I know you don’t know me. I know you might think no one knows how you feel. No one can possibly grasp how your broken heart still struggles to beat. I am here. I have been where you are. Living in that space between wanting to hope for something beyond this, and being afraid that each day you continue living is a day farther away from when they were here. I am here, and I understand.

I lost my first pregnancy and only daughter when I was 34 weeks along. I said goodbye before I even got to say hello. I smoothed hair that would never grow, I held hands that would never grasp. I kissed cheeks that would never smile. I breathed breath into a child that would never take a breath of her own. I loved more than I had ever loved before. I know.

I carried her a week not knowing she had passed. An entire week of an eerie stillness. An entire week of convincing myself the doctors were right, she would slow down; that this is what they meant. An entire week of trembling hands against my belly, telling her how much I loved her. A week of waiting for a prenatal appointment that was coming, waiting for a return phone call from my doctor. Just waiting with bated breath, while she drew none. I was 21. I was lost.

Then I found out. I was devastated; broken; shattered with the weight of never carrying hers again. I held her for hours when I had been promised a life time. Even hours weren’t enough; no time was. I never got to dress her, never got to bathe her. Never saw her look into my eyes, never heard her laugh. All the things that people took for granted. All the moments I thought I would have slipped into nothingness. The silence of her absence — as heavy as the silence of the room she was born into. How could things be so silent when my love for her was so strong? When my want for her was so loud? You never knew so many things could be conveyed in silence. You never knew how much loss silence could hold.

Many times I thought about joining her. I felt a huge part of me took its last breath when she died. I felt like I buried all the best pieces of me right alongside her. That the grass outside may grow, but nothing would ever grow inside of me again besides pain, anger and sorrow. I wondered how I didn’t know, why I couldn’t have protected her better. I felt like I had failed. That I had one job, and I couldn’t even do that. I saw people having babies who didn’t want them. I saw people complaining about their babies keeping them up when I would have given anything to be tired. I saw people ungrateful. I saw myself empty handed, bare armed. I saw kids starting school and I thought to myself, “she would have started kindergarten this year.” But there was no first outfit; no writing names on a book bag. No yellow bus at my door. There was only me. There was no us.

The pain doesn’t get easier, but you do get better at carrying it. Every day that you wake up you remember your child. You think of them. Some days it’s with sorrow, some it’s with happiness for all the lessons they taught you. It’s with a gratefulness for the time you spent together. And yes, it’s a yearning for the time you will spend together again. Every day is one day further from the last day you held them, but one day closer to when you will hold them again. Every day is a day you love them.

Now almost five years later I have two beautiful 4-year-old boys who give me a reason to wake up every single day. Sometimes I see sorrow in their firsts because I know I’ll never got that with her. But mostly, I feel gratefulness. For the extra patience I have learned. For almost never taking them for granted. For realizing what a privilege it is to be someone’s mom. For what simple joys can become, like putting your child on the bus, sending a treat to school, watching them walk, hearing them say “mom” for the first time or “I love you.” From the lesson I have learned: there is a loss in love, but there is also learning and a greater understanding of love than ever before.

Sometimes I am brought comfort in knowing my daughter only knew love every single moment of her existence. As I’m sure your baby did, too. I have found that naming your child, celebrating their “birthday” every year, planting a garden, or donating to a charity of your choice in their honor helps. Or even just reminding yourself every day they were here, they mattered, and they have made you stronger, more empathic and loving than you were before. That they have made you who you are now, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful. They have shaped your life in ways you never knew possible. And you have grown from their love. Even if they never will.

I know things seem dark now, and I know your pain is immeasurable. But please trust me when I say things will get better. If I had given into my pain I would have lost all chances I had of bringing a baby home from the hospital. I wouldn’t have met my wife, bought our first house or watched my little boys grow. I would have lost so much more than I have now. And I have lost enough. So have you. 

There is happiness out there for you; there is growing from your grief; there is finding the sun in all the sadness. And every day that you continue to live and to love, think of how proud your child is of you, of your strength, of your perseverance, and most of all of your faith in the future.

You can, and you will grow from this.

You will be a much more beautiful person just because of your child’s existence. You will be better. You will be strong. There is no footprint in this world that is too small to leave an impact. Your child mattered, and was and is so loved.

Don’t forget the same thing applies to you.

