Though no two lives will ever be the same, there is something to be said about
hearing details of somebody’s story that mirror elements of your own. In these
moments of sharing, there is an exchange of vulnerability where we don’t just
connect, we relate. Sewn together by threads of shared experience, we are suddenly
part of a communal tapestry of compassion and hope - for ourselves, and for each
other. It can be relieving to not have to hide or suppress oneself or one’s process. In
a world that prioritizes the voices of the already privileged, dominated by paradigms
rooted in patriarchy and oppressive social norms, there are far too many ways that
women are silenced, forced to dilute their experiences for the comfort of others. The
Butterfly Run is an excellent example of what can happen when people come
together to bridge this gap, co-creating safe spaces for healing and connection. It is
here that women and families are given dignity and respect, voice and volume to
share their stories, without judgement, in honest, creative remembrance.
In all my research travels, in person, online and on paper, I have yet to find a story that
contained the specifics I longed to relate to and find solace in. Not one.
Good thing I’m a writer.
Good things, much like facets of grief, take time to establish. Veiled by ambiguity, like
a story yet to be read, grief is remarkable in her shape shifting abilities. Sometimes,
grief is a castle of sand, peering out at the ocean. The tide rises slowly around her,
lulled by the cadence of gentle, foamy waters. The wind is warm and inviting, and the
sun sends ribbons of orange, pink and purple across the sky. Then, graceful and
quiet, grief falls. Slowly, in pieces, she releases herself to sadness, falling through time
and tears. Cushioned by the glow of sunset sands and whispering clouds... She rests
and remembers, and she waits for the light of the moon that has yet to appear,
knowing the sun always rises again. Here, grief cries, trusts, and hopes in the shadow
of night.
Other times, grief is wild, destructive, and unrelenting. Her fury is a hurricane that rips
and tears, uprooting even the most solid, integral foundations. All is exposed, and
nothing can weather the impact of grief’s pain, or escape the sound of her panic that
collides with defeat. Grief curls herself tight, tighter and tighter still. Held captive by
her own presence, she screams and wails and cries in anguish. Terrified, enraged and
exhausted, she embodies despair. Here, grief is unbearable. And it is here where my
story begins.
My baby was conceived through an act of violence. I didn’t get to choose anything
about myself or my body that night, and I felt violated, in every sense of the word.
Following a rape kit, I faced the added trauma of losing my core support system and
faith community.
I watched in horror as those I trusted to hold the details and context of my story safe,
did not. I was helpless to stop the narrative that spread like wildfire, burning bridges I
had assumed were made of stone. With no-one in my corner to advocate for me or
defend my character, I was mortified to find myself standing alone. And so,
humiliated, bullied, betrayed and afraid... I found myself at the transition house. It was
there, in the middle of utter chaos and terribly alone in my brokenness, I learned I was
pregnant.
The deepest, most long standing desire of my heart, has been to be a mother. Every
since my younger brother was born - I was eight years old - I’ve always wanted to be a
mother. I was ‘that girl’ who doodled pregnant bellies and wandered thrift stores and
garage sales and collected baby clothes for my future children. I babysat and nannied
and coached gymnastics, taught Sunday school and volunteered wherever
childminding was needed, surrounding myself with kids of all ages. I lived vicariously
through other mothers, planned baby showers, imagined ideas for pregnancy reveals,
tried on faux bellies of foam with maternity shirts, visualizing what I might look like
when I was pregnant. I was born to nurture and teach and love and protect, and of
course there are so many ways I can do these things, but motherhood was my dream.
I squinted and stared at the stick I’d just peed on, willing my brain to be present with
what was happening. After my assault, it was like I was trapped in a cocoon of shock,
unable to unravel myself from the fibres of fear holding me hostage. I had ceased to
exist, deceived by the very nature of my heart and all that made me, me, and I felt I
was a stranger to myself. All that was left was the constant ripping apart of reality.
