful Ways You Might Be Comparing Your Miscarriage
If I’ve learned anything about grief in the past couple of years, it’s that no two people do it the same. Grief looks different for everyone. It’s not linear, it comes in waves, and there really is no right or wrong way to do it.
While this may not be news to many, it can be far too easy to forget when we are in the thick of our own grief. Comparison knocks at grief’s door, constantly threatening to steal what joy we may have left. But whichever way you spin it, comparison does little to aid in the grieving process, and the same is true when grieving a miscarriage.
Ask me how I know.
There are probably infinite ways to compare miscarriage, but in this post, I’ll focus on the six common ways I’ve seen it done—or have done myself—and how to move past it.
Why Do We Compare?
Before we jump into the ways miscarriage is commonly compared, let’s first consider why we do it. I believe there are (at least) two reasons people compare—and it’s not just the women who have experienced a miscarriage who are doing it; it can be anyone.
Justification—Sometimes comparison seemingly justifies our experience and our response to it so we don’t feel as bad, or—though we hate to admit it—so others do. Comparison for this reason is often accompanied by feelings of bitterness. It seeks to validate a woman’s miscarriage experience as (more) worthy of grief, of consideration, of sympathy, etc. But I believe at the heart of this type of comparison is the simple desire to feel supported and seen.
Hope—Other times comparison downplays our experience to justify someone else’s. It’s as though their trauma somehow gives us more reason to hope because ours “wasn’t that bad.” This may seem like the lesser of two evils, but comparing to gain hope often stems from a place of hopelessness and deflection. It places stock in someone else’s suffering so the one comparing can evade her own.
It’s interesting to consider the weight of these two words from a biblical context. Scripture tells us that Jesus is our justification and hope (Rom. 4:24-5:2), yet comparison has a sneaky way of leading us to believe it can do an equally sufficient job.
6 Ways We Compare Miscarriage
Now that we understand why we compare, let’s look at how it’s happening. While this list is not exhaustive, these are the most common ways I have seen miscarriage compared.
1. My Loss Vs. Her Gain
When you are grieving the loss of a child, it can become increasingly difficult to see the pregnancy announcements, birth announcements, baby showers, and answered prayers you had hoped would be yours.
I used to think the woman who swapped her deceased baby with the woman’s living baby in 1 Kings 3:16-28 was wicked until I lost a child of my own. Now that I’ve experienced tears, trembling, and near-anxiety attacks from merely giving away maternity clothes and lending out baby things I know my children would be using if they were alive, I now recognize her as a bereaved mother.
I don’t think we want to be this way. We don’t want to envy. We don’t want to covet. We don’t want to compare… But we do. It’s hard when other people are living the life you thought would be yours.
But it’s important to remember that her story is her story and your story is yours. They are different. Why? I don’t know. But what I do know is that dwelling on our differences has never helped me grieve as much as rejoicing in what we have in common: We all suffer.
As depressing as that sounds, it is good to remember that everyone struggles, grieves, and mourns at various points in their lives for different reasons. No one’s life is perfect. We are not alone, though we may not always be able to relate.
2. My Loss Vs. Her Loss
Another way we compare miscarriage is by comparing our loss to someone else’s. This happens in a lot of ways, but I most often see it when comparing:
How far along the mother was when she miscarried (e.g., loss from a shorter pregnancy is not as hard as a longer one)
The number of children a woman already has when she miscarries (e.g., miscarriage is not as hard for women who already have kids OR it is automatically harder for those who don’t)
The number of miscarriages a woman has had (e.g., mine is or isn’t as bad because I know someone who has had more or less losses)
The number of consecutive miscarriages (e.g., multiple losses in a row are harder than, say, a pattern of every other pregnancy)
The age of the mother (e.g., miscarriage is not as bad for young women because they have “more time”)
The level of grief the mother shows (e.g., feeling guilty for not grieving more because someone else is grieving a lot, or vice versa)
The degree of trauma related to the miscarriage (e.g., miscarriages that involve things like a hemorrhage or interventions are worse than those that don’t)
If you are looking at this list and thinking some of these comparisons actually sound valid, let me remind you that miscarriage is the loss of a child. And the loss of a child is hard. Period. But also, the way we experience and respond to miscarriage is unique to the individual, and there is no right or wrong way to do it.
