To Post or Not to Post, That is the Question

It’s been months since I considered writing a blog about social media pregnancy announcements. It’s been since June 12^th, Maliyah’s due date, and the date we announced her existence (past tense) to the world. We did not make the decision to post about her lightly. In fact, months and months of discussions went into that post. If I’m completely honest, the conversation goes even further back, to October 2022 when we first found out I was pregnant.

Should we post, or should we not post?

If you are in your 20’s or 30’s, or if you have an Instagram or Facebook account, or if you just plain don’t live under a rock, you’ve probably been inundated with pregnancy announcements, gender reveals, birth announcements, or in some cases the hat trick – all three.

I am no stranger to social media, I have two TikToks, 4 Instagrams and 2 Facebooks. I used to post almost all of my meals to my stories. But with my pregnancy, I was terrified. This goes back to my post about superstitions, I was far too nervous to say anything on social media about my pregnancy at all and I didn’t want to hurt anyone. What if something went wrong? What if someone was struggling with fertility and my post made them cry? I posted exactly nothing about a pregnancy. In fact, I posted a blog in November where I talked about how my bucket list would need to go on hold “if” I got pregnant… but I already knew I was. I didn’t want to say anything and jinx it. I didn’t know what I would do about posting photos as I started showing, but I had already taken a step back from posting on my blog – that bucket list post was my ONLY post between October 2022 and July 2023. I figured I would do the same thing with Instagram and take a step back, or not post photos of myself. I posted a carousel of photos on Instagram from a wedding in mid-February where I was sort of visibly pregnant, but you could also have assume it was an unflattering angle or cut of the dress. I never said anything explicitly about it.

So, how do you announce your baby died, when you never announced she existed? Isn’t that crazy? Also, who wants to read about such a horrific loss? For some reason I felt like I wanted to tell people, but I couldn’t figure out why.

I had only one example to look to. I had a friend who had a pregnancy loss while I was pregnant. She posted about it as part of a larger social media post celebrating an anniversary. I was obsessed with that post. I read it 100 times. Eventually I asked her about it. I said, “how did you come to the decision to post this? And how did you decide when was the right time? What did your husband think of it?”

I asked that last question because Chris and I were not in agreement. He keeps things close to the chest. He doesn’t share anything about his personal life on the internet, and he certainly doesn’t share about such monumental and private things as this. I knew we disagreed, and we continued to have conversations about it.

I asked on multiple support groups what other people had done. Why did they tell people? Why didn’t they? When did they say something? Was it too late?

Some people said they needed to unannounce because they had already announced they were pregnant. We didn’t have this issue, since we never announced.

Some people said they announced to avoid questions about when/if they were going to have children. This was an interesting point I hadn’t considered.

Some people said they announced because they didn’t want people to assume their next pregnancy was a first pregnancy.

Some said they felt they needed to share about their loss because it was far too heavy of a burden to carry alone. This resonated deeply with me. As the days kept coming and going, it felt like the lead bricks on my chest were growing and it was too much for one person to handle.

But had we missed our window? She died two weeks prior. Four weeks prior. Two months prior. Would people even care? Should I share about her on our one-year anniversary, when I thought we’d have a growing family? Should I share about her on my birthday, when she was the only thing I could think about as my biological clock was ticking forward at a furious pace?

Here’s the thing: there’s no good time to tell the world about your dead baby.

I agonized over this constantly. Why did I feel such a fierce urge to share about her? I decided I needed to answer that question before I answered the timing question. I also needed to decide what I wanted the world to know.

I considered posting as a cautionary tale. I felt a sort of obligation to warn people. I had been healthy, I had a textbook, sickness-free pregnancy, I had no symptoms, and yet I almost died! I needed to tell people! I wanted to scream “CHECK YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE AND INSIST ON PERIODIC BLOODWORK” from the rooftops. Eventually, I decided that what I wanted to share had nothing to do with me. Yes, I think more education is needed, but I didn’t feel an obligation or responsibility at that point in my depths of depression.

What I wanted was a place in the world for Maliyah. I needed her to have a tiny corner of the internet that knew she existed. I needed people to know we loved her and would continue to love her. I needed people to see her tiny footprints and to understand she was a person. This was not just something that happened to me, this was a person who existed, and now she was gone. I wanted people to understand that Chris and I were not the same people anymore because the most important person in our world was no longer in this world.

For all of those reasons, I decided to post on her due date, the day that was supposed to be her birthday. I needed there to be a post only about her – a reserved spot just for her, on a day that was already reserved in my brain for her.

When I finally posted on Instagram and Facebook, I was relieved. She had a spot. Losing a child is so lonely. It feels like nobody in the entire world understands, or cares as much as you, and they never will. Even if only for one second of one day, I knew by posting on social media, people would see her name, know how much we cared about her, and perhaps pause for a moment and think about her. For Chris and me, those moments were all day every day, but for a brief moment in time, she would be on someone else’s mind.

