Why It Took Me So Long to Talk About Leland and Why I Finally Did
For a long time, I couldn’t talk about Leland. Talking about pregnancy loss felt impossible. The words sat heavy in my chest, and even when I wanted to speak, my voice felt too fragile to carry the story. I told myself that silence was protection, but really, it was fear.
When we first announced my pregnancy, so many people celebrated with us. Family, friends, followers. Everyone joined in that joy. After losing him, I felt like I owed everyone an explanation, as if I had to tell the story because they had witnessed the beginning of it. But I was barely surviving, and finding the strength to relive it felt impossible.
That’s something people rarely talk about when it comes to talking about pregnancy loss. There’s pressure, even if it’s quiet. You might feel like you need to explain, to fill in the blanks, to make the people who loved you through the happy parts understand where everything fell apart. But the truth is, when you’re grieving, you don’t owe anyone your pain until you’re ready.
I carried so much guilt and blame for what happened. I replayed every decision and every moment, wondering if I had missed something. I felt responsible, even though my doctors told me I wasn’t. The guilt was loud, and the idea of other people judging me for something I already judged myself for was unbearable.
So I stayed quiet.
For months, I kept my story tucked away where no one could touch it. I thought silence would protect me from the weight of other people’s opinions. But silence has a way of growing heavy. It turns pain inward. And after a while, I realized that my silence was no longer protecting me. It was isolating me.
When I finally decided to share my story, it wasn’t a moment of courage as much as it was a need to breathe again. I spent weeks writing it a little bit at a time in the Notes app on my phone because I could only emotionally handle thinking about small pieces at once. I would type a few lines, stop to cry, and come back to it days later. I was terrified of what people would say. Would they blame me? Would they think I had done something wrong?
And yes, a few people did. A small handful of comments and messages cut deep. Some asked, “How could you travel when pregnant?” or “Why would you go to Africa?” Others said, “You should have known it wasn’t safe, even if your doctor said it was okay.” Each word confirmed the fear I had been holding all along.
But what surprised me most was the overwhelming support that came after talking about pregnancy loss. Dozens of women reached out with their own stories, many saying they had never told anyone before. They wrote about babies they still missed, about guilt they still carried, about silence that had become too heavy.
In that moment, I realized that talking about pregnancy loss isn’t just about releasing your own pain. It’s about giving others permission to do the same. My story didn’t erase the hurt, but it helped transform it. Speaking out became a way to connect instead of hide.
For so long, I thought that healing meant moving on. But I’ve learned that healing often means opening up. Talking about Leland didn’t make the loss smaller; it made the love visible again. It reminded me that love doesn’t end when a heartbeat does.
If you’re carrying a story like this, please know you get to decide when, how, and if you ever share it. There is no timeline or rule that says your grief has to be public. Your silence can be sacred, and your words can wait until they feel ready. But when that moment does come, when you feel a small spark of readiness, speaking your truth can be freeing.
I also learned that community forms in the most unexpected places. Through talking about pregnancy loss, I found women who understood what I couldn’t say out loud. Their empathy became a bridge back to myself. I wish I could tell the version of me who was afraid of judgment that most people are gentler than we imagine, and that support often comes from places we never expect.
If you’re walking through this kind of grief, you don’t have to share your story to heal. But when you do, it can turn isolation into connection. It can remind you that you’re not the only one who feels this way.
You can read more about those early days in my post What No One Tells You About Second Trimester Loss or visit the Start Here page to learn how Our Healing Home began. And if you’re looking for gentle ways to begin processing your story privately, I’ve gathered free tools and readings on the Resources page.
For additional comfort, these organizations offer beautiful spaces for loss storytelling and support:
If you’re reading this because you’ve been holding your story close, I hope you know there is no rush. When you are ready, your words will find you. And when they do, you’ll find that speaking them can bring light into even the darkest corners.
If this post brought you comfort, visit the Resources page for writing prompts, support links, and reflections created for grieving mothers. You are never alone here.
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