Author’s note: My precious and only daughter was stillborn at 34 weeks on January 4th 2012. Before that, her brother was born still at 18 weeks on January 6th, 2010. Please don’t be afraid to reach out if you are struggling, even if your child is not in your arms you are no less a mother, no less a father. You matter, your child mattered, and not even death can take away their importance.

And remember going on doesn’t mean forgetting, it means making lots of stories and memories to share with them later.

Also, to my dear Morgan who I saw on the Mighty comments. This one is for you, and for her. Know that I care, and you matter.

Please consider looking into these sites if you are struggling. 



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March 6, 2017 marks the day you would have been born, Baby G. How time has flown since we found out about you at four weeks, heard your heartbeat twice at seven and a half weeks and at almost nine weeks. We found out at the 11 and a half week ultrasound your heart had stopped beating two and a half weeks earlier at about nine weeks, shortly after that last heartbeat was heard. I felt the loss as you were taken from my body during what should have been the last few days of the first trimester.

Back on June 27, 2016 when we found out I was pregnant, the due date seemed like such a long time in the future to have to wait to meet you. The first thing I did after telling your daddy and calling the fertility clinic, and after my whole body finally stopped shaking so hard, was to look up your due date. Wow, you would be born in 2017, probably late February or early March. Maybe even on your uncle’s birthday, February 22, or your maternal grandparents’ anniversary, February 27. We would find out your gender close to our anniversary in September. Christmas would be so fun as we prepared for your arrival. Data and timelines have always been my thing. I don’t know how many times I sat and stared at that list of approximate dates.

I was so impatient for all the milestones of pregnancy and for the day we would see your little face. I continued counting down the remaining 28 weeks in my head, but besides the due date being carved on my heart, now it’s really just another day. No birth announcements or new family photos, no date of induction or contractions and a hurried trip to the hospital. We never got to have that ultrasound where we found out whether you were a boy or a girl, never got to feel you kick, never had a baby shower. We just had a date and a strong love for you in our hearts.

I have watched on Facebook as others who were pregnant at the same time have gone on to have healthy babies, and others to announce new pregnancies. Life has flown by, but in a way, mine and your daddy’s lives have been on hold since then. Sometimes those almost three months of pregnancy seem like a dream, so surreal.

August 19, 2016, we were so excited that day. It was our first appointment with the OB-GYN who would deliver you. It had been two and a half weeks since we last saw you on the screen and heard that precious heartbeat at the fertility specialist. Everything had gone great so far and they had released us to the care of the OB. I had finally let down my guard a little. My HCG and other levels were good, we had seen your picture 3 times and had heard your heartbeat twice. I thought we were almost to the end of the first trimester and things seemed to be going so well.

We were scheduled for the ultrasound first before meeting the doctor, and we talked with the technician for a while as she explained about the practice and answered our questions, “when will we do the gender ultrasound,” and “which hospital should we deliver at,” so many exciting details. Then it was time to take a look. I remember seeing you and knowing right away something was wrong. The technician was quiet and solemn as she performed what she would later explain to us was a test to see blood flow. In the most compassionate voice, she showed us where the blood was flowing in my body but none to you. Your heart was so still and so silent. She hugged me and told me how sorry she was. She left us alone for me to get dressed as she went to tell the doctor. She came back, moved us to another room, and told us the doctor would be in shortly.

Your daddy and I just sat there in that quiet and still exam room. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t really talk. Your daddy kept asking me if I was OK, and all I could really tell him was how numb I felt inside. Not even really shock, because even though I thought things were good, after we found out, it seemed like I already knew it would happen. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. Your daddy felt so helpless and was so concerned about me. It seemed like we sat there like that for hours. It was a fairly long wait because the office was busy.

The doctor finally came in and she was so understanding and I absolutely loved her, even though our first meeting was at such a sad time. We discussed options. Really, I had two. Because I had a missed miscarriage, with no symptoms, my body had yet to realize what it needed to do. It had already been two and a half weeks with no signs. I could either wait on my body to finally do what it should whenever that would be, or I could have a D & C. She recommended having the surgery because it had already been so long, and because you were already fairly well-developed. No miscarriage is ever easy, but when a pregnancy has progressed even that far, it would be physically more traumatic than an early miscarriage.

