Healing From My Miscarriage in a Year That Took So Much
Activist and author Charlene Carruthers shares how sitting with her grief allowed her to show up for others
I knew something was wrong before my doctor confirmed that I had miscarried my first pregnancy.
For years, I imagined being a mother in a country where caring for Black children often meant increased vulnerability and violence. I spent many moments being anxious about Black maternal mortality rates, thinking through my options for support and care. I did not know then that this year would bring a global pandemic, uprisings, and suffering under the heels of murderous political leadership.
What I knew for sure was that I wanted to parent and that doing so as a single, queer, Black woman was a challenge I was willing to pursue. One evening, about a week before I met the in-demand Black woman doctor I’d held out for, I had felt a heavy presence sitting at the end of my bed. I remember fighting to wake up and regain control over my arms. I clutched my abdomen with my hands and declared “No, you won’t!” to whatever had welcomed itself to my bedroom. I had already encountered so many challenges while trying to conceive and did not want to think about having to go through it all again.
