140:The Freeze Response: Why You Couldn't Find the Words

When the Hurtful Comment Comes From Someone You Love

You know the comment. The one that's been sitting on your chest for weeks, maybe months, maybe years.

Your sister said it at brunch. Your best friend texted it. Your cousin let it slip when you finally worked up the nerve to call her back. Or a coworker who has known you for ten years said it in the break room like it was nothing.

"You can always try again."

"At least you know you can get pregnant."

"Maybe by this time next year you'll have your baby."

If a hurtful comment after stillbirth came from someone close to you, someone your own age, someone who was supposed to know you better than that, and you still haven't been able to shake it, I want you to stay with me here. Because that comment hit the way it did for a reason. And the reason is not that you're too sensitive.

Why It Cuts Deeper When It's Someone Close

When a stranger at Target says something thoughtless, you write it off. They don't know you. They don't know your baby. They never signed up to be part of your life. You can mutter something under your breath, get in your car, and keep going.

But when your sister says it? When your best friend since high school says it? When the cousin who grew up beside you, or the friend who stood next to you at your wedding says it? That's a different thing entirely.

That's a wound. And here's why.

These people knew your baby. They knew about them almost as soon as you did. Maybe they came to the gender reveal or the baby shower. Maybe they texted the second they found out and said, "I'm so excited, I can't wait for them to call me Aunt." Maybe they bought something for the nursery. You probably told them the name you chose.

They were going to be the aunts and uncles. They were going to be in your baby's life.

And now they're talking about your baby like it was just a stepping stone. A practice round. Like the real thing is still coming.

The Sentence Underneath the Sentence

There's something else nobody talks about. When the comment comes from someone your own age, it carries a second sentence underneath it, whether they mean it that way or not.

If your sister has two kids and says, "Next year you'll have your baby," what you hear is: I'm a mom and you're not.

If your pregnant best friend says, "He'll get here," what lands is: I have this and you don't.

If your cousin who married after you and got pregnant right away says, "Just keep trying," what hangs in the air is: I have what you wanted, and you just don't have it yet.

She doesn't say that out loud. She doesn't even mean it that way, and honestly, she'd probably be horrified if she knew that's what you heard. But there is a comparison happening, whether anyone names it or not. She's sitting in the seat of motherhood, holding her toddler, scrolling her phone, casually telling you that someday this will get to be you too.

The message underneath is, I'm there and you're not. We are not the same right now.

That's what makes it feel unbearable. It's not just that she said something dismissive. It's that she said it from a place of having what you don't, and she didn't even seem to notice it landed like a slap.

Your Baby Was Not a Rough Draft

Let me say the thing your heart already knows.

Your baby was not a first draft. Not a stepping stone. Not a placeholder or a practice round. They are your baby. They are one of your children. They are woven into the rest of your life from here on out.

There is no future baby who replaces them. There is no rainbow baby who fills their space. They have their own space, and they always will. If another baby comes one day, that baby will be their own person, their own story, their own miracle, and a sibling to the baby you already love. Not a do-over.

When someone says "you can always try again," it can feel like they think your baby was the trial run before the real thing. When they say "at least you can get pregnant," it can feel like the pregnancy was the win and your baby was just the bonus that didn't show up. And "next year you'll be a mom" might be the hardest of all, because it whispers that you're not a mom yet. That the baby you carried and saw and held somehow doesn't count.

But you are a mother. You have been since the moment you knew they were coming.

About That Freeze

So many moms carry shame about how they reacted in the moment, and I want to take that off the table right now.

When someone says one of these things, your body freezes. Your face flushes. Your throat goes tight. This strange heat rises up, and you can't think of a single thing to say. You can't defend your baby. You can't tell the person they hurt you. You just sit there.

And then afterward you get mad at yourself. Why didn't I say something? Why did I let them talk about my baby like that?

Here's the truth. That freeze was not a weakness. It was your nervous system protecting you. When your body is shocked by something painful, especially from someone you love and trust, it goes still. It doesn't have time to build a rebuttal or craft the perfect explanation. It just freezes.

The processing comes later. The realization comes later. So please, give yourself grace for the freeze. It wasn't a failure. It was survival.

They Love You. They Just Don't Get It.

Most people don't say these things to hurt you. They love you. They watched you go through something they cannot even imagine surviving, and they are desperate for you to have a happy ending. So they reach for the nearest version of one they can find and hand it to you, thinking it's a gift.

The trouble is, the gift is a future where your baby was just the hard part you had to get through first. They can't sit in the truth that there is no happy ending to losing a baby, so they fast-forward. They jump ahead and try to make it okay.

I'm not telling you this to let anyone off the hook. I'm telling you because so many moms feel like they have to choose. Either you accept that they meant well and swallow the hurt, or you let yourself be furious and never speak to them again.

I want you to consider a third option. You can feel both. You can know they meant well and know the comment hurt. Both can be true about the same person at the same time. You don't have to forgive a comment to forgive the person. You don't have to forget a comment to keep loving someone.

After I lost my girls, someone said to me, "At least you have your other kids." I know it was meant to comfort me. But what it felt like was that my girls didn't count. That they were extras I didn't really need. I froze. Then later, I got angry. And eventually I landed on this: this person has no idea, and I hope they never do.

I didn't cut them out. I didn't blow up. But I'll be honest, it made me pull back a little. It made me protect myself by sharing less. That happens, whether you intend it or not.

Three Things You Can Do This Week

If someone wounds you this way, here are a few things to hold onto.

You don't have to respond in the moment. You don't have to fix it, educate them, or pretend you're okay so they stop feeling awkward. You can say nothing. You can change the subject. You can say "that's not really how it feels for me" and leave it there. You can end the call. You don't owe anyone a graceful response.

Not every comment gets a free pass forever. Maybe you circle back later, when you've had time to think. Was this a one-time fumble while they tried to comfort you, or is it a pattern of minimizing your baby? You get to decide whether to tell them how it landed, or to quietly create some distance. Not to punish them, but because they've shown you they don't understand this part of you.

Some people will never get it, and that's the hardest one to accept. You can send all the articles. You can explain until you're blue in the face. But someone who hasn't lived this loss may never fully understand it. You can pour all your energy into making them, or you can accept that they say these things because they love you and they simply don't know better. A big part of finding peace is knowing what's true for you and not needing to convince anyone else of it.

You Don't Have to Explain Yourself

If you're retreating right now, isolating a little, protecting yourself from more of these comments, that's okay. Your body is doing what it knows how to do. Maybe one day you'll go back to that person and say, "Here's how I heard what you said." And maybe now isn't that time. Both are allowed.

But hear me on this. If one of those "just try again" comments has been sitting on your chest, you were not being too sensitive. They were being thoughtless, and those two things are not the same.

Your daughter, your son, was not a first try or a rough draft. They are your child. They always will be. And no baby will ever replace them.

You may never make everyone in your life understand that. You just have to know it for yourself, and then surround yourself with the people who already do.

If any of this is resonating with you, and you want to go a little deeper, I made a free workshop called Practical Ways to Release Guilt and Navigate Grief. In it, I share the same tools I use with my clients: how to carry your grief, how to handle the guilt that eats you alive, and how to have these hard conversations with the people you love so they can actually show up for you the way you need. You can find it at navigatingbabyloss.com/workshop whenever you feel ready. No pressure, just a place to feel a little less alone.