When the Anniversary Comes: Making Room for Grief After Pregnancy and Infant Loss

It is August, and in the rhythm of my year, even amongst the dry heat, I begin to feel a shift into a tender, watery, achey season; one that draws me back to the vast love and heartbreaking loss of my infant son.

If you have experienced pregnancy,  infant or toddler loss, you might know this feeling too.

As the tide of the anniversary of your baby's birth or death comes in, something in your body likely feels it. You may notice feeling more emotional, heavy, irritable, more tired, notice working too much, or wanting to ditch, or needing more time alone. 

Felt-sense memories may start drifting into consciousness, of the smell of your baby's skin, of the shock of receiving terrible news, of  the sweetness of sensing them in your belly, of the sudden emptiness of their leaving.

It can be a time out of time, slower and dreamier, heavier, and somewhat confusing. 

It’s hard for most parents to know what to do as this time approaches. Some stay busy, trying to hold themselves together with work, with chores and distractions as they sense the return. It is a way of surviving. Others clear their schedules where they can, knowing they need more time and space for all that comes up, knowing they can’t move through life normally on these days.

In a culture that moves so quickly, where we are measured by how much we get done, it is hard to trust the wisdom of a return to this tender place, this slower pace. 

In my experience, both personally and as a grief therapist for perinatal loss, the most healing approach isn't deciding how you should grieve but in allowing yourself to notice what this anniversary time is bringing this time around, and what it is asking of you.

I often think of an anniversary as a pilgrimage we make, to this deep part of ourselves that has lived through immense loss and immense love.

 Humans have walked pilgrimages for centuries, returning again and again to places made sacred by love or loss; re-living mythic stories that mean something important to them. Many have found these walks to be a sacred and important time of reflection, learning and devotion. They expected to be changed by them.

In these anniversary grief walks, we feel not just the grief of the original story, of that first year that we walked with the death of this child, but all that has happened since,  all we have taken in, the weight of the world we carry on our shoulders. All comes to the surface of the heart.

As a parent I find there are always friends and family members who don’t understand, why it is still hard and heavy so many years later. Here’s my answer: It takes a long time to truly metabolize such a searing experience. Such a shattered heart that was brimming with love needs decades to heal, to understand, and all of this helps to continue the relationship with this little one. 

And each time we come back to this time of year, our hearts invite us  (or demand us) to listen to the stirrings within, to touch these places softly, to feel the reverberations of the presence of this little one and see how all of this is working on you at this point in life. The places that are still afraid, the places that haven’t gotten to weep enough, are still there and still want that release. 

The tears that come with this return wash the heart.

I don’t want to romanticize this time…remembering the pain more clearly IS hard. It is bitter and so vastly sad. Yet it also seasons our lives with something so important. The pain of missing this baby can also be a kind of nourishment for the soul, and is not separate from the love we have for this child. It is very much woven together with it.

 This pain points us to what truly matters: what we are wiling to experience for love. And that love, no matter how many hours or days or months it was here in the form of your child, rings out with a note we can sing along with the rest of our lives. Sometimes the songs are sad, aching, sometimes very sweet. Whatever the tone, the love/pain has a dark beauty that the soul needs to know and doesn’t want to forget.

As the anniversary approaches for you this year, I offer a blessing. 

May you feel permission to move to a deeper rhythm in this time. May you no longer shame yourself for being slower, quieter, or less available in life. May you no longer apologize for needing rest, or for saying no to invitations that would overwhelm your heart. May you make room for the sweetness and bitterness of remembering, for the somber sorrow that comes with wishing you could have seen them grow up, and honoring how your soul has been deepened by all of it.

If you’re wondering if you should be grieving at this point in your journey, I want you to know that there is no timeline for grief, and no end-date for sorrow. As long as you love your little one,  you will grieve them. As you allow your grief to flow, your love flows more freely as well. 

As I enter this time of my yearly pilgrimage into love and sorrow and remembering, even 18 years later, it takes some effort to surrender to wherever it takes me; to allow it. I also sense it’s potency.

 In this slower, depthful place I really take in the gentle breeze, the smell of the grasses. This time of sorrow adds dimension to my therapy sessions, widens my compassion, clarifies my understanding of the losses and hearts of my clients. It brings me a sense of wonder and awe for what I have walked through and survived. I am grateful for the journey of the return, for the sweetness of connecting with my son in a closer way, and connecting with my big, broken-hearted self too.

As these anniversary days approach, there are a few things I hope you'll consider.

Leave room for the unknown. If you can, try not to schedule every hour. You often don't know what an anniversary will ask of us until you are in it. Leave some space in your calendar, if possible, for whatever your heart and body need that day, week or month.

Meet yourself with compassion. If you notice shame arriving alongside sadness, see if you can greet yourself with tenderness.  What would it be like to say to your grief, "I am here for you. You are welcome here.”

Let someone walk beside you. Is there at least one person who can simply be with you without trying to make it better? Someone who remembers your baby, or who is willing to listen? It is safety-making to share some of the weight of this time with a friend who can walk with you through it.

Create spaces in your days where you can simply be with the sorrow and with the memories of your child, without having to be rushed.It could be in the form of a cup of tea, a bracelet or necklace you wear and touch that signifies the connection to your child, a walk you take, or looking at the stars at night. Making space for the sorrow helps it breathe.

There is no perfect way to walk these anniversary days. I hope for you to be able to honor the love and sorrow that comes forward as essential and important for your being. I wish for you to  leave room for the clunkiness of it, the stumbles, and I hope that soft spaces emerge to land in.  I wish that you may stop measuring whether your grief is "normal," and instead ask whether you are listening to it with kindness.

Jessica Malmberg is an LMFT in Santa Rosa, CA, supporting parents through pregnancy loss, infant loss, and the years beyond.

Read more about Preganancy and Infant Loss here

Find out about an experiential online Grief-Tending Group for Pregnancy Loss and Infant Loss. There are some spots available