People had to be told the sad news, and especially since we had told everyone early on, we dreaded it. But we ended up being glad we did share so early. We needed support and prayers. Everyone was so kind. They surrounded us with love, prayers and food. So many people privately shared their own struggles with us, of infertility, miscarriage, loss. I hope by telling your story, and about our journey with infertility, that others will also know they are not alone. One in four women will experience miscarriage in their lives. I want them to know I understand, and that it is OK to grieve. You are not just a mass of tissue. You were knit together in my womb. You had a heartbeat, you had fingerprints and unique DNA. You matter.

Surgery was scheduled for 5 days later, August 24. I never did have a single sign the miscarriage was going to happen. It was a rough five days knowing I still carried you within my body but you were no longer alive. I had watched all the videos and read all the descriptions of your weekly development. I knew that at nine weeks you were a fetus, no longer an embryo, and all of your major organs should have been developed. I imagined you were perfectly formed, but your little heart had just stopped. I wondered when it had happened, what I was doing at the time. It seemed like I should have felt it, should have known somehow. Then the questions: Did I do anything wrong? Did I cause this? Why? My body seemed to be holding on to you so tightly, even after you were gone, so why couldn’t you have lived?

At my surgery follow-up, the doctor explained test results showed there was no reason I shouldn’t be able to have a healthy pregnancy next time. Also, because your body had not been alive for over three weeks, they were unable to test for your gender. We will never know, at least while on this earth, if you are a boy or a girl. I so wanted that closure so I could give you a name, but for some reason it was not to be.

There has been grief and will continue to be, but I also believe God has been and will always be with us. There are reasons that only He knows as to why you went to Heaven so early. I no longer question if it was my fault. I can’t wait to meet you one day, to know your gender, to maybe even say your name, a name perfectly suited to you. I hope I can look in your eyes and compare your features to mine and your daddy’s, to your grandparents and uncle. Will you have Daddy’s reddish-blonde hair or my green eyes? Will you know just how much you were loved from the moment that pregnancy test showed two lines, and how we prayed for you for long before that time?

Will you one day have a brother or sister, either biological or adopted? Only God knows at this point. But no matter what happens, thank you for making us parents. Our lives are forever changed by you, and our love for you will continue all our days and into eternity.

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Miscarriage can be difficult to talk about, making women and their partners feel as though it’s a loss they have to grieve on their own. To help people speak openly about their experience and reduce the silence surrounding miscarriages, Jessica Zucker, PhD, started a social media campaign encouraging others to speak up.

Zucker, a California-based psychologist specializing in women’s reproductive and maternal health, started #IHadaMiscarriage in 2014, after writing a piece for the New York Times about having a miscarriage.

Shortly after, she began a Twitter campaign with the hashtag #IHadaMiscarriage. She then took her campaign to Instagram, building a community of women who have experienced pregnancy loss.

@thejonesmarket shares: “Life keeps moving. And there are “good” days. This really just means you were able to leave the house and make small talk if you have to. So, there you are standing in a safe, shallow spot of a relatively calm ocean, small talking and almost beginning to enjoy the sun when a wave comes from no where and drags you under water. You don’t know how long until you’ll be able to breathe again. You never know. All your mind can think is “I want my son, I want my son, I want my son, my son is dead, my son is dead, my son is dead”. If you try to fight your way back up too fast you’ll get knocked against the unforgiving sharp shells again, so you stay. The bottom of the ocean feels like an appropriate place to be anyway. Grief.” _ #IHadAMiscarriage #miscarriage #infantloss #stillbirth #grief #loss #motherhood #1in4 // Illustration by @pedrotapa found via @picame.

A post shared by Jessica Zucker, Ph.D. (@ihadamiscarriage) on

Zucker’s series recently picked up traction again after being featured on SELF.

“There is overwhelming research that shows women experience shame, blame and guilt after pregnancy loss,” Zucker told The Mighty. “The lack of conversation doesn’t make people forget their loss, it makes you feel more isolated.”

According to Mayo Clinic, about 10 to 20 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Researchers suspect the miscarriage rate might be underreported since some miscarriages occur before a woman is aware she’s pregnant.

