Support for birth. Support for bereavement. Support for you.
M0M, Mothering Our Mourning, has a zero in the center.
It is the things that won’t be. It is the things we grow from. Who we are is influenced because of it.
Do you have a words from M0M you’d like to add?
[contact-form-7 404 "Not Found"]
If you’ll like, you can click to enlarge and save if there’s one that you align with. Visit our facebook page for additional words as they are suggested.
Grief is not always ash gray or even midnight blue.
In the bereavement community, there is often talk about “rainbow babies” – babies born subsequently to loss. And so much hoping and pining away for that future baby can become so pervasive and consuming that when the baby is born, there can be a moments dawning of
“I have been hoping for a person. This person. Not a feeling that this person would give me.”
And the weeks of sleep deprivation and dangerous levels of exhaustion are sprinkled with the comments from others reflecting the mother’s now too-far distant wishes of “at least you have your rainbow baby now.”
I want to propose something entirely radical to you today.
You are already a rainbow.
The vibrancy and beauty of the rainbow happens because each of the colors are experienced in their fullness and richness, without unnecessary intrusion from the other colors. Their stark differences somehow seem to come together to bring a collective harmony, an orchestration of different octaves and hues that rings pleasing.
If you are new to your grief journey, the platitudes from others can seem an attempt to dump orange onto your blue, and you desperately push these attempts away with a cry “I don’t even want this blue at all, but your orange smeared into it is only making things messier, and uglier.”
Somehow, something deep in the rainbow of your very soul knows that somehow, for a time, blue is where you are needed to be. For your own best healing and even dare I say, your own future happiness.
Then later, when you find yourself on a warm day, when the sun kisses your cheeks and the sweet wind chime of laughter is heard moving from your heart, somehow, you find you’ve moved into some kind of a beautifully light yellow of joy.
And the lies lurk as shadows. “Maybe I am too happy. Do I deserve to smile again?” And we try to dump the darkest of gray onto our softest yellow day.
And so, day by day, our lives look like a soggy empty place malformed by smooshy mud and weakened snow, a place that we cannot get a grip on because the smudging and smearing have gone on so far and so wide that we fear taking a step anymore for falling flat upon our faces in an ugly, distorted mess. Again.
I want to encourage you today, to celebrate your rainbow of grief – your rainbow of healing. Whatever color your day, your moment may be, it is yours. It is valuable intrinsically; it doesn’t need to be dumped on or added to or stuffed into something else.
It is intrinsically valuable. As are you.
This is one of my most favorite photos from our workshops, as we find courage and celebration in our colors and in our selves. I so hope you consider being a part of Love Wildly, our upcoming retreat in December 2014. It is going to be a gorgeous time of sharing, loving and healing, for all of us.
Being pregnant and learning that your baby is no longer alive can be such an enormous mix of feelings, that articulating how you feel with words can seem insufficient.
This is a powerful image that depicts the ripping from us that we may feel, while also depicting that our baby still has value, still has beauty, still has transformed into something important and even beautiful.
Shared by: Jessica
Facing the Mirror: Gaining back my Sexuality after loss
I wanted to share with you a subject not covered very often, but a reality for many women after loss, in my own words. Warning the subject matter is of Adult content.
In the beginning of our relationship we had sex all the time; to be honest we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. I would stand in front of the mirror for hours getting ready each day. I would carefully lotion every inch of my skin, brush my teeth and hair, carefully apply my makeup just right. I would slowly put on my lip gloss so not to smudge it (even though I knew it wouldn’t stay on long) and curl my eyelashes. I would place shimmer on my collar bone and pose in every way known to man in front of the mirror to make sure everything was just as it should be. I would stuff my breasts into my perfect bra, slip on my cutest undies to match, and act as though it was effortless for me to look this way. He was in love with my body; I was in love with my body.
With all that loving going on it should not have been the surprise it was when we found out we were pregnant. As my body changed, he changed to. He started putting the lotion on my belly (yes even the parts covered in stretch marks) and on my feet as it wasn’t long before I became winded trying to reach them myself. My breasts grew and although they hurt I was so excited that they were so perfectly round. I felt like a hippo sometimes but he seemed to be more in love with my body than ever before. I would catch him staring and he couldn’t keep his hands off of me. His touch was more frequent but gentler. He held me like the most precious stone and we would lie for hours with our hands on my belly waiting to feel the flutters of our baby. It was magical.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
I did not give birth to a bouncing happy baby; I gave birth to a tiny sleeping angel. My whole world uprooted in an instant. My heart broke, but so did my body image, and my ideas on sex. I would stand in front of the mirror and think no more shimmer on my collar bone, which is where my baby should be. No more lip gloss, my lips should be kissing my baby. No more lotion or attention to detail. To me there was no point I was no longer his sexy lady, I was the lady that gave birth to a dead baby. How was that ever going to be attractive?
After things calmed down, and I had completed my six weeks physical healing time I thought I would love to just curl up in his arms again, but that wasn’t the case. The first time he tried to kiss me (in a more than just a peck way) I froze. I felt my body tense, my heart pound in fear…why would he try to kiss me? Did he not understand that our baby had died inside of me? That I was broken and unworthy? I forced myself to snuggle up into that sexy little curve of his armpit and lay there as he softly tickled my shoulder. It lasted a whole five minutes before I made an excuse to get up.
