What’s the right thing to say to someone who’s had a miscarriage?

One of the hardest things about losing a pregnancy is that women are often expected (implicitly or explicitly) to grieve in silence. In the research for my book, I often ask women why our culture seems so uncomfortable with open dialogue on this issue. I get a lot of answers, but one of the simplest and most powerful is that when (if?) you tell them what happened, “people just don’t know what to say.” And so women keep quiet about their suffering, afraid of making someone else uncomfortable.

There are a lot of reasons why people might be speechless in the face of pregnancy loss. How could a baby die? Is this a private woman’s issue, like her period, and therefore taboo to discuss? How do you say you’re sorry about someone neither you, nor anyone except the parents, ever really met?

I’ve seen several articles on what not to say to a woman going through a loss. Don’t tell her that it was just “God’s plan” or that “there must have been something wrong with it.” Don’t try to make her feel better by telling her “at least you know you can get pregnant” or “you can just try again.” Don’t dismiss or minimize her grief over losing this particular baby, and don’t assume that another pregnancy will resolve it — or is even possible.

There are many potential landmines, and it doesn’t seem to leave us with many options about what we can say that might actually help. Even if we keep things simple with an “I’m sorry for your loss,” or an “I’m thinking about you and I’m here for you,” these can sound and feel like cliches for the person who truly wants to support the bereaved parent. So what can we do that feels more proactive and more impactful, knowing that words alone may always be inadequate?

I recently read about the concept of “holding space” for someone, and it could be very useful in helping to support woman and families who have experienced pregnancy loss. It means

that we are willing to walk alongside another person in whatever journey they’re on without judging them, making them feel inadequate, trying to fix them, or trying to impact the outcome. When we hold space for other people, we open our hearts, offer unconditional support, and let go of judgement and control.

What would it look like to hold space for a woman who has lost a pregnancy? It would mean sitting with her in the dark while she eats Cocoa Pebbles and watches I Love Lucy reruns for hours on end. You can leave other food in the fridge or the oven for her, but if it’s the Cocoa Pebbles she wants right at that moment, let her have them. It might mean getting her power cord from the other room when her computer battery starts to run low, because she has spent the day desperately searching the Internet, trying to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it. And if after that day, buying all the fertility teas on the Internet is what she wants, offer to brew the first cup when it arrives. It would mean taking her to Target just for fun, and putting your arm around her but not saying anything when she spots the aisle of baby clothes you tried so hard to steer her away from. It would mean taking her phone if she gets sick of answering calls and texts, and doing it for her. It would mean being willing to cry yourself, if the loss has hurt you as well, and not shielding her from your own emotion.

It would mean simply being there, quietly and attentively, and letting her experience her loss. Letting her wallow in it for awhile if she needs it and not being afraid to face her pain with her, giving her the space and the time to figure this out herself but not by herself. For many women, life after pregnancy loss is irrevocably changed and there’s no point denying that it can’t go on just as it did before. What matters is how you show that you understand that fact, even if you don’t understand the experience itself.