If you're reading this, there may be a loss you have never said out loud. Or one you did say out loud, only to watch the room go quiet and the conversation move on. I know that quiet. I'm a therapist, and I have also lived through pregnancy loss myself, which means I've stood on both sides of that silence: the one who sits with other people's grief for a living, and the one who walked back into ordinary life the next day as if nothing had happened. I answered messages. I smiled at the grocery store. No one around me knew what I was carrying, and I didn't yet know how to tell them. I'm not writing this to tell you how to grieve. I'm writing to say that I see you, that what happened mattered, and that you were never as alone in it as it felt.
Disenfranchised Grief and the Political Climate
Miscarriage is a disenfranchised grief: a loss that isn't openly acknowledged, socially validated, or publicly mourned. There is often no funeral, no shared ritual, and no script for what to say. Many people wait until twelve weeks to share a pregnancy, which means the loss happens in private. Then come the well-meaning comments that quietly say your grief is too big for the size of the loss: “At least you can try again. It wasn't meant to be. It was early, you’ll get pregnant again. At least you already have a child. “Partners can be overlooked too, and if you aren't partnered, the isolation can carry another layer of confusion. This is more common than almost anyone says out loud. Miscarriage ends as many as 1 in 4 pregnancies, yet the silence around it is so complete that many people believe they are the only one. That silence is not neutral anymore. For many people, the grief of miscarriage is now sitting inside a country that is increasingly willing to treat pregnancy loss with suspicion.
Pregnancy Justice, a legal nonprofit that tracks these cases, has documented 70 prosecutions connected to pregnancy loss in the first three years after Dobbs. In some states, people have been investigated or charged under old laws about the handling of remains or concealment of a birth, after the worst day of their lives. When a loss is treated as a possible crime scene, fear starts to arrive before grief does. People hesitate to seek care. They hide what happened. They grieve alone, and quietly, because quiet feels safer.
For immigrant women, the isolation has another layer. According to reports from The Guardian, ICE recorded at least 18 miscarriages in its detention facilities between January and September 2025, and has had no updated miscarriage data since early October, even as more pregnant people entered detention, and more women report pregnancy emergencies without adequate care. DHS disputes that it stopped tracking this. Advocates and women who were detained describe bleeding, shackling during transport, and long waits for care. Medical experts are careful to say that no single miscarriage can be tied solely to detention conditions. But we don't need certainty about cause to recognize what it means when a loss is uncounted, unwitnessed, and endured under watch.
Disenfranchised grief has always lived in the gap between what we lose and what a culture is willing to mourn. When that gap is filled with surveillance, silence, and fear, grief becomes more fragile, and for some, it becomes something that feels weaponized against them. If you are carrying this loss and also fear what the world might do with it, you are not overreacting. Your fear has a source.
There are also places where the law is moving the other way. In 2025, Washington State passed the Dignity in Pregnancy Loss Act, which Pregnancy Justice describes as the only state law to explicitly repeal provisions that criminalize pregnancy loss. Protection is possible. It is also uneven, which is one more reason to build it into our communities.
Why the body matters
Loss is not only a story we tell. It is a physical experience. Pregnancy changes the body, and so does miscarriage, through hormones, physical pain, and sometimes a medical process that feels invasive or frightening. Talking can help, but it often doesn't reach the places where the grief is stored: a tight chest, a hollow belly, a throat that won't open. Somatic approaches invite us to work with those sensations directly. Slow breathing, gentle movement, grounding practices, and simply noticing what the body is holding can help the nervous system complete what it couldn't in the moment. You don't have to explain or justify anything. You get to feel, at your own pace, and let your body know it is safe now.
Why being witnessed changes everything
The core wound of disenfranchised grief is that no one saw it. That is why group work can be so powerful. In a room, in person or online, with others who have walked a similar road, something shifts. You say, "I lost a pregnancy," and no one flinches, fixes, or rushes to comfort. Someone nods because they know. Someone cries because they've been there. Being witnessed tells the nervous system that this was real, that it mattered, and that you are not alone. Grief held by others often becomes lighter to carry. Many people describe a deep exhale in these spaces, as though a breath they'd been holding for months finally released. In a time when loss can be policed, hidden, or left uncounted, being witnessed is more than comfort. It is a way of saying: this happened, it counted, and you are real.
What healing can look like
Healing doesn't mean forgetting, "moving on," or finding a silver lining. It can look like naming the baby or the pregnancy, creating a small ritual, marking an anniversary, telling the story aloud, or sitting beside someone else who understands. It can mean letting the loss be as big as it actually is.
Gentle reflection prompts
Who has been able to witness my loss, and who hasn't?
Where do I feel this grief in my body right now?
What feels safe to share right now, and with whom?
What kind of acknowledgment or ritual would feel meaningful to me?
What would it feel like to be held by people who understand?
If you're carrying this now
Your grief is valid, whether the loss was last week or years ago. If it feels heavy or isolating, reaching out to a therapist who works with perinatal loss, or to a support group, can help. If you are in crisis, please contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline or a local emergency service.
This post is for reflection and isn't a substitute for professional care.