# IHadAMiscarriage I had a 2nd trimester miscarriage. This is a fact of my life. An experience that changed who I am. Pregnancy after pregnancy loss changed me all the more. I have no shame. No self-blame. No guilt. I did nothing wrong. I did nothing to deserve this. My body works. I don’t feel it failed. I embrace my grief fully and allow it to wash over me. I grieve still. I don’t believe rainbow babies “replace” our lost loves. When we lean into heartache, we evolve. When we work vigorously to stave it off, we drown. I don’t believe everything happens for a reason. I know I am not alone, nor are you. _ This campaign is here for anyone who has experienced any type of pregnancy or infant loss. We are here to share stories with the aim of softening stigma and ushering in connection. Let this space be a life line. An anchor. A community. _ What an elating honor it is to have my work and specifically this page featured on @selfmagazine today. Link in profile. _ #IHadAMiscarriage #miscarriage #pregnancyloss #stillbirth #infantloss #motherhood #grief #loss #parenthood #pregnancyafterloss #rainbowbaby #1in4 // This sign accompanied the birth of the I Had A Miscarriage campaign in 2014. Lettering by @annerobincallig.

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“Women are gathering because they don’t want to be alone,” Zucker said of the #IHadaMiscarriage community. So far, her Instagram account has more than 13,000 followers. As part of the series, women are invited to share their stories, either publicly or anonymously. Their words are then paired with either a photograph or artwork.

#IHadaMiscarriage is just one way Zucker is breaking the silence around pregnancy loss. She’s also created a line of cards that can be given to loved ones who have experienced miscarriage or pregnancy loss. She also sells t-shirts for women who’ve had “rainbow babies,” the term used to describe babies born after a miscarriage.

“I like the idea I am creating a space where I talk honestly about aspects of loss,” she said. I say a lot of what people feel they are not allowed to say or feel, allowing healing and connectivity.”

Zucker said she receives messages from women around the world who have had miscarriages almost every day.

“There is absolutely no shame in loss,” she added. “We need to eradicate the shame and with that, the stigma and silence will go away. I don’t want women thinking they did, or their bodies did something wrong.”

Death is as big a part of life as birth. Yet, when it comes to pregnancy loss and infant death, we lack a vocabulary for this experience despite the fact that its survivors number in the millions. _ We are challenging the taboo that pressures bereaved parents to arrive at a happy ending suitable for sharing with friends and family. But the lingering sense of shame holds fast even as we try to eradicate it. That creates a culture of self-censorship, making it difficult if not impossible to express the degrees of sadness, anger, and longing that we experience. _ In hearing stories of pregnancy and baby loss, we are struck by how many people grieve on their own. We wonder about the cost of adapting to tragedy in isolation, but are amazed by the resilience we see every day from mothers, fathers and partners. _ There are few meaningful ways to grieve collectively as a society, but when those who suffer loss are permitted to feel it openly and amongst others, it helps them heal. Family and friends do so much by walking this terrain alongside those grieving. _ Yet grief requires patience from everyone it touches — it knows no timeframe. It is also often transformative. It colors our world completely. We see things differently, and sometimes, no less beautifully. _ As painful as the loss of a pregnancy or newly born child is, we muster strength to move forward — and some of us even thrive. Healthy babies are often born subsequently, but the longed-for lost baby is not forgotten. This is one way to persevere, though certainly not the only way. _ Many parents would not trade this dual experience of loss and parenthood; they found power in choosing to honor and remember. _ Today we are thinking about living and dying, but we are also looking toward the future. _ We must forge a new reality in which pregnancy loss is part of a global conversation. With dedicated effort to support the bereaved and an openness that acknowledges death as a part of life, we can create a society that supports women in pregnancy, and their partners, no matter the outcome. _ This is a snippet from a collective piece I wrote for @mashable (2015). . _ #IHadAMiscarriage // Photo of @tifa.fel.

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As Zucker mentioned, there is no race, class, religion or spirituality that protects you from experiencing a miscarriage.“There is an overwhelming lack of cultural conversation surrounding grief and loss.” she said. This series, she hopes, will change perceptions, more and more with every post.

You can view more #IHadaMiscarriage posts on Zucker’s Instagram

Sixteen years ago, I had a miscarriage. No one knows this except for three people: myself, my husband and my doctor.

My husband and I were newly married that fall. We had spent our honeymoon talking about how we couldn’t wait to start a family. Letting our dream of a baby percolate felt exciting and oddly comforting. We agreed we wanted a big family; my husband said three, I said four. I yearned to be pregnant. I had always felt I was meant to be a Mama, I would know how to love a baby better than anything I’d ever done in my life.

