There are names that do not merely identify a person, they unlock a sealed room.

When that email appeared in my inbox this morning, addressed to Prue, something inside me jolted. Twenty-eight years dissolved in a breath. My body remembered before my mind had time to reason. A sterile office. The sharp edge of judgement. The humiliation of being told that my loss was not real enough to grieve.

Six weeks pregnant. Hospitalised for three days with an ectopic pregnancy. A tiny life gone before it had even been announced.

Then those words: “Get over it. Six weeks pregnant wasn’t even pregnant.”

Grief had not yet found language in me. I was already fragile, already trying to prove I was responsible, capable, worthy of the job I had only just begun. Instead of compassion, I was met with irritation. Instead of tenderness, dismissal. Instead of understanding, discipline.

Something inside me cracked that day.

I felt devastated, betrayed, rejected, abandoned, angry. The sorrow of losing a baby collided with the shame of being treated as an inconvenience. I learned quickly that emotional pain was unwelcome. Weakness would not be tolerated. Mistakes would bring punishment.

No one held space for the mother in me.

No one said, “Your baby mattered.”

So I swallowed it. I withdrew. I hardened. I performed. I buried.

I told myself I would be fine. I would not cry. I would not need. I would not talk about it. I would prove my worth through performance. Silence became armour. Perfection became protection.

Yet armour is heavy.

When Clive found me on the floor, sobbing, the grief I had hidden was already eroding me from within. Antidepressants followed. Seven months later, pregnant again, the pressure intensified until resignation became the only safe path forward. Trevor’s kindness in sending me home with pay was a small mercy in a season that had felt merciless.

Still, the deeper wound remained.

Three more miscarriages followed in the years ahead, each one unannounced, unspoken, buried beneath the rule I had internalised: Do not tell until twelve weeks. Do not risk humiliation again. Do not expect comfort.

What did I come to believe?🤔

That miscarriage would receive no emotional support.

That weakness would be punished.

That managers do not care about personal needs.

That mistakes bring discipline.

That I must survive alone.

The lie beneath it all whispered something even darker.

My grief is inconvenient.

My pain is too much.

I must earn the right to be valued.

The Lord was near. Even when no one else was.

Every tear counted. Even the ones shed alone on the floor.

Forgiveness has felt difficult because resentment guarded the grave. Betrayal built walls. Judgements took root: She was mean. She was heartless. She did not care. I withdrew and rejected her in my heart. I dishonoured her in silent hatred. That bitterness, though understandable, kept the wound open.

Holy Spirit does not rush healing. He broods gently over the chaos, just as He hovered over the waters in the beginning. He invites me to lay down not only the grief of lost babies, but also the vows I made to survive.

I renounce the vow to hide.

I release the need to prove my worth through performance.

I surrender the lie that my pain is unwelcome.

I choose to forgive, not to excuse what was done, but to free my own heart.

Those babies were real. Their brief lives matered. A mother’s grief is not measured by weeks.

Lord Jesus, You saw the hospital bed. You heard the dismissive words. You watched the silent burials. You were present in every unannounced goodbye. Heal the place in me that still braces for rejection. Wash away resentment. Soften what has hardened. Teach me to grieve without shame and to forgive without denying truth. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

If this memory stirs something in you, know this: your hidden losses are not hidden to God. Your sorrow is not excessive. Your tenderness is not weakness. You are not too much.

You are seen. You are held. You are deeply loved by the Father who never says, “Get over it,” but instead whispers, “Come to Me.”

💡 Reflection:

• When you recall this memory, where do you feel it in your body today?🤔 What emotions still rise to the surface?🤔

• What words were spoken over you in that season that still echo in your heart?🤔 Are they aligned with God’s truth?🤔

• What vows did you make to survive that time?🤔 Are those vows still shaping your responses today?🤔

• Have you allowed yourself to grieve each loss fully before the Lord, without minimising or justifying your sorrow?🤔

• What would it look like to release performance and receive comfort instead?🤔

• Is there someone you need to forgive, not to excuse their behaviour, but to free your own heart from bitterness?🤔

Take your time with these questions. Sit with Holy Spirit. Let Him gently uncover what is ready to be healed.

🙏 Closing Prayer

Father God,

You are the Author of life, and You saw every tiny heartbeat that flickered within me. You witnessed the joy, the fear, the loss, and the silence that followed. Nothing was insignificant to You.

Lord, I bring before You the grief that was dismissed, the tears that were hidden, and the anger that hardened my heart. I choose, by an act of my will, to forgive those who wounded me in my vulnerability. I release them into Your righteous hands.

I renounce the lies that my pain was inconvenient, that I must be strong at all costs, and that my worth is measured by performance. I receive Your truth: I am seen, I am valued, I am loved.

Heal the places in me that still brace for rejection. Soften what has become rigid. Restore tenderness without fear. Teach me to grieve in Your presence and to rest in Your compassion.

Thank You that You are near to the broken-hearted and that You bind up every wound.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.