In the (almost) four months since Nathan was stillborn, people have called me strong, brave, and just about any synonym of those words. They tell me I’m strong for going back to work as a NICU nurse in the hospital where I delivered, brave for sharing my story, and inspirational for waking up every day and being productive. Truthfully, most days I don’t feel strong or brave or inspiring. Instead, I feel empty, numb, fearful, and/or indescribably sad.
During my leave from work in the aftermath of losing my son, I was completely unsure of whether or not going back to my job was the right thing to do. Everyone had their opinions on if I was “ready” enough or if I should have just quit before even trying to return. I knew I had to try. So many people praised me for going back. They told me I was strong, and I thanked them. It was a true and honest thanks, but my whole twelve hour shift I felt like I was on the verge of a breakdown. Those first few shifts back made me question if NICU nursing was really going to be my long term career and even if I wanted to be a nurse at all anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I have received so much support from everyone, but holding it together was hard. Besides the love I truly have for my job, the one thing holding me back from leaving was being told I was strong for being there in the first place. I asked myself, “If doing this makes me strong and brave, will quitting make me weak and cowardly?”
Although I ultimately decided to continue my job, I still find myself using my perceived strength as a deciding factor for most day-to-day things. I mean, honestly, who wants to be viewed as weak? I feel like I have to be strong enough so others do not worry about me. I need to be strong enough to sit in my OBGYN office surrounded by pregnant women knowing I’m not one of them, strong enough to accept invitations to baby showers, strong enough to walk the halls of the hospital that holds all of my most traumatic moments every time I go to work. I am not strong, though. I am just tired.
There have been several times on this journey where I want so badly to break down, to lose it, to fall apart, but I don’t allow myself to do so out of fear of making someone else upset, disappointed, or change their perception of me. I shared a TikTok a few months ago about how I feel like grief has forced me to wear a costume that makes it appear as if I’m okay and exactly the same as I have always been. There are very few people I allow myself to take that “costume” off around, and the number has decreased even more as time has passed. Being strong and okay all the time is exhausting, especially when it’s usually not a true reflection of how you actually feel.
I hold myself together as well as I can, but everyone has a breaking point. Will people still think I am strong if I have moments of weakness? Before my first shift back in the NICU, I barely slept because I was full of anxiety. I cried the entire way to the hospital. I cried in the conference room during my shift. I cried in my boss’s office the next morning. The next shift I worked, our emergency phone rang for the NICU team to attend a delivery that had turned very dangerous for mom and baby. It sent me into a panic attack where I was shaking so badly I spilled formula everywhere and had to take a break. I was embarrassed for no longer being “strong.” When I am with friends and family, I can distract myself with their company and pretend to be okay. However, most nights when I am alone, I sob in the shower or cry quietly into my pillow while looking at my baby’s tiny urn on my nightstand.
I have grown accustomed to being strong, or at least pretending to be. There are times where I am fully in my grief, times where I am mostly out of it (because I have to be), and times where I am somewhere in the middle. I do appreciate when people tell me I am strong. My point is not that we shouldn’t acknowledge strength and bravery, but that we should allow space for people to not always be strong and brave. We need to give others (and ourselves) permission to take the costume off and embrace the sadness, anger, and guilt that accompanies grief.
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