It's been a little while since I've checked in here. I lost my son August a year and a 1/2 ago. Since then life has taken turns and grief has overwhelmed me for months, and then at other times it has subsided. I took a new job. My husband and I moved from Canada to Denver, Co. Happiness has resumed in many of our days. Bussy-ness has distracted us. Thats the shortest summary I could achieve, you all can fill in the spaces in between--the spaces of contemplation and missing my baby desperately, and sometimes feeling confused about how I could possibly feel so ok about this life.

In this new city and new job I sometimes feel so disconnected from my experience losing my son. Not a day goes by without thinking of him in some way, but then I also feel like the loss exists in some alternate universe that i have trouble accessing. I've stared meeting new people and making friends. Last night we were invited for a dinner party with some new people. The other woman there was pregnant and due in the next month, she also happens to be a midwife, so talk of babies and delivery were a major theme of the evening. I find myself in these new experiences not knowing how to represent myself and my loss, and my experience as a mom. I often don't bring up August at all. Then I feel bad for denying his story. I guess I feel awkward-- how to be the bearer of such a sad story. I don't like to see pitiful faces, I hate hearing others stumble over condolences, and so I remain quiet about my past.

I'm wondering how you navigate socializing with new people post loss? Sometimes I do share my story, but it always feels awkward and hard and like I'm trying to assure others that I'm Ok despite the unthinkable sadness I've been through. Having a dip into the grief pool today, meandering though these feelings. Sending love to all who need some today.

Danielle,

I’m a long time lurker but this is my first actual post. I lost my daughter, Mira, on July 4, 2019 to a presumed placental abruption versus preterm labor for unknown reason at 21 weeks. My husband and I had just moved to a new state two days prior to our loss. We moved for my job, which was starting at the end of July. I took no leave and started my job on time, therefore no one at my new job really knew what had happened. It has been incredibly challenging navigating those conversations surrounding family and if I have children etc, which came up A LOT since I was at a new job. I don’t actually have any advice for you, but rather just offering solidarity in the difficulty of the situation. The few times I have mentioned that I have a daughter who didn’t survive, it seems like most people don’t really care. They sort of continue on with their conversation and majority of the time don’t even offer empty condolences. I should mention that I work in a high stress, not particularly warm and fuzzy environment. If anyone has advice on how to handle this, I am all for hearing it.

I didn’t want you to think your post was being ignored or that no one else was going through something similar. I often feel like I’m crazy because I went through this terrible thing and I keep it to myself most of the time, which at times makes me wonder if it even happened at all. I suppose it is similar to how you say you feel disconnected to the experience of losing your son. Sending you hugs and love and wishes to be able to navigate this in a way that feels right to you.

My son died three days after birth in 2014. Two days ago a woman I met for the first time asked me about my family/children. I lied because I didn't want to get sympathy and have to explain something so personal to a total stranger.
Sometimes this happens and I feel like I am betraying him but I also remember times where I have told people and they were insensitive about it or even forgot and asked me again later as if they didn't know: I'm serious, unfortunately I am not making this up.
I have come to think that most of us most of the time are so caught up in whatever we are going through that we give very little thought to the other. People tend to be very selfish except when they are not which is great but can't really be depended on.
Best advice I have is to do what makes you comfortable when it comes to talking or not talking about your loss. It is a terrible loss to have to live with but the older I get and more people I meet, I come to realize a lot of us are walking around with terrible losses. So trauma and loss I think are also unfortunately quite normal. This has the mixed blessing of making me feel less alone but also more anxious about any future losses or trauma I god forbid might have to endure. Love to you and go easy on yourself when you can.

I lost my first (a boy) in 2017. Nine months later, I got a positive pregnancy test the same week that we moved overseas. We were moving back to a place that we'd lived before so we did already have friends here who knew what had happened with our first, but we also both started new jobs and made a number of new friends who didn't know our history. After our daughter was born, I joined a mother's group as well where no one knew what had happened.

My advice is to do what you are comfortable with - and don't worry if that changes a lot depending on the person and circumstances! My husband was most comfortable not mentioning our loss to most new people, but because I was pregnant (and eventually visibly pregnant), people often wanted to make small talk about pregnancy/childbirth/family etc with me. I needed people who were going to be around me repeatedly to know because it felt like it was affecting so much of my life and certainly so much about how I approached pregnancy and new/sort of new motherhood. That meant a few uncomfortable exchanges, but it made me feel better to have an honest and somewhat awkward exchange than to endure chatter where I had to pretend to be counting on bringing a baby home. Or to pretend that my baby had not died or keep him some kind of secret. But on other days, particularly where it was someone I didn't think I'd have much further contact with, I just did not feel like talking about it, so I just went along with the small talk.

Another thing I did was ,where I was joining semi-established groups or networks (my team at work, and the mothers group), once I got closer to one person, I told them about my loss at some point and asked them to tell the others about it in a discrete manner. This saved me feeling like I needed to make some big announcement or tell each person one on one, which is emotionally exhausting (and yes, you always somehow end up with the "but I'm ok now, promise, totally stable" with new people whether you need to or not - or I end up reassuring them that its really rare and won't happen to them), but it also meant that I could mention my first pregnancy and my son when I felt like it or it was relevant.

I agree with Em's advice - go easy on yourself. There's no right or wrong here except for what feels right or not quite right to you. Sending you strength and thinking of August tonight.

I'm four years out from my loss and I just started a new job so I am going through some of this all over again. If it is any consolation - it gets easier. It's both easier to tell people what happened and to own the decision to not tell them if I go that way. If I'm being honest in the first couple of years it didn't even feel like a decision. I'd just feel the panic rising and I'd answer the question about children one way or another, as if on autopilot. It's no small thing, offering up your most vulnerable part to relative strangers just because they asked a generic social question. And equally, it's no small thing not mentioning your child and staying with that feeling all on your own while the cheerful conversation continues.

What has helped me was somewhat indirect, but bear with me. I did things in my daughter's memory. Planted flowers, or took nature walks (e.g. on the anniversary of her death) or bought little items with her name on them. And I took many pictures (of the river, or flowers, or items). And slowly, slowly, my memory of her was not filled just with this gaping, hollow, nevernding pit of despair, but also with some beauty and purpose. And the more I associated all these other things with her, the easier it became to think and talk about her without being pulled in, without re-experiencing all the pain. And once I was more stable, it was easier to talk about what happened, and when it became easier, these social situations became less threatening.

But at a year and a half, frankly, I was at my lowest point. It really is early days for this type of loss, even if it feels like so much time has gone by.