Have you ever considered how odd it is to ask someone if they’re “trying” to conceive? You are literally asking them if they are having unprotected sex with their significant other/spouse/partner.

How is that appropriate?

Why is that necessary?

What makes you think you have a right to be a part of that very personal part of someone’s life?

This concept has always blown my mind.

What if the person you’re asking is currently pregnant but too early to feel comfortable sharing?

What if they can’t conceive?

What if they’re in the middle of a major battle with infertility?

What if they just had a miscarriage?

Or, what about this one: what if they don’t actually want to have a baby?

Don’t get me wrong, I know it almost always comes out of a place of love. A place of concern. A place of genuine care and excitement.

But that doesn’t change the way I feel about it.

As someone who has experienced miscarriages, that doesn’t change the way it makes me feel when asked.

And truly, right after a miscarriage… “when are you going to try again?” is one of the most complicated questions you can ask someone.

As a miscarriage mama, let me just tell you all that goes into answering that question:


– Has your vagina healed enough for sex?

– Has your doctor given you the “okay” to resume sexual activity?

– Is it safe for your body to attempt another conception at this point?


– Are you in an okay place to put yourself in that position again?

– Do you feel ready to accept another baby–and all the risks associated with it–into your life yet?

 …I could go on.

24 days after miscarrying my 4th baby and truly, I don’t even know where to start with this one for myself.

Do I (we) want another baby? Desperately.

Am I ready to look at another positive pregnancy test and feel joy, knowing it could all end in a second? Absolutely not.

How would I tell Andrew I was pregnant again?

Would I buy Evelyn another “big sister” onesie?

Would I be so quick to announce this time?

We got a hospital bill in the mail yesterday. It’s for the ultrasound and blood work that confirmed the death of our baby. How is that fair? Where is the “okay” in that?

I want to rip up that bill and throw it away. Burn it. Toss it. Lose it. Refuse to acknowledge its existence. But I can’t. 

Because we’re grown ass adults who pay our bills…

But also, it did happen.

We did go to the hospital.

We did experience the loss of a baby.

And we pay for that loss. Monetarily, but also in our hearts, every single day.

For more about our recent miscarriage: Junebug

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