Though I struggled to grasp the logistics of a positive test, being pregnant was not
just two lines, it was two lives. One of which was mine. Though I struggled to grasp
the logistics of a positive test, that night something shifted inside of me.
Like passing through the eye of a storm, it was in bearing witnessing to my response
of love that I registered that I still existed as a person, distinct from the wreckage
around me. I caught a glimpse of something in myself that did not embody hatred or
disgust, and I was reminded me that the man who chose to take so much from me,
did not take all of me. I knew that if anybody could raise a baby alone or be a single
parent, I could, and I would, because this baby was mine. I put my hand on my tummy,
below my bellybutton, and stared. This moment of surreal silence, watching my hand
rest on my skin, is etched forever in my memory. And then I had a miscarriage.
We don’t talk about miscarriage enough, which is just... beyond me. 1 in 4 women
will experience pregnancy and infant loss. That’s a whole lot of women. The
knowledge that I’m not alone does give me courage to push through and say what I
want to say, and hopefully create space for those who might feel the ache of wanting
to remember “out loud” but aren’t sure how, or if they should. At the time, I didn’t
have the words to describe how I could love so deeply the product of a such a hateful
event, but I did, and I longed for a safe space to process, ask questions, and untangle
my thoughts.
As timing would have it, the message being broadcast all around me was one of
palpable outrage and fear. I felt there was a sea of people ready and willing to stand
in my corner, to passionately fight for my right to hate something that I didn’t hate. I
was already so fragile, and I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing anyone refer to my
baby as a mistake, something regrettable, a problem to be solved... I wasn’t prepared
to respond to such comments, or for how I would cope if it was suggested maybe I
“dodged a bullet”, or that perhaps I should feel relieved to have miscarried. I also
wanted to avoid encounters with opinions of indifference. My baby was not an affront
to my dignity or a topic to debate, but a miracle of help and provision. God gave me
a light to cling to in the dark, and I am so, so grateful.
And now?
I didn’t get to watch my belly grow. I don’t get to breastfeed or potty train or sing my
baby to sleep. I don’t get to organize playdates or buy school supplies. But I do call
myself a mother. In private ways that I am still navigating, I acknowledge my gratitude,
my questions, my sadness and longing. I had precious little time, but being pregnant
saved my life, and all I can do now is preserve my baby’s memory in meaningful ways.
My baby was a reminder that my capacity to love, to care and connect, was still intact.
My heart and mind and spirit were still alive and beautiful. I want lightness and
gratitude to surround my memories of that little life. I truly hope that my personal
expressions of love and lament hold value for others, whatever that looks like.
Grief has been a near-constant companion in my life. She can snuggle my dog with
me, share my fidget toys and eat my snacks. In these moments, we are united, sharing
space and time, and I am acclimatized to her presence. I don’t mind as much when
she shows up unannounced. There are seasons though, where I am just so exhausted
and I dilute my awareness with long showers and too much sleep. I get lost in my days
and my thoughts, and I forget what she looks like, what she sounds like... but I never
forget what she feels like. Writing is a way for me to capture to snippets of my
nervous, shape-shifting friend, giving lyric and rhythm to our song and our dance. She
is colourful, creative, persistent and wise. She moulds abstract concepts like loss and
confusion into something approachable. Over time she softens the edges, shaping
the pain into something that can be held close. She sews herself like a thread, into
memories, into something tangible that can be felt, and held, softly and safely. This is
how I carry the memory of my baby, that I still love, and still want, and still miss.
Rebecca Roth
If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault or domestic violence, here are some resources in BC to consider reaching out to:
Archway Society for Domestic Peace
Community Based Victim Services (For victims of sexual or domestic violence.)
Rape Victim’s Support Network
(Peer counselling and practical help to those victimized by rape.)
Her Story: For Survivors of Sexual Assault
(Make sense of what happened. Navigate your options. Take action.)
Salal - Sexual Violence Support Centre Vancouver
(Free counselling & support groups & 24 hr support line)
BCWomens Hospital
Sexual Assault Services & related services
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