Miscarriage is one of those experiences that can feel incredibly isolating.

Not because you're alone in it. Miscarriage is far more common than many people realize but because it often isn't talked about openly.

People may not know what to say.

Some people avoid the topic altogether.

Others try to help by offering reassurance:

"You'll get pregnant again."

"Everything happens for a reason."

"At least it happened early."

While these comments are usually well-intentioned, they can leave people feeling even more alone in their grief.

Because miscarriage isn't just about the loss of a pregnancy.

It's often the loss of hopes, plans, expectations, and a future you had already started imagining.

One thing I think people underestimate is how exhausting it can be to constantly monitor yourself.

Not just what you say.

But how you say it.

How you sit.

How you dress.

Who you talk about.

Whether a story feels "safe" to tell.

Whether you'll be accepted if people know the whole truth.

For many queer individuals, this kind of self-monitoring starts long before they ever have words for it.

Sometimes it starts in childhood.

Sometimes it starts after hearing comments from family members, peers, religious communities, or society that send a message:

"Certain parts of you are acceptable. Other parts are not."

Even when nobody says those exact words, our nervous systems are incredibly good at picking up on what feels safe and what doesn't.

One thing I hear often in session, especially from women is some version of:

“I know I need rest, but I feel bad when I actually slow down.”

And honestly, a lot of people don’t realize how deeply wired that feeling can become. I too struggle with this and its something I am constantly battling, even before becoming a mom.

Because somewhere along the way, many women learned that rest has to be earned.

That productivity equals worth.
That being needed equals value.
That slowing down is lazy.
That if you can keep going, you probably should.

So even when your body is exhausted, your nervous system struggles to fully relax.

You sit down to rest and suddenly remember:

• emails you haven’t answered

And you do not have to minimize that to make other people comfortable.

One of the hardest parts about losing a pet is how misunderstood the grief can feel.

People might say:

“At least they lived a long life.”

Or:

“You can always get another one.”

And while those comments are usually meant to help, they often miss the point completely.

Because pets are not “just pets.”

They become part of your daily life in such a quiet, constant way that you don’t fully realize how much space they hold until they’re gone.

Becoming a parent changes you in ways people don’t always talk about.

There’s the obvious stuff like sleep deprivation, feeding schedules, a body that feels different, a new identity forming whether you’re ready or not.

But there’s also the quieter experience underneath it all.