Why Pregnant Women Should Reject the ’12 Week Rule’
I was 5 weeks pregnant when I got my first positive pregnancy test. The red line indicating the presence of a baby was faint, but it was there. I went to the doctor to get my hcg levels confirmed, and though they were a bit on the low side, they also indicated pregnancy.
My husband and I were so thrilled, we went right out to the mall to shop for cute onesies. We were so certain about the pregnancy (and why wouldn’t we be at that moment?) that we told both sets of parents that they would soon become grandparents. We cried, we celebrated. My family looked at me like I was the Virgin Mary, carrying the greatest gift to all humanity in my belly.
When the bleeding started, the doubt crept in. Was spotting normal in early pregnancy? I googled until my fingers cramped up. I tried to go about my normal life, but all I could think was, “what if I have to tell my husband, my family, that I’m losing this baby?”
And then I lost the baby. My husband and I were both crushed. Completely and utterly devastated. But even though it was my body that was going through that painful and emotionally scarring experience, the shame that pressed hard against my chest had to do with telling our family that I had lost the baby at just 6 weeks.
When I got pregnant again, just months later, I didn’t tell anyone but my husband right away. I had my guard up, and the pregnancy test didn’t reveal as bright and bold a line as I’d been hoping for, but I still felt the odds were in my favor. But at 6 weeks I started to spot again, and my heart sank into my stomach.
I went straight to the doctor to get my levels checked and to get an early ultrasound. And though I’d prepared for the worst, a little yolk sac that looked like a tiny ballon was visible on the screen. A baby was growing in there, and I had visual proof. At that point, I told my family and some close friends. I was performing in a musical at the time as well, so I told the director and the stage manager so they would know what was going on with me, both physically and mentally.
As I surpassed 9 weeks, I was still sipping on seltzers with lime to avoid being found out, but I did loosen up a bit and told a few more friends. I knew that with each passing week, and with the vision of that ultrasound in my mind, I was closer to being “in the clear.” But then I had an ultrasound that week, and it looked exactly the same as it had in week 6. And the nurse couldn’t detect a fetal heartbeat. I was told that the doctor would call me back within the next couple of days to confirm, but it looked as though I had suffered from a missed miscarriage. Essentially, my baby had stopped growing right around week 6 or 7, but my body hadn’t registered the loss. My body had kept trucking right along as though the fetus was growing normally.
So I had to choose whether I wanted to wait until my body caught up to what was happening (which was more and more dangerous for me as the weeks went on), take a pill to get the process started (which would be more painful than my first miscarriage because the pregnancy was more substantial), or I could have a D&E — the surgical option for miscarriage when the body doesn’t do it naturally — and have the pregnancy behind me more quickly. I chose surgery, and just a day or so shy of 11 weeks, I lost my second baby.
We waited a while to try for a third time. I set myself up with a therapist, unsure if I would get through a third attempt with my mental health intact. I recognized that I needed support, and lots of it, but when I got pregnant for the third time, I didn’t seek out much beyond therapy. Though the lines on the pregnancy tests I took this time were vivid and bold, though ultrasounds were ensuring growth, and the pounding like galloping horse hooves on the fetal heart monitor made my heart fly with hope, we didn’t tell anyone we didn’t have to tell.
12 weeks came and went, and I still didn’t feel secure enough to tell our world. I still felt like I could lose the baby. I still felt like I didn’t want to expand the circle of people I’d have to let down. Of people who would witness my grief, my pain, and above all, my shame. My shame at not being able to sustain a pregnancy all the way through.
It wasn’t until about halfway through my third pregnancy, after we found out we were having a little boy and after my belly had noticeably popped, that we decided to make my pregnancy public knowledge. And even then, and the entire way through, I was terrified. I was afraid to celebrate milestones. I was afraid to have a baby shower. I was afraid to even give the baby a name before he was born. My fears grew each week as I connected more and more with the baby growing inside of me. And one of those fears was that of more shame. The feeling that if I lost this third baby, then it was definitely my fault. Something had to be wrong with my body or the way I was living my life.
But on a crisp March evening, one week after my due date, I delivered a beautiful baby boy. The light of my life. My rainbow baby. And my losses faded into the background, for a time, as motherhood consumed me.
12 Weeks of Limbo
What’s with the 12-week rule? Why do we, as women who’ve been pregnant, all seem to know it and adhere to it?
Sure, we know research shows that most miscarriages occur within the first 12 weeks of pregnancy. So the chances of carrying a healthy baby to term dramatically increase after that initial 3-month period. But why are we encouraged to keep our mouths closed until the coast is clearer?
I look back now and I really have to push back on my “why” — why did I feel like I was being somehow punished for breaking the 12-week rule during my first pregnancy, and why did I cling to it so fiercely from that loss on?
I think the unwritten, yet unwavering, 12-week rule actually works against women in general. I think we perpetuate the stigma around pregnancy loss when we hold fast to it. The rule keeps our secrets, our feelings of shame and loss, in the shadows. It keeps us detached from one another, and detached from other women who are afraid of loss or who have suffered from loss.
The secrecy can keep us isolated in a kind of limbo. Something massive is happening to our bodies and our brains in that first 12 weeks, and we aren’t encouraged to share with our community of potential support — to celebrate or to shout, to express fear or anxiety, or to feel much of anything at all (at least out loud). We’re encouraged to keep it all inside for at least 3 months so that we don’t burden others with uncertainty, and so that 1-in-4 of us don’t share joyful news that turns tragic.
Miscarriage is awful, to say the least, but it happens and it happens often. It happens so much more often than I knew before it happened to me. Now that I’ve gone through 2 of them, I know the statistics. 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. That’s so many pregnancies and so many women. So why hadn’t I heard any personal stories about miscarriage before I suffered my own? Why did it take me experiencing miscarriage in order to hear the dozens of stories like mine surrounding me?
