There Are No Right Words: The language of baby loss

I read a post today about the importance of language.

The author strongly advocated for using the word “died” to describe our babies. I understand the sentiment. I believe deeply in acknowledging our babies, and I know how powerful language can be.

But I don't believe there is a one-size-fits-all approach.

There are no words that can capture every loss, every relationship, every preference or every grieving journey. We each need to find our own language.

There is no single right way to name our loss.

When Tommy died, I struggled to find the words to describe what had happened. I have struggled ever since.

No words feel quite right for such a profoundly wrong situation.

Lost felt too colloquial. I hadn't taken my eyes off him in a supermarket. I hadn't misplaced my baby.

Born sleeping felt too euphemistic. If he was sleeping, we should have been able to wake him.

Angel baby didn't fit for us. There was no way to convince me that a benevolent higher power needed to take my child.

Stillbirth felt too clinical. It described what had happened, but didn't hold the warmth, love and enormity of who he was.

Died seemed to open up a different set of questions. When I explained that he had died before birth, I sometimes watched sympathy drain from people's eyes and be replaced by confusion.

As though they were thinking, ‘Oh, so he didn't really live then’.

But he did.

He lived, and he died.

When our journey later collided with early baby loss, I grappled with more words.

Embryonic arrest.

Implantation failure.

Miscarriage.

Ectopic.

These felt cold and clinical. And while these were younger lives, they still existed.

They lived, and they died, too.

So, although it can still make for awkward moments, I have settled on the words: Tommy died.

It is an imperfect way of describing the worst of outcomes.

You will notice that I sometimes use other words too, like baby loss.

Because sometimes a different word fits the sentence. Sometimes it depends who I am talking to, and under which context. And sometimes a different word simply feels more bearable.

Perhaps that's okay.

Perhaps we can allow there to be flexibility in the language we use.

Perhaps we can let people choose their own words. Their own ways of holding their experiences. Their own ways of describing their babies.

What feels like the best imperfect fit for me may be the most uncomfortable choice for you.

And perhaps the opposite is true.

That's okay.

We are all faced with the world's worst situation.

Let's give each other the grace to grieve in our own way — and to find the words that allow us to carry our babies with us.

Tommy's Mum x