All forms of technology are lucky to have survived recent months in our house.

As much as technology has enriched our lives, it has the power to magnify and exacerbate difficult situations. There was no giant "I HAD A MISCARRIAGE" button or emoticon to express how I felt when I lost what we lovingly called “sprout.”

I've heard everything from 1 in 3 to 1 in 5 pregnancies results in a miscarriage. There are countless articles with advice on how to overcome sadness and the well-intentioned, but regrettable, things friends and family members say. Everyone knows someone who has had a miscarriage. Yet contrary to our millennial tendency to overshare both mundane and intimate life details, people seem blissfully unaware of the subject. Are miscarriages still something too private or taboo to openly discuss in 2015?

I also can’t fathom why, up until now, I knew so little about miscarriage, other than it being possible. I went to a progressive all-girls school growing up and am surrounded by strong females. But no one told me how physically taxing the experience would be and that it would involve far more than just heavy cramping. Mine came with diarrhea and vomiting, followed by a fever – all of which my doctor later assured me were totally normal. When all of this was happening at 3 a.m., we were wishing we had filled the prescription for painkillers because ibuprofen wasn’t cutting it.

When I went to the OB-GYN the day the miscarriage started, the doctor, who is around my age, told me countless times that it wasn't my fault and that I couldn't have done anything to stop it – something that had never even occurred to me.

Why did I have to be told it wasn't my fault? Repeatedly saying it wasn't my fault, while avoiding eye contact, had the opposite effect on me. It might be comforting to some, but it only made my inner-feminist angry. I don’t remember her telling my husband it wasn’t his fault. While I don’t blame my doctor (she checked in on me and emailed in the weeks after the miscarriage) her bedside manner speaks to her inexperience breaking this type of news, and perhaps to the shame we still carry from previous generations, when miscarriages were seen as a mark on one's womanhood.

A new survey slated to be published Monday in Obstetrics & Gynecology finds that indeed, most Americans still think miscarriages are rare, despite their frequency, and harbor outdated notions about why they happen, contributing to the shame and isolation so many women experience, according to the researchers from Albert Einstein College of Medicine of Yeshiva University and Montefiore Medical Center. Where those polled got it right, however, was in believing that for many women, the emotional aftermath of a miscarriage can be on par with losing a child. I will forever empathize with sobbing women leaving the OB-GYN waiting room, as I did that day.

Although miscarriages are considered one of the most common pregnancy complications, I can't recall the last time I felt so alone. Like many women on the cusp of motherhood, I had downloaded the popular pregnancy apps the day we found out I was pregnant. Bad move. Even before the miscarriage, my inbox was brimming with junk emails about cord blood and diapers. Afterward, it only got worse.

While grieving, I was – and still am – bombarded by ads for baby formula and other infant products that were always delivered with template notes congratulating me on my pregnancy – dubbed an “exciting” life stage. Clearly I hadn’t read the fine print closely enough, because the apps had apparently shared my email address with their sponsors.

How responsible is that when odds are good that a significant number of the women on their distribution lists have had or will have a miscarriage or other serious pregnancy complication? Why was I magically added to one company’s mailing list more than a month after the miscarriage? And why is there no easy way (or one I could find) to unsubscribe from the apps in general and to stop the flood of these ads?

I wildly deleted everything from my phone, unsubscribed from every email I could and hit dismiss on countless Google diaper ads. In a moment of calm, I tried to leave feedback only to be directed to the app store. But at the time, I was not interested in publicly sharing that I wished it had been easier to unsubscribe in the wake of my miscarriage, when I had only downloaded the apps because I wanted to see my baby’s weekly growth compared to the size of a sesame seed, lentil, lime, etc.

Technology quickly became my frenemy. If miscarriages happen so often, shouldn't the apps, which are meant to empower pregnant women, do more to protect those who might experience a miscarriage? I recently checked one of the apps’ websites and the word miscarriage wasn’t even on the glossary for pregnant people. And for all the amazing, personalized things Google can do, why wasn't it smart enough to stop sending me ads for diapers?

And social media was just plain painful. There was a new, cute little human almost every day on my Facebook feed. These babies were bringing so much joy to their families (as they should) and ours crushed us. I was constantly reminded of ours that would never be. Eventually, I had to hide a friend who went on and on about crying about her baby crying. She was crying about her baby while I was crying about losing mine. I would have done anything in those moments to have a crying healthy baby and finally it was too much. I have no doubt that my friend was struggling and was clearly reaching out to her support system. I’m sure she would be saddened to know how her posts impacted me.

I am angry about certain aspects of this experience, some of which can only be understood by my husband, who has struggled as well. The pregnancy feels like a blip at times, but we were still future parents for a few weeks. I still daydreamed about how my baby would look and smell, and thought through everything that needed to be done before October 17.

I hope we are able to have a child in the future, the prospect of which, however, is now scarier than ever. I'd also reconsider the use of technology during the pregnancy, despite the fact that there is appeal in the silly comparisons to nuts or fruits at each week of gestation.

Everyone will overcome their miscarriage in different ways. We hid. I ignored phone calls and avoided all social engagements. My husband and I held onto each other and ordered a lot of delivery. We spent the money budgeted for the future baby (and then some) on us. I cut off all of my long hair and signed up for exercise classes. My mother-in-law visited from California and spoiled us. I squeezed my nieces and nephews. My husband and I went to the spa with a gift card sent by some of my closest friends. And we ended what I called our "hermitude" with the silliest dance party – just the two of us – jamming to Milky Chance.

We didn't ignore the sadness and gave into it for a few weeks. Then we slowly found strength in it. I still have sad moments, as I'm sure each woman who has experienced a miscarriage does. I haven't told people who aren't intimately involved in our lives and the irony isn't lost on me that I'm now sharing this with the world.