But unlike when you post something amazing on Instagram and you sit there waiting to watch the likes and comments roll in, I couldn’t face the comments. I clicked “post” and immediately went to the gym where I locked my phone in a locker for 75 minutes. I was fearful of the pity. It wasn’t about me, after all. My therapist advised that “pity” could be reframed as “empathy” and perhaps people cared about me and that’s why they would extend sympathies. Maybe that was true, but I assumed as soon as I pressed “post,” there would be a game of telephone that started with, “OMG did you hear what happened to Emily?”  

Overall, I was happy I posted about her on social media.

Meanwhile, I continued to see an onslaught of pregnancy and birth announcements on Instagram. People had so much hope and surety they would have alive babies. It seemed like there were ultrasound photos or onesies or bump pics every time I clicked on the Instagram app. I knew every permutation of these announcements:

• A. The collection of onesies with the parents’ hobbies/sports teams/funny puns laid out on the floor.
• B. The ultrasound photo
• C. The letterboard announcing Baby Smith and a date (with certainty!) of when they would be born.
• D. The family pet with a personalized bandana.
• E. The living child wearing a “going to be a big brother!” shirt.
• F. All of the above.

My gut-reaction every time I saw these was disgust and anger. How could the world keep spinning? How could people get pregnant so easily? How could people just… be sure their babies would be born alive? Didn’t they know what could happen??? How dare they have such confidence.

I started to think about this all the time and I realized the anger was just jealousy. Not jealousy about their babies or their pregnancies, I didn’t want their kids, I wanted mine! The one that was dead. I would scroll through the comments and see the hundreds of “congratulations” the “you’re going to be such great parents!” the “I can’t wait to meet them!” the “this is so exciting!” the “I knew it!”

I missed out on that. I missed out on all of the positive thoughts and excitement, and I found myself in a deep pit of regret. Why had I been so hesitant to share our joy? All I was left with was a cautionary tale and a hundred “I’m so sorry” comments or “I don’t know what to say” or “this is horrible.” And it was. And it is.

I felt sadness compounded on sadness. I try very much not to have regrets, but if I had to say one regret of my entire pregnancy it was this: I wish we had taken the opportunity to celebrate while we could. I was consumed with worry, and I didn’t allow us the space to have joy, and there’s no do-overs.

I had this regret almost immediately, even before we posted about Maliyah’s death. I wished for a redo. I wished we could have been happy before we were devastatingly sad. I remember calling my pregnant best friend and through snotty tears, telling her I saw a repost on her stories of her with a bump (which had also cried privately about) but I had noticed she hadn’t put anything on her feed. I was worried she was doing this to protect me. I didn’t want her to dampen her joy because of my sadness. It wasn’t fair to her. I hadn’t allowed myself to be happy (certainly not publicly) and I regretted it. I didn’t want her to make the same mistake. Of course, I said it was up to her if she wanted to mention anything on social media, it’s a personal decision, but I didn’t want her to base it on me. I told her not to worry about me seeing anything, and I had her account muted because I wanted to make the decision about when or if wanted to see it, but this was my issue, not hers, and I wanted her to feel comfortable sharing whatever she wanted to share.

When I spoke to another pregnant friend recently, she mentioned she wasn’t planning to post on social media about the baby. She knew many people in her life who struggled with infertility and had devastating endings to pregnancies, plus she had me. She said she didn’t know who else was hiding in pain as well, and she didn’t want to contribute to that. She explained that for those reasons, and because of her own “what-ifs,” she wasn’t planning a post. I told her I could relate, but then I admitted my regret to her. I told her how I wished I had made a different decision, but it was too late. I told her to bask in her joy and excitement because you never know when it will be taken away. She ended up telling me I convinced her to change her mind.

But I understood her hesitancy. I also had friends I knew who struggled to get pregnant, and friends who had lost babies. When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t want to push my happiness in their face. And now, I have regret for that. For prioritizing my friends’ emotions over my own, and for letting my worries shroud my happiness in clouds of anxiety.

I want to make sure I’m clear here, I think it’s important to look out for your friends and to not do anything with intentional malice. But there are always people in the world who are struggling and may find your posts triggering, whether it is about babies, parents, siblings, work, food, really anything. As a human, you should always balance the feelings of others with your own. But you also cannot take responsibility for each person’s struggles. First of all, many may be invisible. There is no way to know if something you post may hurt someone with a silent struggle. It is also important to live life for yourself, and to take control of your own story, both in the real world, and online. While I regret not sharing about my pregnancy, I cannot change the past.

I have mentioned before that social media sometimes feels like a highlight reel, and for that reason, I plan to make a conscious effort to share authentically here, and link these posts on my Instagram. This blog has quickly become heavy and dark, which is mostly because a majority of my life in this moment feels that way. But I want to also make a commitment to myself to share the moments of joy. There are so few, and they can feel fleeting. They deserve to be celebrated.

You may have assumed this post would end with an announcement. Well, it’s not going to. You may also be wondering if this means I’ll share publicly and early about a next pregnancy, and I’m not sure. To be honest, that’s none of your beeswax. But I have a feeling I will do things differently, and I promise if I do decide to share anything, I’ll take you along for the ride.