It’s like there’s this sisterhood of women who’ve suffered pregnancy loss, and we don’t reveal ourselves until someone else joins the club. It’s a different kind of “me too.” I’ve recognized it any time I speak out about pregnancy loss, publicly or privately. There are so many women who’ve suffered in silence, who grab onto other women’s stories like lifelines, who feel less alone once they’ve seen their pain reflected in another.
But sharing stories of miscarriage isn’t common. We, as a society, want to just jump to the happy, comfortable topic — the prize at the end. The eventual beautiful baby, or babies, that “made the journey all worth it.” But where does that leave the woman who’s plagued by anxiety, exacerbated by secrecy, in week 9 of her pregnancy? She isn’t sure that she can celebrate her baby yet because it’s so early. And she doesn’t feel that she should burden others with the knowledge until she’s absolutely sure. And in all of her worrying over whether and when to tell people, she’s completely disregarding herself and her own needs.
And on the flip side, we as a society don’t know how to react to pregnant women, especially in the early stages of pregnancy. We want to focus on the baby. Do you have a name yet? Boy or girl? When is the baby due?
What if the focus was instead on the pregnant mother? What if she didn’t have to wait 12 weeks to get support? What if she didn’t have to prove that she had a viable baby before she shared her news and expressed the need for support? What if she didn’t have to feel she was letting people down by sharing the news of her loss?
What if she was just embraced by her community as woman going through one of the biggest changes a woman can go through? What if the focus was on caring for her through the pregnancy, every stage of it, despite the outcome?
A Grief We Don’t Know How to Face
We know what to do when someone dies. We can cling to ceremony and tradition amidst our grief. As supporters, we send food, flowers, and cards to the people most affected by the loss. But when women miscarry, we often do it in silence and shame. I received rainbow flowers from a beautiful friend who knew my story, but other than that, the condolences mostly came via text message. And I don’t blame anyone or carry any hard feelings about that. I believe miscarriages, in general, go wholly unacknowledged. We as a society are not conditioned or equipped to know what to do when it happens.
Because of the stigma, I didn’t know how to grieve my pregnancy losses. No one I knew had demonstrated how. Out of sheer coincidence on October 15, 2016, just about a month after my second loss, I ended up stumbling upon a photo on my Facebook newsfeed of a burning candle with a link to learn more about Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I hadn’t known that was a thing. It encouraged parents who’d suffered pregnancy and infant loss to light candles in remembrance of their lost loves at the same time annually on October 15th. I loved the sentiment and the feeling of unity and recognition. I clung to the tradition, a way to remember and to grieve. My husband and I have been lighting two candles on that day ever since.
Looking back at my pregnancies, I’m just so sad for the woman who was carrying such a massive burden on her shoulders and felt like she couldn’t share. I was more concerned with how other people would feel about my losses than I was concerned with my own well-being. But the babies I grew weren’t for other people. They were my and my husband’s babies, and it was my body that experienced them all. I was the one going through the pregnancy. I was the one who needed support. Why was I so concerned about everyone else’s feelings about what was happening to my body and my baby?
Some women are more private. Some women want to hold their news close, and some feel like they don’t need much support. Many don’t want to invite people into their private pregnancy world, and invite all of the comments, questions, and unsolicited advice that inevitably come with sharing the news. That is 100% valid. People’s pregnancies are nobody else’s business unless they choose otherwise. I know several women who kept their pregnancies mostly to themselves during Covid quarantine and surprised friends on social media with baby pictures. Some women, though — women like me — struggle with silence and secrecy. Some women need support, and lots of it.
When it comes to the decision to tell people or not tell people in those first 12 weeks of pregnancy, it should come down to each woman’s, each person’s, each couple’s preferences in determining the level of support they need. Their decision shouldn’t be made because of some arbitrary rule designed to keep us locked inside the isolation of secrecy. A rule that hides the heartbreaking reality of miscarriage and makes it seem more uncommon than it unfortunately is.
If I had heard stories of miscarriage before my own, I would have known how common it was. I wouldn’t have blamed myself for my pregnancy losses. I would have reached out for support and perhaps not carried the weight of others’ expectations. I would have been able to brush off the ridiculously offensive suggestions I heard from well-meaning people who suggested that maybe I was too active? Instead, I adhered to the rule and struggled with the shame, seeing only the photos of smiling parents and beautiful newborns on social media. I felt trapped in a cycle of trying to get pregnant, getting pregnant, and waiting in isolation until my news was “safer” to tell.
I have my beautiful rainbow baby now (or I should say, a rambunctious 3-year-old). He is everything to me, my whole heart. But the messaging to women who’ve suffered losses after they deliver healthy children is that “it was all worth it!” and “at least you’ve got your baby now!” The truth, at least for me, is that a healthy rainbow baby doesn’t necessarily heal those wounds of pregnancy loss. That’s not only a lot of pressure to put on a child (the weight of healing the grieving mother); it pushes the losses back into the shadows, as though they didn’t happen and they didn’t matter.
My rainbow baby was my greatest blessing, but he didn’t wipe my slate clean. My other pregnancies happened, and because they happened, they deserve to be acknowledged. Grieving, processing, giving voice to my experiences as a whole, and connecting with the 1-in-4 community, are what ultimately healed me. So even though it’s taboo, I’ll keep sharing my experiences in the hopes that it makes others feel less alone, and in the hopes that more pregnant women, at any stage, will feel comfortable sharing their news as exactly what it is: a pregnancy, with all its joys and discomforts and fears. Not the promise that everything will be perfect, but the recognition that no matter what, that pregnant woman needs support because she is forever changed.