The term ‘Rainbow baby’ used to be one I loved, it represented the beauty that comes after a difficult time and when I first encountered it felt it fit my situation perfectly. I had a first trimester miscarriage and understood that they were common. And, while absolutely heartbreaking I held onto the hope that reassures so many, that we would get our rainbow, that is, a baby born after loss. I’ve seen so many posts today about Rainbow Baby day and love that such wanted babies are celebrated, but it brings up complicated feelings too.

We did get our rainbow baby, three months later I was pregnant with Astrid and everything fell back into place. We had had our obligatory ‘hard thing’ that everyone would be destined to have, they weren’t equal or fair but everyone surely had one part that was hard. I was convinced things would be smooth sailing from here, because our rainbow was on the way. The rest of my pregnancy was good, I loved being pregnant, it was the happiest time in my life and I knew what was happening, it felt like good was finally on the way.

I recognised that while I did indeed lose a baby, I felt like because I didn’t know them in the same way I was starting to get to know Astrid, that I more-so lost my image of our first baby and pregnancy. I always would know I had one more but they wouldn’t be talked about as often, but I would know their special due date and honour it in the ways that felt right to me. My miscarriage was hard, it really was a pain I didn’t know I could feel, but as time went on I felt more and more settled with what had happened and full of hope for the future.

But then, what happens when your rainbow dies too? This wasn’t a scenario I was prepared for. When you lose a baby, the least that could happen is that your next baby lives, surely? I felt so alone in that not only did our baby die, but my rainbow died too. This wasn’t meant to happen.

How I feel about the term ‘Rainbow baby’ now is complicated. Astrid’s younger siblings will not be rainbows to me because she is not a storm. Losing a rainbow baby has complicated those initially fairly comfortable feelings about my miscarriage. When someone asks about my children, I confidently share Astrid, but what about my first pregnancy? I have a comfort about how that baby fits into our family that rests with me gently but sharing these things in society feels so forced. I hate not acknowledging their potential, because I saw how that first trimester shaped our wonderful daughter Astrid.

Pregnancy after loss is so complicated but often in unexpected ways because it changes perspectives you maybe once held firmly, or gives you new perspectives for situations you didn’t understand.

I love the hope and optimism that comes with rainbow babies, I do, but like so many other things in my loss, I really don’t like the positive promises that everyone loves to share. Yes, the odds are that babies born after loss will be okay, but when they aren’t we need to hold space for that too. Thinking positively doesn’t bring positive outcomes. If preparation and a positive mindset equaled babies I would have a football team. I’m not sure my future babies need a name, other than their own of course. They are all wanted and loved and wonderful and I’m not sure a cute nickname could encapsulate all of that so simply.