Worrying about the opinions of others is also part of a bigger picture in a society where many of us absorb the idea that displaying ‘too much’ emotion is a bit, well, embarrassing. When girls are characterised as drama queens and boys are told to man up, there can be shame in revealing strong feelings, especially in a way that’s perceived as ‘wrong’ or ‘cringeworthy’ or for something others don’t think warrants it, like early pregnancy loss or the death of a pet.

So many of us downplay our natural reactions, which is something I certainly did with the miscarriages to begin with, and perhaps to a certain extent with other things too, such as dialling down pride over a promotion or diluting compliments with a joke.

As Mitchell says: “People come to me saying, ‘I know I’m making a big deal over nothing and others have it worse…’.” A lot of the work is validating feelings. How you feel is how you feel; you don’t have to apologise or say that it could have been worse. You’ve had a loss that is incredibly significant to you. And that is what matters.

“The message that has come through from a really young age, for so many people, is basically that it’s not all right to have your feelings. It’s just so common across the board and so much of therapy is saying, ‘No, it’s OK, you are allowed.’

“I think there is a lot of shame around the very act of having feelings. People like to say something like: ‘I was having a really hard time and I was sad. But I’m better now.’ And you wrap it all up. The tattoo and other forms [of symbolic action] are saying ‘I’m going off that rationalist rail; I’m recognising different sides of myself that are soft and vulnerable, and I’m having uncontrollable feelings that don’t get wrapped up neatly.”

It makes a lot of sense to me. We’ve been through something significant and traumatic, and if others think a tattoo is corny, who cares? Whatever works for you, works for you; there is no normal. In my case, I now know I’ll mark our experience with a design from another Ghibli film, My Neighbour Totoro. While I chose this initially simply because I’m fond of the movie, it also happens to be very apt. There’s love, comfort and cosiness in my memories of watching it (with my partner at university, with my children now) and in the film itself, among other things, it highlights uncomplicated joy, the importance of our links and bonds with others and our interactions with the world. It seems to fit. Plus, it also just makes me happy.

When I think about it, my other tattoos probably do tell a story anyway. The gecko; a ‘flash’ straight from the parlour’s wall that was bought by friends chipping in for my 17th birthday (leftover cash then bought fake ID and a double Baileys); the one down my side was outlined in Beijing, where we lived for a while and coloured in London when we moved back; the dragon was when I turned 30; the Fab ice lolly after my son. They’re all bits of my life, and the next – five little Chibi Totoros running amok, one for each of our miscarriages – will be too.

“A tattoo helped heal my grief after a miscarriage”