Language & Loss
Language has always been a passion of mine. I loved French in school and have dabbled in other languages since then. I spent two years in Germany and was truly terrible at speaking the language, but was met with, for the most part, empathy and gratitude for my attempts. Now, as I navigate life in Portugal, I’m experiencing the same challenges all over again, but I encounter fewer English speakers, so I really need to up my game.
That being said, what an absolute privilege it is to speak English. While I haven’t become fluent in German or Portuguese, the universal reach of English certainly makes my life a lot easier. How though, does this have anything to do with coaching or loss?
During my career as a nurse specialising in women’s health, I found a passion for early pregnancy. The triumphs, challenges, and complications were profound, but language barriers often hindered support for non-English speaking people experiencing loss. The terminology we use—miscarriage, spontaneous abortion, termination, ectopic, tubal pregnancy—can be confusing even in one’s native language. Imagine the added complexity when a translator or, dare I say it, family member, mediates these conversations.
And it’s not just the jargon that can affect our understanding, but the specific words used by others to describe it. What do we call it? One person may refer to their miscarriage as the loss of a baby, another will use foetus, pregnancy, or cells. The words we use to describe our experiences are so personal, and the experience of one person is rarely described in the exact same words as another with a similar diagnosis.
In London, I worked with diverse families, each with unique responses to pregnancy loss, often influenced by culture and language. Some were relieved, others devastated; for some it was an act of God, and others couldn’t comprehend how life could be so cruel. I often wondered how different their experiences might be if they were in their home countries, speaking their native languages, and supported by healthcare professionals who had the resources to meet their cultural needs as well as the practical side of managing loss and bereavement.
We know how hard healthcare professionals work to get it right for their patients, but it’s also very clear that there is still something missing. Nurses, doctors, midwives and many others provide incredible services to those experiencing loss, but it is so difficult to provide care and use language that resonates with every single person you encounter. It does make me wonder what gaps are left when non-English speaking patients are sent away from care in the UK.
Experiencing my own miscarriage in Germany I was fortunate to have a Gynaecologist who spoke exceptionally good English. She navigated the technicalities of ultrasound, examinations and personal discussion in her second, maybe third, language, and for this I was incredibly grateful. I couldn’t help but compare this experience to the care provided in the UK: some things were very similar, but others vastly different. As a nurse I rarely had the resources to provide my patients with information in their own language, whereas here I was receiving all my care in my native tongue. I did, however, signpost patients to further support networks, bereavement counsellors, and out of hours support, none of which I received in Germany. Was this because I only spoke English, so the services were inaccessible? Was it just not part of their post-miscarriage care culture?
As healthcare practitioners, do we need to be asking ourselves if the information our patients receive is in line with their culture and language? How do the words and the language we use to deliver their diagnosis impact their grief and understanding?
I know I’ve jumped between the English language and the specific words used in the discussion and diagnosis of loss, but I truly believe both have an impact on how we experience these events in our lives.
I wasn’t impressed when someone told me “oh, you know, that happens a lot” in response to hearing of my miscarriage. I know that, I see it every day, but it doesn’t make it any easier. For me, that response wasn’t what I needed to hear, but for others it may have provided comfort and a reassurance that they were not alone.
“At least you know you can get pregnant!” This too would have been a difficult response for many people, but for me, when I look back, they were right. I was pleased. Several doctors had suggested I was perimenopausal in my early 30s, and after a stint on HRT I wasn’t back to my “normal self”, so yes, after thinking another child was off the cards I guess I was grateful to know that maybe there was a chance.
Language shapes our experiences and emotions. As a coach, I help people sift through the noise to find their truth. The words others use can deeply impact how we process loss, but coaching can help individuals determine which words to hold onto and which to discard.
My hope is to one day extend this support to non-English speakers too, and with this will come further discussions on access, equality, cultural competence, and linguistic congruence in healthcare and coaching.
For now, it’s crucial to acknowledge the power of words. They shape our narratives and influence how we feel and heal. This is your loss, and your future, and I’m here to listen and help you tell your story in your own words.