Miscarriage leave policies are a blind spot on many college campuses, one that urgently needs to be addressed.
For me, losing my unborn child to miscarriage exposed an uncomfortable truth about the academy. While we are encouraged to, and should be expected to, show compassion and care for our students who endure unimaginable life circumstances, there is little to no formal infrastructure in place to support the inevitable suffering of faculty.
In the wake of my unexpected miscarriage and subsequent related surgery, I was profoundly struggling. I found out at nine weeks of gestation that I’d experienced what’s called a missed miscarriage, and what followed were weeks of mental and physical pain. Despite the traumatic nature of these events, I returned to work and continued with lesson preparation, grading and responding to emails as quickly as humanly possible, given the circumstances.
It is not surprising I felt compelled to quickly return to work. A persistent problem in higher education is that many faculty members, staff and administrators are spread impossibly thin, leading to compassion fatigue and burnout in the face of heavy teaching loads, mentoring and service expectations, and publishing quotas. This problem is exacerbated for women, minorities, contingent faculty and marginalized groups in the academy.
Contrast this to how we seek, rightly, to treat our students. A pedagogy of care centers on human connection and empathy to guide and support students who are struggling. It creates a culture and climate of care for students that extends beyond the classroom. For instance, students who experience miscarriage during the academic semester are protected under Title IX. This means we provide our students who have miscarriages with the proper support and grieving time so as not to derail their semesters. On my campus, if a student is going through a mental health crisis or a loss like a miscarriage, we are advised to send them to the counseling center, where they can be provided with one-on-one counseling sessions and proper resources to help with their care.
This same structure of care that has been put in place for our students isn’t in place for faculty. As professor and scholar Maha Bali notes, an authentic pedagogy of care should recognize that faculty also need care, asking institutions to support instructors with policies and structures that allow them to do their jobs well without burning out. Though employees are protected under the Family and Medical Leave Act and the Pregnancy Discrimination Act, we don’t always have the same resources on campus for faculty and staff who are struggling with mental health issues as a result of a miscarriage. More campuses should follow the model of the University of Massachusetts Amherst, where faculty members can access counseling on campus through the Employee Counseling and Consultation Office.
For women in academia who have endured a miscarriage, the historical silence surrounding the experience lends itself to even greater feelings of isolation and loneliness. It adds to barriers to success and tenure. Between 15 and 20 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage, but the stigma surrounding it keeps women quiet. I work in a supportive department, where my chair and many of my colleagues never hesitated to provide me with what I needed. However, that is not the case for everyone. Even in my case, there was still a significant amount of logistical work to consider.
When I miscarried, I knew that I’d have to cancel classes because of the physical toll it took on my body and the subsequent recovery from surgery. However, that also meant reorganizing my semester to accommodate my students’ needs. The nature of the academic year leaves little room for flexibility in canceling classes and reorganizing lessons and as such, requires considerable time and effort to do so. This detracted from my ability to grieve and heal, physically and emotionally. During times of loss, faculty shouldn’t have to think twice about mundane details; they should have a clearly outlined miscarriage policy they can turn to so there is no question they are entitled to the leave they need.
Too often on college campuses, there is a lack of visibility and clarity on how faculty can access help. Fair and caring policies, such as a standalone miscarriage policy, provide time and space for faculty members to grieve, while also clearly defining the rights of faculty, staff, and administrators and ensuring consistent treatment when an employee experiences a loss. As Grace Ellen Brannon and Catherine L. Riley suggest in their book chapter, “Missed Realities About Miscarriage in Academia,” such policy or guidance documents typically include “(1) information on how managers can offer practical and emotional support during and after a loss, and (2) managers’ responsibilities when it comes to practical support. They also include (3) other relevant policies, including medical absence and maternity or family leave policies, alongside any relevant mental health or well-being policies.”
In the United Kingdom, the University of Essex has a policy in which a pregnant employee who experiences a miscarriage is eligible for “pregnancy-related” sick leave, with no time limit on sick days one can take for miscarriage leave (partners or others affected are also eligible for “compassionate or special leave”). In addition, the policy outlines resources for department chairs (called line managers in the U.K.) to help them implement these policies for their faculty in the most humane way possible, as well as ideas for how to facilitate a return to work for employees who find it understandably difficult in the aftermath of pregnancy loss.
One promising example in the United States comes from the University of Santa Clara, which has a Reproductive Loss Leave policy, which clearly outlines the time an employee can take off with pay in the event of a reproductive loss, defined as a “failed adoption, failed surrogacy, miscarriage, stillbirth, or an unsuccessful assisted reproduction.” At the University of Arizona, the paid parental leave program allocates two weeks of paid leave in the event of a miscarriage. Outside academe, a growing number of private-sector employees are adding miscarriage leave policies. But these examples still seem to be the exception, not the norm.
Although our institutions may not be fully equipped yet, we can start showing support for our colleagues who have experienced miscarriage in small ways, whether through acts of care on an individual level or the development of formal peer support groups.
Sometimes all we need is to be heard. The sheer act of listening can go a long way, but doesn’t replace the need for structural change. In the aftermath of my loss, one colleague reached out with a simple email, which read in part, “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.” And so, in the depths of my loss, I knocked on his door, walked into his office, and with tears in my eyes, asked, “Can I talk?” We sat, crying with one another about our respective losses and the stress of it all, and I left feeling lighter. I felt lighter because I felt love and care from my colleague.
As bell hooks argues, love is not merely an emotion, but a practice and choice that can transform teaching and learning. I encourage us all to take a step back and listen to each other. I’m certain if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear what your colleagues need, and it’s probably love. Love in the form of small acts of care and open dialogue about miscarriage is a start. Love in the form of miscarriage-specific policies that demonstrate our institutions’ care for us is the end goal. Ultimately, we need policies that acknowledge the material reality of loss, help to reduce the invisible emotional labor of miscarriage by providing short-term teaching relief for affected faculty, and allow us to grieve and heal with dignity.
