The Language We Use For Miscarriage Is Failing Women

According to the Mayo Clinic, about 10–20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. The number may be closer to 30% if very early or otherwise undetected losses are included. Even though this loss is so common, it’s typically not something most women talk openly about. The traditional rule for when to announce a pregnancy acknowledges this: don’t tell anyone you’re pregnant until the second trimester unless you’d also be willing to tell them you had a miscarriage.

There are many reasons for this, but grief is certainly high among them. Typically, we share our deepest grief only with our most intimate circles, no matter the loss. But the particular loss of miscarriage can feel like a social taboo. It can be hard for those who have never experienced miscarriage themselves to understand the depth of the loss, especially since they never got to see the baby that the mother already cherished in her heart.

This leaves us in a situation where, unless a close friend, sister, or other loved one has experienced miscarriage and invited others into her grief—not only sharing that it happened, but what it was actually like—most women of childbearing age have little firsthand knowledge of what miscarriage really looks and feels like. For many women, it isn’t until it happens to them that they learn much about it at all. 

Then, when they do begin to learn more, it’s often through their health care provider or official healthcare resources online, which tend to use a uniform way of speaking about miscarriage with common terminology for all of its aspects. As many women’s first point of reference, these trusted voices make a crucial impact on how women prepare for and make decisions about miscarriage and how they process their own experience afterward. 

The Clinical Language of Miscarriage

This fall when I was 11 weeks pregnant, I had the heartbreaking experience of learning that our unborn baby no longer had a heartbeat. It was the first time the word miscarriage meant anything more to me than someone else’s loss.

Because everything unfolded so quickly, the only information I received from my provider was a single sheet of paper outlining my options: wait for a natural miscarriage at home, take medication to start the miscarriage, or opt for surgical removal of the tissue through a D&C. 

The sheet described the symptoms of natural miscarriage as period-like cramping and bleeding.

The sheet described the symptoms of natural miscarriage as period-like cramping and bleeding. This is the same language you will find if you search for miscarriage online. WebMD describes miscarriage as “pain in your lower belly that feels like really bad menstrual cramps.” UC Davis’s health website lists “passage of tissue through the vagina” as a symptom of miscarriage, and England’s NHS website cites “vaginal bleeding” as the most common sign of miscarriage. 

As someone who has been through over forty-eight hours of unmedicated labor in my life, and who is no stranger to intense periods, this didn’t sound too terrible. My heart was broken, yes, but physically, I thought I could get through it.

Real Women Online Tell a Different Story

In the hours between my ultrasound and my miscarriage, I spent a lot of time scouring the internet for more information. I wanted to know what it might actually look like to miscarry at home rather than going to the hospital for surgery. I wanted to hear firsthand stories, since up until then I’d only heard of acquaintances’ miscarriages in passing. 

One woman on Reddit described the incredible amount of blood she lost during her natural miscarriage, saying that her bedroom looked like a murder scene. A piece by a fellow writer for Evie Magazine, meanwhile, helped emphasize the fact that “miscarrying naturally is a mini labor and delivery,” not simply a bad period. Other women online describe their natural miscarriage as “the most painful and traumatic thing they’ve ever been through,” saying that they wish someone had prepared them for what it would really be like. 

These stories made me wonder if I should go to the hospital for a D&C after all. Unfortunately, everything unfolded before I could make that decision, and it turned out to be even worse than any of the stories I’d been reading online.

My Own Miscarriage

Forget period cramps—I experienced the intense pain of laboring to give birth to an actual, though no longer living, baby. It was almost worse than my two previous labors because the pain didn’t come in waves. It came in one deepening crescendo that didn’t stop until I felt my baby leave my body.

I thought the worst was over. But I soon lost so much blood that everything began to darken around me. I knew I was going to faint.

As I tried to stay conscious waiting for the paramedics, I felt like I could be dying.

I came to with my husband telling me he was calling an ambulance. I told him my two front teeth were broken. It’s not an exaggeration to say that as I tried to stay conscious waiting for the paramedics, I felt like I could be dying.

The ambulance took me to the hospital, where the ER doctor removed the shards of my teeth from my bottom lip and stitched it closed. Then I received a D&C to remove any remaining tissue or clots from my uterus and to help prevent further blood loss. They monitored my hemoglobin levels until they were rising again, and then they sent us home.

Language Matters

Although my story may be on the more traumatic side, it is not entirely unique. As anyone can see in online forums or on social media, I am not the first woman to experience excruciating pain, heavy blood loss, and even fainting during natural or medicated miscarriage.

What disturbs me most about what I went through is that, like other women before me, the clinical language surrounding miscarriage did not prepare me for the reality of the experience. We hear “period cramps,” “soaking a pad,” and “passing tissue,” when we should be hearing words like “labor pain and contractions,” “hemorrhaging,” and “delivering a baby.”

Why is this? Why is the language around miscarriage so euphemized and misleading, and why do women often learn what it is really like only from other women online rather than from their own healthcare providers?

Are we more concerned about the feelings of women seeking abortion than about the health and safety of women miscarrying? 

Could it be because we don’t all agree that what we lose in miscarriage is, in fact, a baby? When the same medications and procedures can also be used intentionally to end a pregnancy, do we sterilize the language so that those choices feel more comfortable? Are we more concerned about the feelings of women seeking abortion than about the health and safety of women miscarrying? 

Who knows whether my story would have unfolded differently if the clinical language available to me had been more true to most women’s actual experiences of miscarriage. I hemorrhaged after delivering both of my living children, so perhaps I would have known I was at risk of hemorrhaging with this delivery as well. Maybe I would have known to seek help instead of trying to tough it out at home.

While I still wouldn’t have my baby, perhaps I would still have my front teeth.

Two Final Words: Mothers and Babies

Part of preparing emotionally for miscarriage is preparing for what you’re going to see. Blood, yes, of course. But beyond that, what I saw wasn’t something any of the medical resources I found were describing. I didn’t see “tissue.” I saw a miracle—a tiny head, a tiny body, the beginnings of arms and legs.

I saw my baby.

There are brave mothers on platforms like TikTok who have shared not only their miscarriage stories, but footage of their own tiny miscarried babies, helping others to recognize the humanity of the child that they lost. These visuals we otherwise wouldn’t see, while admittedly graphic and intense, beg for a much-needed shift in the way we talk about miscarriage: the babies we lose this early still deserve dignity. Whether that’s a proper burial, a name, or some other memorial, treating the baby as the person that it is can help with grieving and closure for the mother. 

Because that’s what she is: a mother. Whether she gets to actively mother that specific child or not, she was its mother. And that language matters immensely, too. 

If we believe in advocating for women’s health, we must advocate for more accuracy, honesty, and clarity in the language we use when we speak about miscarriage. The safety of mothers, and the dignity of both mothers and babies, demand it.