After my rape, I found myself telling two stories. First, I said I was pregnant. Then, later, I said I had a miscarriage. At first glance, these statements might seem contradictory—but for me, they were deeply symbolic, a language my heart used to process trauma.

Saying I was pregnant wasn’t about a child. It was about life. My life. My sense of self. My inner being that wanted to survive, that wanted to hold on, that wanted to matter. In that moment, acknowledging the “life inside me” was my way of saying: I will protect what is mine, even when the world has tried to take it away.

Then came the miscarriage. This was my truth—the recognition that I had lost something. Not a baby, but something just as vital: my innocence, my safety, my sense of trust, my sanity. Saying miscarriage was me naming the loss, feeling it, and giving it a space in my story.

The duality of pregnancy and miscarriage became a mirror of my journey: hope and survival alongside grief and pain. But within this metaphor lies the most important truth—I am still here. I am still alive. My inner life, my essence, and my resilience are still mine.

Healing doesn’t erase the loss. It doesn’t pretend the miscarriage didn’t happen. But it does allow us to nurture what remains. It allows us to reclaim our power, to protect the life inside us, to honor the life we’ve lived, and to grow from the parts that were broken.

Sometimes survival is simply showing up for yourself, even when the world has tried to take everything. And sometimes, acknowledging the loss is part of reclaiming your life.

Pregnancy and miscarriage. Loss and survival. Grief and resilience. These are the stories we tell ourselves to remember: even when we lose something, our life, our self, and our hope can continue.