We decided we wouldn’t try for a baby, but if it happened, it happened.

It happened pretty easily. Two months after our honeymoon dreams of a tiny life, my period was late. It was the week of Thanksgiving. I took three pregnancy tests, all said I was not pregnant. I felt pregnant. I thought the tests were wrong. I felt an urgency to know the truth.

I called my doctor and told the receptionist I had been taking pregnancy tests because I was late, but they were negative although I thought I was in fact pregnant. The receptionist said to come to the hospital to have my blood drawn and they would check my hormones to see if I was pregnant.

I raced to the hospital. I waited in the waiting room, palms sweaty. I felt like we should hurry. Like if I blinked, I’d miss this baby I felt in my heart was a reality.

I got my blood drawn. I waited for the call from the doctor with either a “yes” or a “no.” It didn’t come before we left town for Thanksgiving. We spent Thanksgiving with my in-laws. It was our first holiday as a married couple, and we felt we had a tiny secret blooming. We didn’t tell anyone our suspicions. We held our secret close to our hearts as we went through the motions of the holiday: food, long walks, thankful hearts.

I felt different in my body. I sensed I had a life growing in me, despite all tests being negative and not knowing what the blood work would show. If I burrowed down deep into my consciousness, I knew something had changed inside of me. My husband and I shared secret smiles and knowing looks.

The day I went back to work after Thanksgiving, I started bleeding. Minutes after I realized what was happening, my doctor called. She said, “Congratulations, you’re pregnant!” I felt confused. I burst into tears and tried to explain that I had just gotten my period. I asked what I should do. Was there any possibility I was still pregnant?

My doctor said to go to the emergency room and they would be able to help me find answers.

I drove to the ER, heart pounding in my throat, stomach clenched with fear. The doctor who saw me in the ER was a young man. He looked not much older than me. I could tell he was uncomfortable with my panic over whether or not there was any possibility I could still be pregnant. He said my urine test showed I was not pregnant. I asked him if there was any way he could check to make certain, because the urine tests I had done had all come back negative as well. The young doctor agreed he could do an internal exam to find more answers.

I waited in the awkward silence as this young doctor reluctantly examined me. I felt the heavy loss of what might have been. The doctor finished his exam and sadly told me I was not pregnant.

That was that. I was sent on my way, out of the ER. There was nothing left to do or say. No one offered an explanation. No one comforted me at the ER. The exam was done, the result was determined, I was sent home.

I couldn’t understand what had happened. It seemed like a dream. Had I even been pregnant, or had I imagined it? I argued with myself that although my blood test had been positive and my doctor had said I was pregnant, I must not have been. I shoved the idea of this tiny life far from me. I shut it down, I tried to forget about it. We didn’t tell anyone about our loss. Why make our families and friends feel the sadness of something they didn’t even know they had lost?

Once in a while, the question of this life would bob back to the surface of my consciousness: had I really been pregnant? I felt like it was selfish for me to mourn a loss that was only weeks old. Some women spent months being pregnant and then lost their babies. I did not feel worthy of mourning. I had been a minute pregnant. I felt like I should not feel sad about something that was so new it hardly seemed real before I lost it.

All these years later, I’ve come to realize this was a true, real life that existed inside of me for a few weeks. It’s OK to mourn its loss. This life was real, I immediately loved it, and then it was gone quicker than a breath on a fuzzy summer dandelion. This baby was a wish, unrealized. But it was a baby.

Sixteen years after we lost our tiny wish, I am ready to acknowledge it. I am ready to mourn the loss of it. It doesn’t matter that I was only a few weeks pregnant; it was a reality. Our tiny wish was real and then it was gone. We got to spend a holiday dreaming of our secret, building hopes for our future. Sixteen years later, I’m ready to validate my tiny wish’s existence to the world in hopes that other mamas whose babies did not stay know they are not alone. No matter how long that small life was, whether it was weeks or months, it matters.

Someday we will be reunited with our tiny wishes who were too fragile for this world. Until then, the small life that did not stay will always be in my heart.

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I had some medical issues such as ovarian cysts and endometriosis that contributed to some of my five miscarriages. I had one daughter before the miscarriages, and that was a great comfort. My husband and I had always wanted to have two children, so we tried for five years to have another. We were eventually blessed with a beautiful boy.

