When Family Went Silent

I never imagined I’d write this. But silence has a way of building up inside of you until it becomes too loud to ignore.

This is for the family who I thought would be there.
For the ones I called when I was broken and bleeding.
For the ones who left my messages on read, ignored my calls, and turned their back while I mourned a child you never met—but I did.

You told me to “quit being selfish” when you excluded me from a baby shower that I was missing out on for my own child.
That I should’ve been happy for who I thought was my best friend because she was having a baby—even though I was grieving the one I lost.
The one you never asked about.
The one you acted like never existed.

You said I was the reason you stopped talking to me; that I was the one who wanted space.
But I remember crying alone in a room full of family, and only one person saw that I was struggling. I remember my phone ringing for everyone but me.
I remember being told I was “too emotional,” “too distant,” or “making everything about me.”
But all I was doing was trying to survive something you’ll never fully understand unless you’ve lived it.

Grief after miscarriage is invisible.
Infertility is lonely.
And making the decision to continue with IVF is overwhelming.
But the silence from those I loved most hurt more than all the needles, losses, and doctor's appointments combined.

I have dropped everything for you. I have always been the one called when you needed someone because everyone else said no. I was always the backup plan. I have never been the first one on your list.
When joy came, I always clapped through tears for you.
But when sorrow came for me, you vanished.

And maybe you think I should just get over it. Maybe you’re tired of hearing about the baby I never got to hold.
But I am a mother.
I just have to mother in silence.

You don’t have to understand what I’m going through to show up.
You just have to care enough to ask. To call. To sit in the silence with me.
Instead, I was met with coldness, criticism, and closed doors.

This isn’t a bitter post—it’s a broken one.
I’m not here to make you feel bad. I’m here because this grief needs a voice, and because maybe someone else has felt the same ache of being abandoned in their darkest season.

I still believe in healing.
I still believe in reconciliation.
But it starts with truth. And the truth is: I needed you, and you weren’t there.

When our miracle comes—if and when God brings that promise to life—I will remember who stood beside me in the ashes. I will remember who held space for my pain before celebrating my joy.

This journey hasn’t made me hard—it’s made me careful.
Careful with who I let in.
Careful with what I share.
Careful with who I invite into the sacred moments we’ve bled and prayed for.

So this is my heart, poured out.
Not for revenge. Not for attention. But for healing.

Because healing starts when we stop pretending we weren’t hurt.

On the flip side of this story, I had friends who were there for me. Friends who included me in their own pregnancy journey. Friends who sat with me and included me even on my worst days. Friends who chose to be there when my family wasn’t.

And it will be these friends - this family - that will be included in our personal updates and all of our milestones.