← Return to The Mother I Thought I’d Be Series
I can be happy for her and still hurt for me. I’ve had to learn that both can be true.
Grief has a strange way of finding you when you aren’t looking for it.
Sometimes I’m doing perfectly fine. I’m going about my day, thinking about ordinary things, when I see a mother pushing a stroller through a store or a little child reaching up to be held.
And just like that, something inside me aches.
It isn’t that I don’t want other women to experience motherhood. I do.
It isn’t that I can’t celebrate someone else’s pregnancy, new baby, or growing family. I can.
It’s that sometimes their joy touches the tender place inside me that still remembers the life I wanted for myself.
I’ve spent years learning that those two feelings can exist together.
I can be happy for her and still hurt for me.
I Really Am Happy for You
Pregnancy announcements haven’t always been easy for me.
Neither have baby showers, birth announcements, or pictures of smiling families filling my social media feed.
I’ve celebrated them.
I’ve bought the gifts.
I’ve asked about names and due dates.
I’ve smiled at the pictures.
And sometimes, afterward, I’ve cried.
For a long time, that made me feel guilty.
I wondered if there was something wrong with me for feeling sadness during someone else’s happiness.
Was I jealous?
Was I bitter?
Wasn’t I supposed to simply be happy for them?
But over time I’ve realized that my sadness isn’t about wanting someone else to have less.
It’s about remembering how deeply I wanted something too.
Their happiness didn’t cause my grief.
It simply brushed against a place that was already tender.
It’s Usually the Ordinary Moments
You might think the big milestones would be the hardest.
Sometimes they are.
But I’ve discovered that it’s often the most ordinary moments that catch me completely off guard.
Seeing a sleepy child resting against her mother’s shoulder.
Watching a mom absentmindedly fix her little girl’s hair.
Hearing “Mom!” called from another aisle in a store.
Seeing a mother pushing a stroller while I’m buying groceries.
Those moments can take me somewhere else for just a second.
Because I didn’t only dream about pregnancy or holding a newborn.
I wanted to raise a child.
I wanted bedtime stories and drawings on the refrigerator.
I wanted first days of school and scraped knees.
I wanted homemade Halloween costumes and Christmas mornings.
I wanted to complain about toys scattered across the floor and then, years later, wish I could see those toys there one more time.
I wanted someone to need me when they were scared.
I wanted to watch a little person become whoever they were meant to be.
I wanted the ordinary parts.
And I wanted to hear someone call me “Mom.”
Then, for a Little While, I Had Some of It
Maybe that’s part of why losing the twins affected me so deeply.
For a little over five months, some of those ordinary moments weren’t imaginary anymore.
They were mine.
I held one baby while feeding the other.
I gave baths and listened to their little splashes.
I rocked two sleepy babies at night and sang to them.
I watched them smile and wiggle in the vibrating bouncy seats they loved.
I loaded them into the double stroller and proudly took them places.
People would stop to admire them, and I’d smile.
For that little stretch of my life, I wasn’t standing on the outside looking at motherhood.
I was doing the ordinary things I had dreamed about for so long.
And then they were gone.
I think that’s why a stroller can still catch my attention.
Sometimes it isn’t only reminding me of the children I never had.
It’s reminding me of two little boys I did get to love.
Sometimes I Look Away
There are days when I see a baby and smile.
There are other days when I need to look away.
I’m learning not to judge myself for knowing the difference.
For a long time, I thought healing would mean eventually reaching a point where none of this bothered me anymore.
I don’t believe that now.
Healing hasn’t meant forgetting what I wanted.
It hasn’t meant reaching a place where nothing triggers the grief anymore.
For me, healing is learning what to do when the wave comes.
Sometimes I let myself feel it.
Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I step away from social media.
And sometimes I simply admit:
This hurts today.
I don’t immediately have to convince myself that I shouldn’t feel that way.
“Do You Have Kids?”
It’s such an ordinary question.
Most people who ask it have absolutely no idea how complicated my answer feels.
“Do you have kids?”
Usually, I simply say no.
Technically, that’s the answer.
But that one little word doesn’t tell the story.
It doesn’t contain the miscarriage.
It doesn’t contain the years of hoping.
It doesn’t contain all those months when I wondered if this would finally be the month.
And it certainly doesn’t contain the two tiny boys I fed, bathed, rocked, sang to, pushed in a double stroller, and loved with my whole heart.
So I’ve learned that I don’t owe everyone my entire story.
Sometimes “no” is enough.
Other times, when I’m with someone I trust, I might share a little more.
Some stories deserve to be told where they’ll be handled gently.
Mother’s Day Is Complicated
Mother’s Day brings many of these emotions together.
I understand what the day celebrates, and mothers deserve that celebration.
But for women who deeply wanted to become mothers and couldn’t, the day can also feel like a giant spotlight shining on the one thing we spent years hoping to become.
The flowers.
The cards.
The commercials.
The social media posts.
Families going out together to celebrate Mom.
For some women, Mother’s Day is beautiful.
For some, it’s painful.
And for some of us, it’s both.
I’ve learned that I’m allowed to protect my heart on days like that.
I can stay off social media.
I can spend the day quietly.
I can decline something if attending would be too painful.
Taking care of myself doesn’t diminish anyone else’s celebration.
Grief and Gratitude Can Live Together
Sometimes I worry that writing about this part of my life will make people think I’m not grateful for the life I have.
I am.
There is joy in my life.
There is laughter.
There are people I love.
There are still things I look forward to and dreams I haven’t dreamed yet.
But gratitude doesn’t erase grief.
I can appreciate the life I have while mourning the life I thought I’d have.
I’m beginning to understand that I don’t have to choose between the two.
I don’t have to prove I’ve healed by never hurting again.
And I don’t need to apologize when someone else’s beautiful moment unexpectedly reminds me of something I wanted for myself.
To the Woman Who Looks Away Too
Maybe you’ve done it.
Maybe you’ve muted pregnancy announcements on social media.
Maybe you’ve cried after a baby shower.
Maybe you avoid the card aisle around Mother’s Day.
Maybe you’ve seen a mother with her children in a store and felt that familiar ache rise inside you.
And then maybe you felt guilty for feeling it.
I want you to hear what I’m still learning to tell myself:
You can be happy for her and sad for yourself. Both can be true.
Your sadness doesn’t make you bitter.
It doesn’t mean you want someone else to have less.
It means you loved a dream deeply enough to grieve when it didn’t happen.
I’m no longer trying to make that part of myself disappear.
Instead, I’m trying to meet her with compassion when she shows up.
To let her say:
I still wish things had been different.
And then, when I’m ready, to keep living the life that’s still here.
Because this life matters too.
Even if it isn’t the one I imagined.
I’d Love to Hear From You
Does seeing another woman’s motherhood ever bring your own grief unexpectedly back to the surface?
If you feel comfortable, I’d love for you to share your experience in the comments. What situations are hardest for you? What have you learned to do when those feelings come?
And if a public comment feels too personal, you’re always welcome to reach out through my contact page instead.
Maybe by talking about the things we’re usually afraid to say out loud, we can remind one another that none of us has to carry this kind of grief alone.
