A former co-worker posted about her pregnancy loss a week before I started trying to get pregnant. The image was of her on the beach alone, and the caption was something cryptic about how they wanted to grow a family and were trusting God, the universe, or Tom Cruise, or whatever, for what was next. The point was that she and her partner were going through a hard time, and it had to do with having a baby. The post ended with a broken heart emoji and a rainbow emoji. Consider that my Exhibit A: 💔🌈
As someone who had just begun the trying to conceive process, I genuinely couldn’t imagine what having a miscarriage would feel like physically, emotionally, or socially. I thought about her randomly when I was a few weeks along in my first pregnancy. I was exhilarated about what was to come, and she flashed in my head. I realized how sad it must have been for her to have that excitement — that possibility — taken away from her.
I thought about her again when the doctor told me there was no longer a heartbeat at 9 weeks and 1 day.
She was one of the first people I reached out to after my D&C, and she was the reason I posted about my own experience. Up until that point, the only people I’d seen speak out about pregnancy loss were celebrities far removed from me, with PR-reviewed quotes and bank accounts that could help them achieve their dream of a family, whether by fertility treatments, surrogacy, or adoption.
I hadn’t seen real people — people like me who spent every free second on Reddit researching whether eating an everything bagel would cause you to miscarry or if having sex during the two-week wait could harm implantation — posting about something so vulnerable.
This is funny, of course, because I’ve made a career of oversharing. I’ll happily tell the world about my favorite sex positions or how psychotic I was while planning my bachelorette party. But the fact that pregnancy went from something exciting to something impossibly fragile? That was hard.
By then, the seed of her mysterious, emoji-forward post was planted. Sure, in the moment, it sent me straight to the group chat. But fast-forward to me crying in the ER; thinking about how a random co-worker from a lifetime before had experienced the same thing made me feel a little less alone.
Which is why, two months later, I posted about my own miscarriage on Instagram. It took months of healing to reach the point where I was ready, and I debated it nonstop before uploading. But the response was vast and immediate. People I knew from all walks of life told me how they, too, had experienced pregnancy loss. Before, I had felt alone, but suddenly — thanks to a single post and putting my broken heart on display — I had a whole support group at my fingertips. More than that, I instantly became support for others.
Why More People Are Choosing to Announce Their Miscarriages
What used to be a rare, hushed type of post — usually from a celeb or distant friend — has become a lot more common. People are talking about fertility treatments, IVF, surrogacy, and pregnancy loss in the open.
Sometimes, it’s a single rainbow emoji. Other times, it’s a long, gut-wrenching caption paired with a black-and-white photo. Either way, the post goes up, and the comments start flooding in. I’ve been there. I didn’t know you went through this. Thank you for sharing.
So what’s behind this shift?
According to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG), miscarriage happens in about 10% of known pregnancies, though some estimates are even higher. “In the medical community, pregnancy loss is seen as a fairly common experience,” says Adrienne Michelle, LCSW, PMH-C, a licensed therapist who specializes in maternal mental health. “But for individuals and couples, it can be deeply isolating, especially if no one around them is talking about it.”
Andrea, 31, shared her miscarriage months after it happened — not to relive the trauma but because her year-in-review post (you know, the one we all posted in December) felt fake. “All I could think was: my year didn’t feel like a highlight. It felt heavy. And I figured maybe others were feeling the same way but just weren’t saying it.”
Another woman, Kate, 31, said the turning point came when she realized just how taboo it still felt. “I was devastated and wanted to share with people who I knew cared about me,” she told me.
The decision to post about miscarriage is rarely easy. But for a lot of people, it’s also survival. It’s the hope that someone will see it, take a deep breath, and feel just a little less alone.
Okay, But Like… Is Posting About a Miscarriage Just for Attention?
The hard thing about deciding to post something personal on social media is that, well, social media is literally there for attention. That’s the whole point. It’s why celebs use it, why brands use it, and why we still stalk our high school ex when we’re wine-drunk and annoyed at our partners. It’s a way to get attention.
It’s also a way to connect, showcase, promote, advocate for, and stimulate change. But when you’re sitting there debating whether or not to post the Sono pic that breaks your heart, it’s hard to figure out the why. We’ve all seen the vague, melodramatic posts that make you feel like you’re being emotionally manipulated into commenting, “You okay??” And when it comes to something as intimate as pregnancy loss, it’s easy to wonder: Is this genuine? Or are they just looking for attention?