Everyone has a different story and is in a different place—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—when they experience their loss. Comparing whose is worse or not as bad may seem like it will alleviate some of the pain of our loss, but in reality, miscarriage is the loss of a child. And the loss of a child is hard. Period.
3. My Previous Loss(es) vs. This Loss
It wasn’t until my second miscarriage that I even considered the struggle that comes with comparing your own losses to each other. My first loss was quick and quiet. The whole thing was just like a period… Except, of course, that it wasn’t. But I remember feeling God’s presence and having such peace in my heart despite being completely heartbroken.
My second loss was long and loud. It was a missed miscarriage, which means I carried my baby for over 6 weeks after she passed away before I even knew she had died. I bled for a total of one month, hemorrhaged, and ended up needing just about every intervention offered to me. Though I knew God was with me, it didn’t feel that way. I had little peace, if any.
I remember feeling guilty because it seemed like I had a much harder time grieving my second loss, and I didn’t want it to seem like I loved our baby from our second loss more than our baby from our first.
That’s when I realized comparing the two was not serving me. I loved my babies differently because they were different people, even if I never got to know them. But I loved neither more than the other. Yes, the losses were different. Yes, I processed them differently. Yes, I grieved them differently. And that’s okay.
It doesn’t make one “worse” or the other “easy.” It doesn’t mean I loved one child more. I didn’t.
The only good I would say came from comparing the two was the realization of how widely varied women’s miscarriage experiences can be so I can listen, love, and support them how they need (more on this in my posts What You Need to Know About Pregnancy Loss and How to Support Someone Through Pregnancy Loss).
4. My Grief Vs. My Spouse’s Grief
As mentioned earlier, everyone grieves differently. This includes men and women. Yes, miscarried babies are both the mother’s and the father’s, but the experiences are uniquely different.
Your husband may have seen the double pink lines or the ultrasound with you, had numerous conversations about what life would look like with (another) child, talked about names, made gender predictions, etc. But he didn’t feel the physical symptoms of the pregnancy. Men don’t get to experience the inexplicable, deep connection a woman feels with her child when she is pregnant or the deep betrayal she may feel from her own body when she miscarries.
This doesn’t mean men can’t connect with their children in the womb. But it’s a different experience for men.
While it may be difficult to see your husband’s seeming lack of grief when yours is so heavy, it’s important to remember that men express themselves differently, even in grief. Some men may want to be strong for their wives (even if we as women believe strength means breaking down). They may prefer to put their head down and work to provide for the family in a way they understand because so little can be understood about miscarriage. They may be ready to try again sooner because the toll of the loss weighed differently on them.
I don’t think we’ll ever fully understand the distinct and deeply intentional ways God has designed men and women to be different… And maybe that’s okay. Maybe our job is simply to recognize that there is a difference, keep communication open and honest with our spouse, and trust God to carry us through what we can’t understand.
5. Pregnancy Loss Vs. Other Loss
Sandwiched between my two miscarriages was the unexpected loss of my Dad. I tried to avoid comparing the two types of loss, but it seemed impossible when grieving them at once.
Over 100 people showed up to honor my Dad’s life at his memorial. When I’m hit with a wave of grief, I can look at pictures and listen to his voice in videos. On the anniversary of his death, my phone blew up with messages from friends and family to share memories or to let me know they were praying for me and my family.
We had no memorial for our babies because I was never able to find their tiny bodies, and I didn’t want to do it without a body to bury. The only pictures I have of our miscarried babies are of the positive pregnancy tests I took when I found out they existed. And when the anniversary of their deaths rolled around, I was the only one who remembered.
Pregnancy loss is not like other types of loss, but it is still a loss. That they have in common. Actually, the more I type or hear “pregnancy loss,” the more I really hate calling it that. Women who have miscarried didn’t just lose a pregnancy. They lost a child.
