When people find out you’re pregnant, the default reaction is celebration, congratulations, excitement. And they expect you to be excited, too.

But when you’ve experienced pregnancy loss—one, or two, or ten—that excitement is clouded over by a deep fear. By anxiety, and the constant resistance to let your hopes get too high, because you know what can happen. You know how easy it is for the child you hoped and planned and maybe made massive sacrifices for—physically, mentally, financially—can suddenly cease to exist.

And it’s awkward, to have someone congratulate you, full of excitement and smiles when you know your smile doesn’t look as genuine as it should, when you’re mentally contemplating, “How much should I reveal?” Do they need to know about all the times you were here before, only to watch the blood that was supposed to be fortifying new life pour into the toilet? Do they need to know what it feels like to sort through bits of placenta and blood clots until you find that sac, look into it, and see the baby that will never be?

The answer is almost certainly no. Who wants that detail? But you want to tell them something. You want them to know even if the child you’re carrying now lives, it doesn’t erase the importance of the ones who didn’t. You want to tell them, “I can’t be happy yet, or at least not as happy as you expect me to be, because I’m so afraid.”

You want to tell them you’re trying . . . but the emotions you live with daily take their toll. That when they ask you how you’re doing physically and you mention the near constant nausea, and they inform you that it’s a great sign, that it means baby is healthy and strong, you know that’s not always true. That to you, it feels more like the set up of a cruel joke—here, take this misery and endure it for weeks with the supposed promise of your dreams coming true, only for a deeper lasting misery to come your way.

If you’re fortunate enough to have another child, when they ask you if you’ve told her yet, if she’s excited, it’s hard to explain why not—because you don’t want to tell her only to have things go wrong. Because she’s seen you crumpled over and sobbing one too many times. Because you’ve seen the fear in her eyes when that happens. And you hope, this time, you’ll be able to shelter her from that, so it seems wiser to keep this news a secret as long as possible.

You wonder, as you’re standing there, glossing over all of this, saying something non-committal, such as “We’ll be so thrilled if we get to hold this baby in our arms,” hoping they don’t notice the “’if”’ but unable to replace it with a “when,” whether you should go back to therapy, or start it if you haven’t yet. But you already know what you should be doing, the steps and mental exercises that are supposed to help . . . And they do help, sometimes. But more when you’re not pregnant. When you don’t have this fear that even talking about what could happen may make it more likely, send that possibility you dread out into the universe to take hold.

When people find out you’re pregnant, they expect you to be happy.

And you want to be. You really, really, do. But when you’ve been through what so many of us have, and too often silently, it’s a long road. Full of uncertainty, full of the knowledge that even if you get to hold this child in your arms, there’ll be long nights of wondering what else could go wrong. Of a deep fear in your chest if they sleep a little longer than usual. Of peering over the bassinet, listening closely to make sure they’re breathing. Of, months later, creeping out of your room as your partner mumbles “Get back into bed, the baby’s fine.” Yet you can’t, not until you’ve laid a hand on her chest, confirmed that rhythmic comforting rise and fall.

When people find out you’re pregnant, you wish you could go back to the start, be as happy as they are for you. Not know what you know now . . . But that would erase those lives you loved, that live in your heart always. So maybe that’s not really what you wish for. Maybe you wish these well-meaning people wouldn’t make assumptions, but reserve their reaction until they’ve gauged yours, and offer a simple “How are you feeling about this?”

Maybe that would leave space for you to admit your fears without making them uncomfortable. Maybe that would show you it’s okay with them for your emotions to be complex.

Maybe.

—C. Carr