Invisible Wounds: The Emotional Impact of Miscarriage on Fathers

Miscarriage. It’s a word that carries immense weight, often associated with the profound grief and loss experienced by mothers. But what about the fathers? Where do we fit in this equation of sorrow? Sadly, as most men will already know, we don’t. You see, because pregnancy is seen as something women do, not men. So, everything to do with a pregnancy is about mom. It’s her experience, not his. It’s a bunch of bullshit.

Society often expects men to be stoic, to hold back tears, to be the strong ones. We’re conditioned from a young age to suppress our emotions, to present a facade of unwavering strength. Vulnerability is often seen as a weakness, a dent in the armor of masculinity. It’s one thing to hold back tears while watching that touching moment in a Pixar movie. But when a miscarriage occurs, we grieve too. We experience a deep sense of loss, a profound sadness for a life that was never fully realized.

The pain is real, even if it’s not always visible. We mourn the dreams we had for our child, the future we envisioned. We carry the weight of our partner’s grief, wanting to support them while also grappling with our own emotions. But as men, we’re given a short window for this grief. We’re expected to move on, put it behind us and deal with it.

I remember the day we found out my SO was pregnant with Hops (our fun nickname for the fetus). It was January 1st, 2011, a new year filled with hope and possibility. We weren’t exactly trying, but we weren’t exactly not trying either. When it happened, we were overjoyed. We planned, we dreamed, we told our families. I must have read 10 parenting books in a short period of time. But our excitement was short-lived.

On January 28th, at 9:58 am, we were told there was no heartbeat. The news hit me like a punch to the gut. All the joy and anticipation I had been feeling vanished in an instant, replaced by a crushing wave of grief. My SO had to go through the miscarriage naturally, and the weeks that followed were agonizing. During this time, I packed up all the baby stuff and just tried to be there for my SO. Finally, on Valentine’s Day, it happened. When my SO called the doctor to ask if they wanted the remains for testing, they told us to just “throw it away.”

Throw it away?! Those words felt so callous, so dismissive of the life we had lost. We struggled with the thought of simply discarding our baby, our hopes, our dreams. Eventually, we decided to go out for a Valentine’s Day dinner, and on the way, we stopped at the dumpster and threw away the bag containing the remains. It felt horrible.

Later that night, after my SO had fallen asleep, I snuck out and retrieved the bag from the dumpster. I couldn’t bear the thought of Hops being discarded like trash. I found an old container, placed the remains inside, and hid it in my lunch bag. The next morning, I went to work early and stopped at the cemetery where my mother is buried. I found a peaceful spot and buried Hops there. I still visit him around his would-be birthday, a quiet pilgrimage to remember the child we lost. We had to say goodbye, before we had a chance to say hello.

We went on to experience two more miscarriages after Hops. Each one was just as painful, just as crushing. It felt like we were living through the same nightmare over and over again. This was my second encounter with significant grief, having lost my mother to cancer just six years earlier. But this was different. My mother had lived a full life, albeit a turbulent one. These were lives unfulfilled, never given a chance to experience the world.

The loss of those potential experiences weighed heavily on both of us. We’d never know the sound of their cries, their first words, how they might have giggled, how their personalities would have developed. No first Christmases, no birthdays, no graduations – all those milestones, lost before they even had a chance to unfold.

It broke us. The grief was so overwhelming that we didn’t know how to navigate it together. We fought, we blamed each other, and we even broke up for a few weeks after the first miscarriage.

The experience left me feeling raw and vulnerable. It forced me to confront not only my own grief but also the societal expectations that discouraged me from expressing it openly. It’s a lonely journey, often shrouded in silence. We may feel like we can’t talk about our pain, that we need to “be strong” for our partners. But suppressing our emotions only intensifies the hurt.

And then there were the platitudes, the well-meaning but ultimately empty phrases like “everything happens for a reason.” Those words, while intended to comfort, often felt dismissive, minimizing the depth of our loss. To outsiders, a miscarriage might be a “never was,” a potential life that never materialized. But to us, to the parents, it was our everything. It was the child we yearned for, the future we envisioned, the love that already bloomed in our hearts.

I’ve never been one to shy away from my emotions entirely, but I do hold them back. I internalize a lot more than I let people see. It’s that ingrained belief that showing vulnerability is a sign of weakness. But I’m starting to realize that true strength lies in acknowledging those emotions, in allowing myself to feel the pain and to share it with others.

To the fathers who have walked this path, know that you are not alone. Your grief is valid, your tears are meaningful. It’s okay to not be okay.

If I could offer any advice to other fathers, it would be this: allow yourself to feel your emotions, talk to someone you trust, and don’t be afraid to seek support. Remember, you’re not alone in this. There are people who care and resources available to help you through this difficult time.

Let’s break the silence. Let’s talk about miscarriage from the male perspective. Let’s support each other and heal together.