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# The Solitary Grief of Miscarriage
- URL: https://mereorthodoxy.com/the-solitary-grief-of-miscarriage/
- Published: 2026-10-22T11:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-22T11:00:00.000Z
- Description: “Mourn with those who mourn, and rejoice with those who rejoice.” Romans 12:15
- Author: Mere Orthodoxy
- Tags: Luke Fong, Family

This last September was supposed to be a joyous occasion. My wife and I had looked forward to the birth of our child that month, to holding her and seeing her and experiencing the joys that she would bring. It was to be a joyous time and a highlight of the year. 

Instead though, in the Spring, what was a time of joy turned into a time of sorrow when my wife miscarried. She was in the first trimester. Our world was shattered. We clung to God and wrestled with sorrow and wept and mourned, and our church and friends and family surrounded and loved and lifted and helped us. In a strange way, I have never felt more the truth that Christ is the Lord of Life who has defeated the grave than when I was before the gate of death itself, knowing that on the other side my child was in the arms of the Savior. Amidst our weeping there was a comfort that was able to let us heal, that closed the gaping wound in our hearts. The bulk of the storm passed, our wounded hearts scarred over, and life went on. 

For my wife and I, this loss was keener for the fact that this was our first pregnancy. There is a loss of innocence that occurs: God willing, we will have other children, yet they will not be that child, they will not be the first, and every time, in the back of our minds will be a fearful question - will it happen again? Nothing in this fallen world is ever fully certain to us; truly does Paul warn, “Ye ought to say,If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that.” Our own certainty and control is so small in its scope; we like to think we control our lives, but we are really adrift on a stormy sea. Our own small power is a hard lesson to learn, a bitter consequence of the evils of this fallen world. 

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, a time to commemorate and remember those infants who have died at the very beginning of their lives. Miscarriage is quietly common, despite all of our advances in medicine - it is estimated that about 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. The bulk of miscarriages, though certainly not all, are like the one that my wife and I experienced, happening in the first 12 weeks of pregnancy. Yet despite this, there is no cultural script for how to deal with this pain, with the sense of loss, and so much else, that the event brings. How do you deal with the ache that remains? How do you explain why you’re commemorating due dates, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, when you have no living baby with whom to celebrate them? How do you answer the question “Do you have any children?” or “How many children do you have?” when you never met some of your children, when they live in heaven?

These questions can unexpectedly dredge up the same pain, sometimes dull and sometimes sharp, again. Compounding it is the sheer solitude, or seeming solitude, of that pain. No one else but you can fully understand it, even if they have themselves experienced the same kind of loss and sympathize, for it is *your* child that is gone, who no one else knew. They were yours in a unique sense, and thus the loss is uniquely yours as well. Your child was, and now is gone; and you shall not meet them in this life. You have just your grief, internal and painful. How do you respond to the joy of others when sorrow fills your own heart? Far simpler, we think, to hide it, to keep the pain to yourself. 

What role then is the church to play in this, that body of brothers and sisters in Christ who help one another to carry their burdens, who mourn with the mourners and rejoice with the joyful? This, I think, is the important question. Ours is an age of no rituals, no black bands or mourning veils. We often feel that sorrow should be kept to yourself, and joy to be shared. We fear (and feel) that to bring up a lost child is felt to be in poor taste; it makes things awkward for others. “Why bring down the mood, and make people upset?” we tell ourselves. Even if it does not offend people, they often don’t know how to respond, even if they are well-intentioned. It feels awkward to bring up. Everyone looks at each other until a change of topic comes up and everyone can thankfully move on, or until the discomfort of the first topic is papered over at least a bit by assertions that God has a plan (and often one seemingly known to the speakers in its particulars).

So a silence is imposed, for we do not share private griefs. But we should. For how can we mourn with those who mourn if no grief is shown? We are assured that there will be grief, that pain will come to us in this life. Christ Himself promised His followers that the world would oppose them; the very promises of His comfort imply that we will need to be comforted. So why do we hide it out of some misdirected pride, some belief that we ought not burden anyone else, that we can carry burdens alone that we were told to carry together? 

As with all plans to improve the world, the practical solution begins with oneself. Grief *must be* shared, regardless of whether one feels as though one is imposing on another by doing so. One thing my wife and I have learned, or are learning, through this experience, is that we have to trust that those who are our brothers and sisters in Christ do truly love us. We must trust that love can bear burdens, because love draws us out of our sorrow and into the truth that we are known and bound together in Christ. It was my wife’s and my greatest fear, in the aftermath of all this, that our child would be forgotten by all but us; yet, unprompted, we have been given gifts to commemorate her, condolences on due dates, hugs on, and sincere inclusion in, Mother’s and Father’s Day. Far more valuable than any material blessing has been the assurance that we do not, in fact, hold her alone in our hearts–that she and our love for her are known–and it means far more than we can ever say to anyone. 

While every man and woman carries different griefs in this life, a common fear we have is that of drawing attention to ourselves. If I can give one piece of advice for dealing with grief, it is to not listen to that fear. Let others know your grief. Just having another know you are grieving is often enough to rob it of its sharpest edge. You are known, seen by another, and loved, and thus able to be free from fear. We are told that we are to mourn with those who mourn; but to do so, we also must not be ashamed to let another see our tears.