'I thought I knew what grief looked like. Until the week of my 40th birthday.'

*Names changed to protect identity.

"Girl, are you and I pregnant at the same time?"

I stared down at my phone, smiling. Seconds later, my good friend Bec sent back a Simpsons meme of Homer backing away slowly into a large green hedge. Doo doo do, nothing to see here.

"Do you want to swap random numbers between one and 36?" I prompted coyly. 

We then shared our 'weeks' and the sizes of our babies — tiny blueberries and raspberries. I grinned in reply, hardly believing that my bestie and I were both having our rainbow babies at the same time.

Though it was still early days, I felt quietly excited. Even more so, now that I had someone I could share the news with.

"Also, now I'll have an excuse as to why I'm not drinking at my 40th," I said to my husband.

"Between Bec and some of my friends who don't drink, at least now I won't be the only one going sober."

It was a few days before my party, and despite being a massive introvert who generally hates socialising, I was looking forward to catching up with a few of my girlfriends who were travelling from interstate for an early birthday bash.

My husband had been planning it all year, and was determined that I do something nice for myself for once, even booking a fancy restaurant for my friends and I.

Image: Supplied.

I thought it would be chill; but, chill it was not. In reality, my 40th birthday ended up being a complete disaster, due to the actions of one friend, Kady.*

It wasn't that she was drunk when everyone else was sober (we've all had our moments!), but what she did that night.

From swearing at me and throwing a tantrum in public because she didn't want to wait in line for some sorbet at 7.30pm at night, to refusing to get an Uber home so I could enjoy my night and demanding I pay for her ride back to mine, it was — to put it lightly — not what I'd planned.

Oh, and there was also the moment she shouted in front of the whole restaurant, "Are YOU pregnant? Why aren't you drinking!?"

As I said, less than ideal. 

That night, as I climbed into bed, I was overcome by an immense feeling of sadness. 

All I wanted was a chill night with my friends, and it was ruined. I can never get this night back, I thought. As I ruminated, the sadness turned to regret.

Why did I cancel the rest of my birthday instead of standing up for myself? Why didn't I tell Kady to go home, so I could enjoy the rest of my party?

I clenched my eyes, trying to shut off my brain, while cursing my neurodivergent people-pleasing, anxious brain. 

The next day, as I ate breakfast, I struggled to shake the sadness and anger of what had happened. Why can't I just shake it off? I wondered. Why can't I focus on a few of the nice moments I had with the rest of my girlfriends?

Watch: The different types of friendships. Post continues after video.

At the time, I wondered if it was dramatic to feel this way, but as I later discovered, it's a very real and valid feeling; one described as milestone trauma. 

Coined by Canberra therapist and counsellor, Dr Darlene Barton, it refers to an emotional or psychological injury that occurs during a significant life event that was expected to be meaningful, joyful, or transformative, but ends up being deeply traumatic.

Barton shared with me that "the trauma is not only about the event itself, but also the loss of what was hoped for or imagined during that milestone."

In my case, it fit perfectly. The event I'd been thinking about for almost half a year, my 40th, had turned into a sad memory instead of a joyous one. That was tough.

The next day, as I tried my best to focus on better things like my upcoming 12-week pregnancy scan I opened my DMs and felt my heart skip a beat.

It was a message from Kady that read, "so good celebrating with you! Did you get some nice pics last night?"

A concoction of emotions swamped me. Is that it? I wondered.

I wanted to forget and move on, but I couldn't. I wasn't sure how to respond to Kady, especially when I wasn't sure if she was simply ignoring the elephant in the room due to embarrassment, or if she truly didn't remember her behaviour.

We'd been friends for more than a decade and I loved her dearly, so the last thing I wanted to do was respond in the heat of the moment. So instead, I decided to wait; to allow my nervous system to calm, and think about how to reply in the next week or so.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance, because over the next week, my world fell apart as I was hit by three different traumatic events.

The worst birthday on earth.

It was a Saturday and my husband had just left for a two-week work trip when I saw it; a streak of dark brown discharge on my toilet paper.

Instantly, I went into a panic, praying, bargaining, and screaming silently. No. No, I can't do this. I can't do this. This can't be happening. 

After managing to find a family member to look after my son, I drove myself to the hospital and spent the next several hours being poked, prodded, ghosted, and moved around, until I was finally granted a transvaginal ultrasound. 

Four hours later, as I stared at a wall in a dimly lit ultrasound room, I forced out the question I kept praying I didn't need to ask. 

"Can you see the heartbeat?"

A pause. Then a softly spoken reply from behind the screen.

"I'm sorry, I can't."

This can't be happening. I'm meant to be having my 12-week scan next week, I screamed silently.

With the weight of her words crushing my ribcage from the inside out, I forced the staff to discharge me, and then pushed myself into a state of dissociation as I walked to the car.

(Note: The cause of my loss was not a result of Kady's behaviour and my baby had no genetic abnormalities. I now know the cause and who/what was responsible, but that is another conversation for another day.)

The moment the door closed behind me, I began to scream hysterically. I could barely breathe, barely see, but I had to pull it together enough to drive home.

An hour later, when my son came home from a family member's house, I had to find the strength, somehow, to explain to my seven-year-old that the sibling he'd been kissing through my tummy every day — the baby we'd all been excited to meet — had passed away. 

We'd waited as long as possible to tell him.

I didn't want to teach him that grief and sadness are something to be shoved away until they destroy you from the inside out. But it was one of the hardest conversations I've ever had.

The only glimmer was that — thankfully — my husband was able to cancel his work trip to come home and support me.

As we came to realise, I was experiencing a missed miscarriage and without hospital health cover I couldn't afford the four-figure fee for a private, urgent D&C. Instead, I had to wait for the labour process to begin.

