When Compassionate Professionals Don't Know What to Say
There is a short story I ran across that I think about because it is one of the first articles I read from a provider's perspective. I know it is a bit dated- 2011, I believe- but it still drives the point.
A certified nurse-midwife wrote about a patient who came in for follow-up after an eight-week miscarriage. The patient had gone to the emergency room in the middle of the night, bleeding and cramping. And when she was discharged, a nurse said something that stayed with her for all the wrong reasons.
The words were meant, maybe, to comfort. But they landed as hurtful.
“You should be happy this happened. It's for the best because there was probably something wrong with the baby.”
This is the part I want us to sit with as professionals:
I do not believe most providers are intentionally cruel.
I do not believe most doulas, nurses, birth workers, or caregivers want to harm a grieving family.
I think most people care deeply.
But when loss enters the room, caring is not always enough to guide your words.
Because panic can make you over-explain.
Discomfort can make you disappear or say things that help you, not them.
Fear can make you reach for a cliché.
And a lack of training can turn a tender moment into something a family carries for the rest of their life.
That is the hard truth.
Not because you do not care.
But because most perinatal training prepares us for birth, feeding, postpartum, advocacy, and support, while pregnancy loss gets a paragraph, a slide, a video or nothing at all.
So when the room changes…
When there is no heartbeat.
When a baby is born still.
When parents are staring at you in shock.
When the partner is trying to hold everything together.
When the family needs time, options, language, and someone steady enough to stay…
Many good professionals suddenly realize they were never actually taught what to do.
And this is where the freeze happens.
Sometimes freezing looks like silence.
Sometimes it looks like saying too much.
Sometimes it looks like giving advice.
Sometimes it looks like trying to make the loss feel less painful with phrases like:
“At least you know you can get pregnant.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“You can try again.”
“There was probably something wrong.”
Or even:
“Let me give you some space.”
And listen, are caregivers, we know space can be supportive. Privacy can be sacred. But there is a difference between offering space because the family asked for it and leaving because you do not know how to stay. That difference matters. Because families do not need perfection.
They do not need a provider who has all the answers.
They need someone who can slow down, stay grounded, and offer care without trying to fix the unfixable.
They need someone who can say:
“I am so sorry. I am here with you.”
They need someone who can ask: “Would you like me to stay quietly, or would you prefer a few minutes alone?”
They need someone who can reassure them: “You do not have to make every decision right now. We can take this one step at a time.”
They need someone who knows that memory-making options matter.
That repeating information matters.
That saying the baby's name matters.
That acknowledging the partner matters.
That grief does not end when the family leaves the hospital, the birth space, or the appointment.
So here is one actionable thing you can do today.
Create your “loss room anchor script.” This is not a script to make grief pretty. It is not a script to fix anything. It is a place to begin when your nervous system wants to freeze.
Write this in your notes app:
“I am so sorry. I am here with you. We can take this one step at a time. I can stay quietly, help you understand what may happen next, or step out for a few minutes if you want privacy. I will follow your lead, and I will come back to check on you.”
That one script does something important.
It acknowledges the loss.
It offers presence.
It gives the family choice.
It does not rush them.
It does not disappear.
It gives you a steady place to begin. And sometimes, in a room where everything has just fallen apart, a steady beginning matters more than we realize. This is the kind of care families remember.
Not perfect care. Prepared care.
I’ve created some reflection questions to help you grapple with your own thoughts about this:
When you think about supporting a family through pregnancy loss, what is the part you feel least prepared for?
The words?
The decisions?
The memory-making?
The partner or siblings?
Or the emotional weight afterward?
Want to talk through your ideas around supporting loss families? Contact us here or take our self-paced pregnancy loss education training!