For months I would look in the mirror and critique every inch of me. I hated my body and sex was the last thing on my mind.
So many things I would degrade myself about. It’s one thing to have a “Mommy Body” but it was another to have it without a baby.
My breasts leaked for weeks and all I could do was hate it, hate my body, did my body not understand that my baby had died inside of it? Who the hell was going to get rid of these stretch marks (or proof I tried and failed as I saw them)? I finally just stopped, I stopped looking in the mirror, I stopped brushing my hair, I stopped putting on makeup, and I stopped wearing cute undies and went for granny panties and sports bras…let’s see him find that sexy.
He was respectful, and never forceful, but he also never gave up. He would tell me he loved me and that I was beautiful to him. He would still smack my butt when I walked by him and I was constantly catching him staring down my shirt with every opportunity he had.
Then one day, as I dried off after my shower, I looked over and saw my lotion bottle all dusty. I reached up and slowly lotioned every inch of my skin. I walked out of the bathroom happy and feeling a bit like a woman again. As the days went by I continued to lotion, and one day I just stood there naked in front of my mirror staring at my new bereaved mother’s body. I first looked at my eyes, and I thought they looked so hallow and sad. So, I put some shadow on them, stuck my eyeliner pencil in and drug it across, I then topped it off with a bit of mascara. It felt good.
The days turned into weeks and I slowly got back into my routine of primping, but I still could not let him touch me.
Then, a breakthrough! I looked in the mirror, again naked, and I found myself speaking out loud (thankfully no one was home but me). The words just rolled out of my mouth “I am sexy”.
My lips were not just meant to kiss my baby that was gone, they also helped create him, they were a way to show my lover I still loved him, that I still found him sexy, and that it was good he still found me sexy. That the shoulders that were supposed to hold my baby could also hold kisses from my man. That my skin was a bit lose in spots but it was feminine and beautiful. That I was beautiful. Yes, my baby had died inside me but that was just a part of it. My body also created him through love and sex with my man. That we as a couple had made love to create him, that we had made love before him, while he was growing, and that we could make love again. We were a power couple and we could get through anything together. I spent the next couple of hours getting back into the bathtub, shaving my legs, lotioning every inch of my skin, brushing my teeth and hair, carefully applying my makeup just right, slowly putting on my lip gloss so not to smudge it, curling my eyelashes. I placed shimmer on my collar bone, made a few poses in the mirror to make sure I still had it. I stuffed my breasts into that perfect bra with undies to match.
I made it again look effortless,
and then I let him love my body again,
I loved my body again.
In The Invisible Pregnancy, I challenge you as a mother to explore the intrinsic beauty and value of your body. Mothering your mourning requires you to discover that you are valuable, that you are beautiful, that you are worthy. To help inspire you to explore these, your sacred truths, and these challenging concepts of The Invisible Pregnancy, I’m inviting you to write love letters to you – to yourself, to your soul, or to your body.
Use this link to share a letter. You may include photos.
I invite you, gently, respectfully, to learn to love your body, as a way to Mother Your Mourning.
And, you can read this collection of Love Letters, here.
This is about womanly issues.
My youngest child, most likely my last child, is weaning.
And it’s left me feeling limp, small, and awkward.
I’ve recently begun to sort through my old clothes – my “pre-pregnancy” clothes.
Clothes I wore before I was pregnant with my child, before I knew my child, who was born in the first trimester.
Before I was pregnant with his younger sister, before I knew his younger sister, before I nursed his younger sister.
And as I find myself crying into old clothes that smell like my musty basement,
as I try on old clothes that somehow feel too young for the ways I’ve matured,
I feel limp, I feel small, I feel awkward.
My youngest child is growing to not be a baby anymore, and as I ache for the baby before her, this transition is a strange one.
I love pregnancy, and I love breastfeeding. I love feeling so round and maternal and so close to God and so near the life purposes of my children and so a part of a beautiful lineage of mothers of antiquity.
I pull out from an old, lumpy black sack, a faded yellow tank top with thin spaghetti straps, and I pull it over my old-but-new-again, small, strapless bra.
The Love of my life, he gives me a wink, tells me I look cute and fresh. I smile, and he embraces me.
He knows. And he loves me through my journey.
I will hold onto his words as I nurture these feelings. I will treasure from my most fertile season, the biggest memories, both wonderful and striking, I’ve gathered in my entire life. I will hold onto hope that the season is changing into something that will be beautiful in a new way. I will cling to these things, as I sort through these clothes.
I will learn to celebrate the small things – even when I am the one feeling small.
See also: The Minus Size Mother
This photo is by Angelica Garcia and resonates with me precisely.
Told by: Irene
I experienced a stillbirth in August 2006. Her name was Gisella Marie. When this happened to me, I really found out first-hand how messed up my body is/was. I feel comfortable and safe enough to relate this occurrence now, since I have survived these years to date.
The SBD® Doula provides support to families experiencing birth in any trimester and in any outcome.
Here at stillbirthday.info, you can learn about the SBD® Doula.
