After being conditioned my entire life to believe the body of a woman is literally made to create and sustain life, I felt betrayed when my body created life and then took it away.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe most women (especially those who have experienced pregnancy and postpartum) have at least a somewhat complicated relationship with their body. Our appearance is something that society puts so much emphasis on starting at a very young age. To be completely truthful, I can’t remember a time where the way my body looks has not been very high up on my never-ending list of concerns. I struggled with an eating disorder throughout most of high school and periodically throughout my first few years of college.

When I got pregnant, I selfishly hoped I would fall in love with my body. Unfortunately, that was not the case. I was extremely bloated during the first trimester, and then I felt as if my bump grew too big too fast. My skin had a strange reaction to pregnancy which manifested as a painful red rash covering most of my body. The insecurities I had before pregnancy intensified with the changes each week brought. Seeing other women at the same gestational age as me with smaller bellies made me feel self conscious of my own growing bump.

Then, the unthinkable happened and my baby died while still in the womb. After being conditioned my entire life to believe the body of a woman is literally made to create and sustain life, I felt betrayed when my body created life and then took it away. I know the death of my son was not my fault, but there will always be a part of me that blames myself and my body for not keeping him safe.

I remember feeling anxious during pregnancy knowing that anything could happen once he was born. He could get sick or someone could hurt him. The thought of his first daycare cold or skinned knee filled me with dread. Even though I knew babies could pass away in utero, I never thought it would happen to me. I mean why would it? I did everything right, but I still lost him in the end.

When I delivered my baby, I screamed. I was embarrassed in the moment as I wanted to be one of those quiet, peaceful pushers…but I was in so much physical and emotional pain that all I could do was scream and push. Before going through this, I thought being in labor would be the hardest part, but I would have been in labor forever if it had been up to me. When my doctor broke my water and my nurse began preparing me for delivery, I sobbed. I knew my baby was dead, but I wasn’t ready for my pregnancy to end. I was in a state of shock for hours after delivering. When I finally showered later that night, the emptiness of it all set in.

I stood in the cold bathroom of my hospital room and stared at my still rounded belly. My body was still the same and entirely different at the same time. My stomach was soft, my breasts were becoming engorged, I was bleeding more than I ever had in my entire life, and I had the worst backache. I looked like any other mom who had just birthed a baby, only my baby was lying deceased on a cuddle cot. I didn’t recognize myself.

Feeling like a prisoner in my own body was such a strange feeling. I felt trapped and betrayed. My own body was a living, breathing reminder of the most painful loss I have ever experienced and the biggest failure of my life. Postpartum without a baby is torturous. I felt like I was living a stranger’s life. I had the stretch marks, the cramps, the bruise from my epidural, but I didn’t have a baby to make it all worth it. Each day as my stomach got smaller and the bleeding got lighter, I felt farther and farther away from my son. I looked back on the insecurity I felt over my pregnant body with disgust and shame. I wished I could go back in time and enjoy it a little bit more.

In the weeks following my son’s death, I punished my body in ways that were unexpected. I was pumping breastmilk to donate (more on that here: Donating Breastmilk After a Stillbirth) which made me extremely hungry, but I could barely bring myself eat. I would pump for nearly an hour at a time until I was in so much pain it was unbearable. It was a strange form of self harm, and although I don’t regret my pumping journey, I regret the way I did it.

A little over four months have passed since I delivered my son, and my feelings surrounding my body have changed in some ways, but not so much in others. At this point, we still have no clear answer as to why we lost Nathan. Regardless, I think a part of me will always blame myself. Even though I know there was nothing I did that was necessarily wrong, somewhere along the way a catastrophic biological mistake occurred resulting in my son’s death. Instead of carrying my son in my arms, I carry the guilt and shame over his loss. There are times I sit for hours and replay every second of my pregnancy, trying to pinpoint where I took a wrong turn. I had two glasses of wine a few days before finding out I was pregnant. I accidentally skipped my prenatal vitamins once or twice. I never cut out caffeine and probably ate too much Taco Bell. I know, I know…none of those things are really linked to stillbirth, but I still question it. My Internet search history is full of questions about causes of stillbirth and pregnancy loss. Every time I come across a story of a stillbirth with a definitive cause, I go down a rabbit hole trying to connect the dots back to myself and Nathan. There is a long list of things I have diagnosed myself with and events that I have convinced myself caused my son’s death. Even with the causes that have been ruled out, I find myself questioning the validity of the tests and examinations. Truly, I drive myself insane with the laundry list of theories I have accumulated.

All these months later, I still feel so angry with my body. When I start thinking of trying to conceive again, I go on a research spiral of fertility foods and best diets to support a pregnancy. I want to be the best version of myself when I become pregnant again because my baby deserves a healthy mother, but also because I need to know that I did everything possible to get a living baby at the end of it. There are still days when I look in the mirror and cry. Not only because this postpartum body is so hard to love, but also because I still feel so much hatred and disappointment over the fact that it didn’t keep my son alive.

Beyond that, the insecurities I have had my entire life are still lingering just as they always have. As I have learned, the pressure to “bounce back” after pregnancy is still present even if you didn’t get to take a baby home. Although the number on the scale now is less than it was before getting pregnant, things just are not the same after having a baby. There’s loose skin, a softer belly, and stretch marks in places there weren’t any previously. This is something I believe most mothers probably go through during the postpartum months and years, but I can’t even say “at least this body gave me my baby.” Even though I think my son was the most beautiful baby and my body created him, it also failed him in the worst way. These insecurities have made everyday things like getting dressed, taking photos, and even moments of intimacy with my husband more difficult. (Side note: I would be open to diving deeper into marriage, sex, and intimacy amidst grief, but my family and coworkers read this, so we’ll save it for another day. Hi, Mom.)

I carry so much guilt, shame, and anger over the loss of my sweet boy. Therapy, of course, has helped me reshape some of these feelings and the weight of my guilt is a little easier to carry some days. The hard truth is that I know I will always question what I could have done differently to make my body a safer place for my baby. Recently, I have set a goal to be kinder to my mind and body, which is something I should have done years ago. Although I place blame on my body for the loss of my son, it still gave him a home for almost 27 weeks and powered through a painful delivery. For that, at least, I can be grateful.