Which is why, right before I shared about my own loss, I spiraled. I kept the post in my drafts for weeks. Was I being performative? Trauma-dumping? Just fishing for sympathy? Was I… exploiting my own grief?
Hard to say — because, truthfully, attention isn’t always a bad thing. And grief? It is attention-worthy. It’s messy and real and not meant to be hidden away in a notes app or behind closed doors. Sometimes, the need to say something outweighs the fear of seeming dramatic.
For many, the thing they need most after a loss is to not feel invisible. To have someone say, “That really sucks, I’m so sorry.” To hear, “Same here. You’re not alone.”
Vanessa, 32, told me she didn’t post about her back-to-back miscarriages at the time “because it hurt too much.” But now, she wishes she had. “Just knowing how common it is would’ve made me feel less alone,” she said. “It’s such an isolating process, and even though partners go through it too, it’s just… different for us.”
So yeah, maybe posting about a miscarriage gets attention. But when you’re sitting in silence with your grief, scrolling and wondering if anyone else has ever felt this way? Seeing that kind of post can be a lifeline.
So… Does Posting About Your Miscarriage Actually Help?
For me, it did. Not right away. Not in a fix-it kind of way — but in a way that made the grief feel less sharp, less lonely. I didn’t expect the outpouring of DMs or the people I hadn’t spoken to in years who suddenly said, “Same.” But that wave of connection? That helped.
And I’m not the only one.
Lauren, 32, told me she didn’t post about her son’s loss until after her D&C, which was followed by a rare and life-threatening complication called an Amniotic Fluid Embolism. “I woke up in the ICU,” she said. “At that time, we went from one tragic moment to the next, so posts were afterthoughts.” When she eventually shared, it wasn’t for closure — it was to raise awareness. “The responses were overwhelmingly positive and caring. People I hadn’t spoken to in years reached out with similar stories or kind words. I felt so connected to this shared grief of losing a baby.”
Lauren said she’s “100%” in favor of people posting about miscarriage. “For so long, they were seen as secrets, but that’s only furthering the huge levels of grief. I think by normalizing talking about loss, more women will stop blaming themselves.”
According to Michelle, that sense of connection isn’t just a nice bonus — it’s clinically significant. “Feeling seen and validated is a huge part of healing,” she said. “Grief needs a witness. For some people, that witness is a therapist. For others, it’s the internet.”
What to Keep In Mind Before You Share Your Pregnancy Loss Online
Here’s the thing about posting something vulnerable: once it’s out there, it’s out there. You can delete the post, sure, but you can’t control who screenshotted it, who sends it to their mom group, or who responds in a way that feels weird and kind of invasive. Sharing can be healing, but it can also be exhausting. So before you hit post, it’s worth asking: Why am I doing this, and what do I need right now?
Some people post to make sense of what happened. Others post because they don’t want to feel so alone. And honestly? Most of us are somewhere in between.
It’s also okay to not want to be seen. To be in the thick of it and not ready to explain or educate or respond to 17 well-meaning messages that all say “thinking of you ❤️.” That’s why so many people wait. Or never post at all. Or post something cryptic and vague because it’s all they can manage.
While posting can make others feel safe to share their own stories, you also need to be prepared for that kind of onslaught. Overnight, I became a sounding board for others, and years later, I’m still the friend people go to when they experience a loss. On one hand, it’s an honor. On the other hand, it can be emotionally overwhelming, especially long after I’ve moved on from my grief.
And while it’s a little dark to bring up, it’s also worth noting: we live in a time where pregnancy and miscarriage are increasingly under legal and political scrutiny. In some places, what you post could — hypothetically — be used against you. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t share. However, it does mean you might want to think carefully about how much you disclose and whether you’re in a place (both emotionally and geographically) where you feel safe doing so.
Ultimately, you get to share as much or as little as it feels right. You don’t owe the internet your trauma résumé. You don’t need to perform your pain for it to be valid. And just because someone else posted doesn’t mean you have to.
Pregnancy loss is already something you carry every day. If posting lightens the load even a little, amazing. If it makes it heavier? Close the app. You can always come back when — or if — it feels right.
