Rebirth in the Face of Loss by Elizabeth Neal

I did something I’ve never done before.

I removed all distractions. I claimed space and time. I unraveled to allow myself to feel it all. Every emotion.

On March 30, 2022, I glared at the ultrasound technician as she searched for my baby. I looked for any microexpression that could indicate an answer. Her face was blank. Silence.

I miscarried—again.

Just two days earlier, I had seen my baby’s beating heart for the first time. I couldn’t breathe. It was a miracle. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

And in a moment, it was gone. My baby was gone. And I was here. I was here to grieve, to empty, to bleed.

I wept. I wept. And I wept. I now had two babies in heaven.

My first loss hurt and filled me with rage. This one left me tender. It cracked me open.

Little did I know, this moment of utter despair would send me on the most healing spiritual journey of my life. I just needed to trust myself.

This was hard. This was hard because part of me hated myself. I hated my body for failing me. I hated myself for opening my heart up to feeling hope again.

And yet, I couldn’t give up on myself. Not yet.

As my body bled and ached, my heart ached…but not a pain ache. A yearning ache.

My heart and my soul aligned to transmit this idea to my brain: Go.

But where? How? Why?

My brain couldn’t understand. And yet, I trusted it. It felt safe.

Go.

I will go.

After pushing down the yearning two days, I woke up as the sun rose on a Saturday morning and told my husband, “I need this. I need to go.”

And then, my soul’s voice flowed. The words left my lips, but they weren’t from my brain.

“I need to go on a road trip,” I said. “I need to feel freedom. I need to feel myself again. She’s lost. I can’t find her here if I stay with all of the distractions. I need stillness. I need to feel.”

And I left.

Me and the open road. Me and God. Me and my babies.

Me and my feelings.

A trip of emptying. But I didn’t know it would be that quite yet. I just trusted and flowed. Unsure of the answers.

What I did know was I needed to feel held. Supported. Not alone. I needed to share. And I needed to unleash my authentic self and every single painful, heartbreaking feeling that accompanied.

Breathe. I could finally breathe.

There’s something magnetizing about the open road and crisp air. I was the traveler. And my possibilities were endless. Here, I was safe. I was in control.

I had lost all control when I lost the baby.

This felt good. I was lost, but I felt so safe.

On I went.

I traveled up the most incredible bridges. I felt the sinking feeling in my stomach, the kind you get before reaching the climax of a roller coaster. Thump. Thump. Thump. And GO.

I felt small. My problems felt small. I was in God’s grace.

I felt THRILL.

I watched the sun rise and fill the sky. The colors were bright. Cold. Inspiring.

I felt WONDER.

I watched the sun set and warm the sky. The colors were pink and blue. My babies were the pink and blue.

I felt PEACE.

I watched the night hijack the blue sky. It was dark. It was empty. I was alone.

I felt COMFORT.

I watched mother nature’s wildlife stare as my lights beamed in the stillness of the night.

I felt FEAR.

I held my sister and wept.

I felt SAFE.

The week would be filled with thousands of micro-moments of medicine that would slowly start to help me empty and spill.

I didn’t know why I was there. I just knew I wanted to feel safe and not alone. I did.

I chose to do something different from my first encounter with pregnancy loss. I wouldn’t isolate, hide, bury, put up a front, smile.

I would honor every single feeling that arose, as it did in real time.

I would cry. I would break. I would be triggered. I would share stories. I would remember.

And in doing so, I was writing a new story. This was new for me.

I was transmuting a story of victim to a story of conqueror. Warrior. That’s it. Warrior.

I was a goddamn warrior.

I didn’t hide. I spilled everything.

Fear. Hope. Sadness. Grief. Anger. Rage. Sorrow. Joy. Peace. Hope.

I shone a light on them all. I honored each one, claiming it and giving it the space it needed to be seen and to feel heard. And then they lay to rest.

But they were so grateful. Each one smile and felt safe. Tucked in with their blanket, ready to rest.

I shared my story of miscarriages with my younger brother and sister. They grieved too. And they held me. We held each other.

But there’s one feeling I want to spotlight.

Her name is RAGE. I mean pure rage. Seething at the mouth kind of rage. Full of hate. Anger. Shame.

I let her run. I let her breathe.

She’s beautiful. She’s my warrior. And her rage needed to be let out.

And once she could breathe, I could breathe. I could breathe lighter than I’ve ever breathed before.

Then I felt HOPE. But rage had to come first. Then release. Then hope.

Now, I have hope.

I didn’t have hope before.

---

Submission by Elizabeth Neal