While I maintain that there is value in comparing miscarriage to other types of loss in an effort to dignify life in the womb in a world that says it doesn’t matter, comparing specific miscarriages to other specific losses may not always help the grieving process.
I learned this the hard way.
Miscarriage grief is unique. It poses deep theological questions because it is something so difficult to understand (more on a theology of miscarriage in my post If God, Why Miscarriage?). Treat your miscarriage as a loss—because it is—but allow yourself to respond to it according to the unique ways you require without comparing it to another loss.
6. Pregnancy Loss Vs. Infertility
I remember the first time my feelings were hurt by this comparison. I was in my first round of infertility, before ever experiencing a miscarriage. Someone I follow online made a public announcement asking women in a season of infertility to stop reaching out to her in her season of recurrent miscarriages like they understood what she was going through. “They aren’t the same,” she said.
She wasn’t wrong. But sometimes I think we focus so much on the differences between these two experiences that we forget how they are alike. Yes, infertility and miscarriage are different, but the way I see it, both know what it is to wait for a baby. Both know what it is to grieve.
I never thought of it that way until I heard it said, “Infertility is like the constant grief of a funeral that hasn’t happened yet.” It’s the looming fear and, in some cases, a confirmed loss of even the potential to have (more) children. It’s the loss of possibility. The loss of dreams.
And when we think of it that way, I think we might see that women in both of these experiences have more to talk about than they realize. They are different, but that doesn’t make one harder and the other easier. It’s subjective to the individual. And just because miscarriage and infertility are different, doesn’t mean that women going through the other “don’t have room to complain.” We don’t need to exclude one another from the conversation.
How to Overcome Comparison
I wish I could give you a simple regime to overcoming comparison, but—as with life—it’s not that easy. Nonetheless, here are a few things that have helped me:
Accept Differences—This is key. Some things are different, but they aren’t meant to be compared. Separating or compartmentalizing these things from my experience has helped me abundantly. Telling myself things like, “That’s her story, not my story,” helps me shut out comparison before it even begins, find contentment for where I’m at, and empathize or rejoice with others accordingly.
Practice—Another thing that helps me overcome comparison is practicing empathy and generosity, even when it’s the last thing I want to do. There’s grace. Practice makes better, not perfect. But I’ve found that when I push myself to rejoice with those who rejoice even while I’m still mourning (Rom. 12:15), or lend out baby things even when I want to protect them for future children, it gets easier. It becomes more natural to celebrate with others or to be generous because I have put in the hard work to practice.
In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ — Acts 20:35
Entrust Yourself to God—Jesus is our ultimate example of obedience in the face of suffering, and Scripture tells us He did it by “entrusting Himself to Him who judges justly” (1 Pet. 2:23). Entrusting what we can’t understand to the Lord who is Love and is Sovereign over all will always be a good investment of our surrender. God cares for you more than you may know or feel at this moment, but He can be trusted with what we can’t make sense of.
If you have had a miscarriage, please know how sorry I am for your loss. You and your child(ren) are so deeply loved. You are welcome in this space. I pray that understanding why we compare, how we might be doing it, and how to move past it blesses you in your grief. Please feel free to reach out if you could use some prayer.
Lord,
Thank you for Jesus. Thank you that He is the justification for my sins and my hope for eternity. Comparison may seek to justify or give me hope, but help me to remember that it’s really you.
Lord, there is so much I don’t understand about this. Miscarriage is hard and confusing. I miss my baby. Help me in any bitter envy or deflection I may express as I grieve my child. Help me not to compare my loss to things it was never meant to be compared to. Help me to be unified with other women— whether they have received their blessing, are grieving a loss of their own, or are in a season of infertility. Unify me with my husband when I can’t understand how he grieves. And help me give grace when I’m tempted to compare my loss with another.
God, you can do anything. I’m proclaiming that to myself anew, today. Give me the strength I need to accept differences, put empathy and generosity into practice, and entrust myself to you. I choose to believe I can trust you, even when my circumstances say I shouldn’t. Into your hands, I commit my grieving journey. Heal my heart, God. Sanctify me and draw me close to you as you comfort me and weep with me over this loss.
In Jesus’ name. Amen.
