This morning while out on my morning run, I saw a rainbow!
I was really very fortunate with the timing of my run. It was pouring down rain before I left, and it is pouring down rain now as I sit writing this blog post. But there was a break in the rain for the entire duration of my run, and I got to run in the sunshine. The usually crowded path was almost completely empty due to the recency of the rain. As a result, my run offered a chance for some peaceful reflection.
Many loss mothers use the term “rainbow baby” to describe a baby conceived after loss. The way I understand it, the term is meant to indicate the calm or beauty after a storm, and for this reason, not all loss mothers embrace or use the term, because they don’t like to think of their deceased baby as a “storm.” I myself used the term during my pregnancy with my son simply because it made my life easier, not because I felt like I really related to it on a deep level. It’s a fairly well-known term, and so I was able to convey the complexity of my pregnancy experience in a very easy-to-understand way (usually with strangers, medical providers, etc). “This is a rainbow baby.”
But since the birth of my son, I have come to view rainbows themselves differently. To say that a rainbow represents the calm after the storm is far too simplistic; this has not been my experience at all.
In my day-to-day experiences (and as a result, in my writings) I keep coming back to the idea that life after loss is a constant co-mingling of joy and sorrow. Even the most joyful moments with my son bring thoughts of what I am missing out on with my daughter. I know my daughter more fully because I know my son, and this is both beautiful and heartbreakingly difficult. I am and will always be a mother to both of my children.
A rainbow, to me, now represents the coexistence of joy and sorrow. You need the existence of both sunshine and rain to see a rainbow. Joy, and sorrow. Because of this new understanding, I now find great comfort in seeing rainbows. They don’t heal my pain, but they do bring comfort. They bear witness to the complexity of my grief.
The rainbow doesn’t represent the absence of, or the aftermath of, sorrow: it exists with it and because of it.
I also believe that joy does not have to come in the form of a living child. Joy can also come from living a life full of intention and meaning, in alignment with one’s values. Joy can come from connection and relationships with others who truly understand our hearts. Joy can come from spirituality, from peace, from authenticity.
Joy and sorrow together have the potential to unlock a beauty that otherwise could not exist.
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