My experience with the 4th Trimester Bodies Project

I’ve been enamored with the 4th Trimester Bodies Project for years. A coworker’s wife participated with both of her sons, and I loved how open she was with her images. It was such a message of beauty and reality and massive acceptance. I planned when I saw it to participate myself after my first child was born. And then he died.

I don’t know why I didn’t think I could participate after that. There was definitely no rule against it. I actually found out later the project creator was a loss parent too. The only thing I can think is that grief scrambles your brain sometimes. I was also just really sad.

When I started to wake up again, I looked up the project, and realized I could participate. And I emailed Ash, and I signed up, and this past weekend, I flew to Chicago and did it. And it was one of my most beautiful experiences.

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I’ve been enamored with the 4th Trimester Bodies Project for years. It was such a message of beauty and reality and massive acceptance. I planned when I saw it to participate myself after my first child was born. And then he died.

Two years ago, I was pregnant with my first child. As a Single Mother by Choice, he was both planned and gloriously wanted, and despite the typical complaints of pregnancy, I was happy. At the start of my pregnancy, I was thirty five and slightly overweight, two things which doctors may or may not consider serious. I had no other risk factors. I thought my pregnancy was going well.

On 21 June, 2017, the day before my son was due, I told my providers I wasn’t feeling as much movement. I told them a few other things, things I now know are serious red flags. They told me I was fine. Eight days later, my son died.

I spent the first year after his death in a fog. I went to support groups. I journaled. I crawled inside myself and screamed. I lost good friends who couldn’t watch me in pain. I tried and failed to make sense of the incomprehensible.

I struggle with the conversations. It simply isn't possible to say the words, "when I was pregnant," and not have someone ask about my child. And as much as I love talking about my son, there were days after his death when I just needed to get through the grocery store and the rest of my errands and not have to explain to strangers that no--I wasn't currently pregnant; I was just grieving, and I didn't even realize I was stroking my stomach in a public place.

I am discovering that when I present a pregnant body to the world, the world feels entitled to ask about my history. And I didn't realize until recently how difficult it is for both them and me when I refuse to lie and claim this little girl as my "first" child. So I tell the truth. And many people walk away. And I am standing, holding space for both my children.

I am discovering that when I present a pregnant body to the world, the world feels entitled to ask about my history.

I came home from the hospital to a fully-furnished nursery, a stockpile of diapers, and a lifetime of broken dreams. I came home to texts and messages from well-meaning friends. I came home, crawled into bed, and wished that I could die.

I didn't know how to go back to work again. I didn't know how to prompt my brain on how to think. I didn't know grief was like having a long-term concussion, or that things that used to be easy would feel out of reach.

I didn't know grief was like having a long-term concussion, or that things that used to be easy would feel out of reach.

It has been more than twenty months since my son was born sleeping. It has been more than twenty months, and I still talk about him. These aren't the things I imagined when I was pregnant. This isn't how I planned to mother him. The old me didn't know it was possible to mother a dead baby. But this is what I'm doing.

The old me didn't know it was possible to mother a dead baby. But this is what I'm doing. This is how I'm keeping him alive, in me. Because he was a person, a human being. And his existence will always be part of me.

There is no cosmic plan. There is no destiny or "meant to be." There is no lesson to be learned in hardship, nor meaning to be found in the death of my son. I was not set on this path to become a better person. I am not strong; I am not brave. I am not a parable or cautionary tale. I am a person; a human being. I have experienced tragedy. It could happen to anyone. I am continually finding my way in the world. I am grieving and I am love. And there is no truth stronger than that.

There is no cosmic plan. There is no destiny or "meant to be." There is no lesson to be learned in hardship, nor meaning to be found in the death of my son.

There is no cosmic plan. There is no destiny or "meant to be."

There is no lesson to be learned in hardship, nor meaning to be found in the death of my son.

I am not strong; I am not brave. I am not a parable or cautionary tale.

I am a person; a human being. I have experienced tragedy. It could happen to anyone.

I used to believe nature was everything. I used to believe things happened for a reason. I used to believe if I wanted something strongly enough and maintained positivity, nothing could truly stand in my way. But if these past two years have taught me anything, it is that life is unpredictable, and tumultuous, and strange. And even under those conditions, there is still beauty, and there is still love.

Life is unpredictable, and tumultuous, and strange. And even under those conditions, there is still beauty, and there is still love.

I am pregnant now for the second time. I am grieving and I am full of feeling for my second child. I am living and I am moving forward, but never "moving on." I am incorporating pain and beauty and love and hope into my world.

I am living and I am moving forward, but never "moving on." I am incorporating pain and beauty and love and hope into my world.

I don't know what the future will bring. I don't know anything beyond the experience of today. But today, I am happy, and my daughter is living. And I want to document everything. I want to share what's real.

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