Over the next few days, I soldiered through my last speaking gig for the month, all the while wondering when the trauma would hit.

It was during this time that I heard from Kady. Though, not in the way I had hoped.

Instead, all I saw on the screen were five words.

A contact left the group.

Quickly, I realised that not only had Kady deleted herself from my birthday group chat, she'd also blocked me. At no point had she asked if there was a reason I'd been quiet since my party, or if something was wrong.

Instead, in a moment, 15 years of friendship was flushed down the toilet. 

Two days later, on my 40th birthday, my husband and I were sitting at our son's athletics carnival when suddenly, a wave of excruciating cramps caused me to double over.

At the time, I wasn't sure exactly what was happening, or if it was another false alarm in this long, drawn out "waiting game", so despite the agony, I gritted my teeth and rocked back and forth, trying to white-knuckle my way through the pain.

My husband offered to take me home, but I kept refusing, not wanting our son to finish his race only to find both parents gone. I just have to get through a few more minutes, I thought, sucking in deep breaths as I dug my fists deep into my lower abdomen.

An hour passed and I soldiered on. And then, as our son took off from the starting line, I felt an excruciating pop within my body, followed by a warm rush. 

And that's when I broke down. Sobbing and hyperventilating in front of hundreds of parents, grandparents and children.

As my husband helped me to the car, I forced myself to detour to the oval, sinking down into the grass and waiting for my boy to cross the finish line. Waiting to let him know that we had to leave, but would be back later.

It was trauma upon trauma.

Listen: The difficult and emotional topic of miscarriage. Post continues after podcast.

What followed over the next two days was a horrific 21 hours in the emergency department, as I sat waiting overnight for surgery to remove "something hard" that was stuck in my cervix. It couldn't be removed by my doctor or the hospital's gynaecologist.

On top of losing my baby, going into labour in public on my birthday, and also having a shit 40th party earlier that month, I was deeply traumatised.

That night, in my hospital bed, I looked at my Facebook and that's when I saw it.  Not only had Kady blocked me, but now her husband had also deleted me (or maybe she did it for him).

I lay there in my giant nappy, bleeding and trying — futilely — to hold my phone as the cannula needle dug deep into my arm.

 I wondered, is this shit actually for real?

In the hours to come, there wasn't much space or time to think about it. Instead, I had to go through the trauma of a D&C, and the aftermath of trying to not only process my loss, but also the medical trauma I endured.

The past two months have been hard, to say the least, and during that time I've learned a lot about milestone trauma, as well as friendship.

The biggest?

Seeing in real time who my true friends are and becoming clear on the relationships I need to release. 

Time with family and her horse, helped Jas recover from trauma. Image: Supplied. 

Once you go through a significant trauma, you no longer have the emotional capacity for one-way "friendships." Or, people who tap through all of your Instagram stories — feasting on your trauma — only to DM you about their MLM product or program. Even worse, are the "friends" who see that you're in hospital and never say a word.

When a loved one is in a dark place, it can be hard to know what to say, especially if they're experiencing something you're not familiar with.

What I've learned throughout my own journey, however, is it's never about saying the perfect thing.

It's about holding space for the person grieving or suffering. It's about listening. Letting your loved one know that, "even though I can't fix this, I want you to know you're not alone. And you don't need to pretend the pain isn't real."

It's the friends who send you regular texts to let you know they're thinking of you; even when they're afraid of being seen as annoying. The ones who drop off a hand-crafted basket of snuggly socks, teas, and your favourite Loco Love chocolates, without any expectation of a catch-up. And the beautiful people who will come to your house and watch Y2K videos, not caring for one moment that you're lying there in track pants with no makeup and marks on your arm from hospital needles. 

That said, there are a few things you should never say to someone grieving — particularly after a pregnancy loss.

Never tell them their baby is "in a better place," or that "everything happens for a reason." And please, never, ever tell them "God has a better plan" — or any plan at all.

Whether you are a person of faith or not, let me be clear, there is never a good reason to lose someone you love (whether that's a child, a friend, or a beloved pet).

No amount of "prayer" erases the trauma. Clichés don't help. Sometimes, life just sucks. 

There is no fast track to healing from emotional pain and the journey is unique for each and every one of us.

Regardless of whether you're experiencing milestone trauma, or trauma in general, it's important to validate and accept what you've been through, without rushing to fix it. 

That said, one thing that isn't spoken about with milestone trauma, is how it can leave you with a profound sense of being robbed of what should have been a special moment, or lead to an avoidance of — and inability to enjoy — future anniversaries or celebrations.

Barton shared one thing that can be helpful in the healing process, is finding ways to honour your loss whilst writing a new ending to your story.

"When a special moment is stolen, you deserve the chance to reclaim it in your own time and your own way," she shared.

"Reclaiming is not about pretending it did not hurt. It is about saying, 'this matters to me, but I will not let pain have the last word.'

"That day, that date, that moment it does not get the final say. Begin to think about how you want to remember it a year from now. What would it mean if you reclaimed it with love, strength, or peace? You can carry both the pain and the growth."

For me, I decided not to rush into trying to create a "40th birthday 2.0," but instead, to plan something special next year with my closest and trusted friends.

It won't replace what could have been, but it will create new, special, happy and safe memories with those I love most.

And that's something to look forward to.

Jas Rawlinson is an award-winning speaker, survivor-advocate, author, and creator of the 'Red Flags 101' program. Order her books here, or connect with Jas via Instagram or her website.

Feature Image: Supplied.

Calling all holiday-makers! Whether that’s near or afar…we want to hear from you! Complete our survey now for a chance to win a $1,000 gift voucher in our quarterly draw!