Women are Designed to Howl
Women are Designed to Howl
if we're not howling are we even healing?
Little note 💌: In telling part of my story below, I write of death through stillbirth. My words are not at all graphic. There’s great happiness, gratitude and growth in this piece.
When Madeline, my baby daughter, was discovered already dead in my womb, I numbed. It was a Friday. The consultant who confirmed her passing said they could fit me into the labour ward earliest the following Tuesday. Monday, if things slowed up over the weekend.
He put me ‘on call’, and said go home.
At that moment my husband was summiting a Scottish mountain, sporting zero mobile signal. When he called a day later it took minutes to throw himself into our car. He cried the length of the drive through Scotland far down into England.
Days later we returned home after a mammoth labour in which I did NOT push and fought to hold onto her within my womb.
The tiny teddy placed beside her, the slow walk away from the hospital, the drive home, empty.
We lived at the top of the Malvern Hills in a pocket-sized cottage fit for an elderly couple. Not a family laden with kids kit, two Jack Russells plus military uniforms and grief thick enough to suffocate the entire town.
Each and every day I woke with a body that urged me to get to the interwoven paths of the hills where we’d scattered our daughters ashes weeks before.
Every day I resisted.
I knew that if I didn’t, I’d do something I was trying my best to avoid.
Which made it worse.
I’d never heard anyone anywhere ever talk about having a visceral need to howl like a wolf. To sit back on their haunches, open their mouth and howl long and high to the skies.
This wasn’t a passing urge. It went on for months.
Wake up, feel the urge, try not to run to the hills. Repeat.
I pushed my howls down, staying put in my cottage. The back of my throat stuffed with sorrow.
No matter how many ways I cried, there was more. Then more.
Crying, weeping, even sobbing, is nowhere near the same as howling. Stifling my bodies need to howl came at a cost.
Prosecco couldn’t quell things. Sex on repeat chafed thighs.
It was brutal; a form of self cruelty I gifted myself in the midst of unfathomable loss.
Even when I wrote a part-memoir part-manifesto book on Motherhood, I slid on by from describing my unsated need to open my mouth wide-as-it-could-go and howl to the hills for my lost child.
I could not go there still. Like I could not walk the paths to the site where I knew I’d howl. My inability to move on from crying to howling was not some personal skill gap or an emotional deficit.
There was good reason.
Societally, we don’t 1) have space for, or 2) a model of being with searing incandescent agony.
Grief researchers say the loss of a child is followed by a more intense grief than the death of a spouse or a parent.
I question the utility of a hierarchy of who’s hurting most, though I experienced this dynamic when my husband and I were grieving. We couldn’t find ways to comfort one another.
In the competition of pain, there’s never a winner.
Gemini Adams, a trauma recovery specialist, says, “The weight of our pain unseen, unheard, or unresolved, is by far the greatest burden we will ever carry.”
Which is why putting pain under a palatable header called mental health wasn’t enough. All the counselling, trauma work and healing I dedicated time to, still couldn’t salve my urge to give way to howling.
At this stage I birthed a beautiful daughter. Her name, Meredith, means great ruler, and keeper of the sea. No coincidence that water was linked to her name.
One M-named baby could not be replaced by another M-named one. I never expected this could be the case.
Her birth was no tidy conclusion.
Grief matures. Mine grew up from wanting to howl on the daily and into voicing what needs to be said. I replaced my fierce howl wishes and befriended a practice of not swallowing emotions and words.
There is no “end” to grief.
The more kindly I accepted myself as an animal who needs to howl the more I’ve become able to welcome in the glory of new life and the privilege of living.
To rise victorious enough from having our heart ripped open requires daily deep surrender. Sometimes moment to moment, because:
“Joy and suffering are two sides of the same coin.
The world needs your suffering, your courage, and your strength. Don’t try to kill your pain. Share it with another, communicate it."
Thich Nhat Hanh
When Madeline died I felt I’d lost part of myself.
How could I ever guess I’d gain so much more of myself because of her still body?1.
In the end Friends, I’ve Madeline, my darling baby daughter, to thank for growing me.
If this resonates at all (or not), I’d love to hear from you in the comments!
If it feels right, consider sharing my words with someone you know. Your feedback means the world!
with love,
Danusia x
A LITTLE SUBSTACK GRIEF ROUNDUP, quotes & thanks:
1.
ThePoetOwl written by
Bereavement Banana Bread by
The Ever-Changing Calculations of Grief-Math
Grief is a Weighted Blanket
“There’s a misconception that grief only happens when we lose people. This is not true. We can grieve circumstances, relationships, missed opportunities. In fact, sometimes when you find yourself plagued with waves of emotion from sadness to melancholy you may be grieving yourself. The version of yourself that you might have been if things had been different, or if only you had said something, or if someone had stood up for you.”
— Unknown
“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to” Elisabeth Kubler-Ross On Grief and Grieving
Many thanks to
for her help with the title for this piece. And to & for your heartfelt support. We can’t do this living thing alone.
I’m referring to Post Traumatic Growth (PTG) - the five domains of PTG are: new possibilities, relating to others, personal strength, spiritual change and appreciation of life.
Heart wrenchingly beautiful words, thank you for your courage, I see you and holding you in my heart.
One M couldn’t replace another M, I don’t think I’ll ever forget this expression ❤️
I have a fantasy of gathering with other women and howling into the earth, after digging a huge hole with our bare hands. I know it will happen some day! X
I love this post Danusia. Your loss is palpable and so is your strength. I wish more people would give themselves permission to howl their loss. The body knows what is needed for healing. Personally I have been known to howl at the wild west coast beaches of my hometown Auckland, where the waves boom and crash so loud that noone can hear you. The ocean can absorb the intensity of the emotion. The energy it moves is powerful. Sending love to you ❤️