Getting through those miscarriages was extremely difficult. I cried a lot, and though the doctors told me otherwise, I felt like it was my fault. My young daughter kept me busy, and having her helped me endure the pain and heartache.

I wasn’t able to talk about the miscarriages for years; it was too painful. Not many people asked about them because it is a difficult topic of conversation, and for fear of upsetting me.

Now that some time has passed and my family is complete, I am coming to terms with what I lost. Writing is really helping me to deal with the losses that were buried deep inside of me.

I think of my forever children from time to time. I keep them in my heart.

They will be a part of me this Mother’s Day. They will always be with me.

I will be thinking of all of you who know this type of sorrow this weekend. I will pray that you will get through the darkness, and find the light again someday.

This poem is for you:

Forever, My Child

I remember your image,
on a flat and dark screen;
I remember your heartbeat,
and all the time in between.

You were just a vision then,
you were just a dream;
and the minute I lost you,
I couldn’t even let out a scream.

For I had not the strength,
to even utter a sound;
my dear baby left me,
and now I can’t put my feet on the ground.

I cried and I cried,
for what might have been;
I put a blanket on the pain,
each thread kept the sorrow in.

And as the years pass,
I sometimes shed a tear;
for you are forever my child,
each and every passing year.

I still keep you close,
and think of the time when;
I will hold my forever child,
in my loving arms again.

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Well-known baby product retailers and manufacturers are often very large companies worth billions of dollars, and their marketing budgets are often in the million-dollar range each year. It’s no secret within the marketing industry: there have been mantras given about data for years and years. How important is data to a marketer? Data is king! If customer data is one of the most important elements for a marketer, why are these large companies, with large amounts of money available to spend, constantly missing the mark for women who have experienced a miscarriage?

Women who enter a new pregnancy are often giddy and excited right from the beginning. Apps are downloaded, information is entered online, and new baby-related items are being purchased. Much of the time their information is being shared with retailers and manufacturers, but when you’re happily and healthily pregnant, those promotional items like baby formula samples and coupons are exciting to receive. They are stockpiled in the future nursery and looked at with a smile because it means something great is about to happen. The reality is, many of these companies know a woman is pregnant before some of their closest family and friends are aware of their growing family.

But what happens when that tiny baby is tragically miscarried? These companies are missing out on an extremely important detail, and the promotional items keep coming. Receiving something in the mail shortly before a would-have-been due date with a message like, “You’re almost there!” can be debilitating.

What is stopping these retailers from offering an easy way to opt-out? After clicking through many websites after my own miscarriages, I found that while opting out of emails is relatively easy, finding a way to stop the direct mail campaigns can be not only a challenge but often an added hardship for a mother who is already grieving. The two most common options for opting out of these marketing campaigns is navigating through a website built for a pregnant woman or a woman with children who already exist to find customer support contact information. The next step entails writing an email or placing a physical phone call to make the request. Sure, it doesn’t sound hard, but when you multiply that be five, 10 or even 15, it becomes a chore anyone would shy away from.

I first wondered if I was the only person to experience the anger felt as each package arrived at my door, but after doing some pretty simple internet searches I learned I definitely wasn’t alone. You can read other women’s experiences here, here, here, here, and here. And trust me, there are hundreds more where those came from.

So, what can these retailers and manufacturers do?

1. Find an easier way for loss moms to unsubscribe. Bonus points for partnering with a company like mine, PostPardon, that offers one single form for loss moms to unsubscribe from multiple companies at once with one simple form.
Use that information carefully. Women who share the news of a miscarriage with a global company deserve respect. If they’re still willing to receive information, you could consider a sympathy campaign, but if they’d prefer to completely opt-out, you should remove them from all campaigns immediately.

2. Form a better connection with your data sources. If you’re receiving consumer data from pregnancy tracker apps, many women choose to go through the process of notifying the app that they have had a miscarriage. You should look into opportunities to sync those updates with your existing database.

3. Remember that just because we’re opting out now, it doesn’t mean we won’t be future customers. The truth is that while up to 25 percent of pregnant women will experience a miscarriage, the odds are good for most of those women that they will eventually have a successful pregnancy. By allowing us to easily remove ourselves from campaigns that will create a negative connotation with your brand, you’re increasing the chances that we’ll be happy to come back if we get the chance to have a baby.

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Thinkstock photo by dragana991

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