Lessons I've Learned in Waiting for a Baby
Woof. Just the title of this post makes me cringe because it’s a story I don’t want, didn’t want, and tried with all my power to avoid. In the exhaustion of feeling completely over social media and tired of trying to compile the things I’m walking through into a succinct caption, I decided to lean in. I started this blog at 19 years old for me, and at 30 years old, I’m taking some of that back. My deepest desire in sharing my writing, especially through challenging seasons, is that it helps someone else. Ultimately, I write because it’s my way of processing my feelings, connecting to God, and making sense of the things I’m learning.
I’ve avoided writing too much on this topic in the past few years because everything I put on paper feels like too much and not enough. I could write an entire book on the untold stories of the past few years. The God moments, the encouragement, the pain, the suffering in silence, and the life altering changes that I’ve fought tooth and nail. Because while there is so much beauty in my life, this has not been a beautiful season. As Annie F. Downs said on her podcast recently, “I don’t have a hard life, but this is a really hard version of my life.” Thank you, Annie, and Amen.
The past 2 years, I’ve longed to have another child, but I’ve experienced 2 miscarriages instead, as many of you know. I’ve spent two years and so much money, time, and energy on my health that no one thinks is broken but me. There have been roughly 12 months of negative pregnancy tests and disappointment, with failed pregnancies in between, and a lot of breaks from trying, too. I’ve been to months of therapy and walked away from therapy; I’ve seen my marriage hit its lowest point and resurface. This process has been, with no exaggeration, the most excruciating experience of my life.
And just like with any form of grief, if you haven’t walked a similar path, there is no way to comprehend the ins and outs of my story or those that are similar. But because so many women have or will experience some form of grief in this arena, I wanted to share the lessons that have stuck out to me the most, 2 years in. And unlike much of the content I share, this isn’t going to be related to health or your cycle or all the things I wish women knew about their bodies. This is solely going to be the emotional stuff, and I think all points apply beyond the realm of babies.
You have no idea what chapter you are in.
I don’t think I can really take credit for this saying because I’m sure that I heard it somewhere, but I think the hardest part of any season that begins to feel unchangeable is that you don’t know what chapter of your story you are living. Is it the very beginning of a long, arduous journey? Have you even made it halfway, or is the end just around the corner? These are thoughts I’ve wrestled with day in and day out, as I fight to stay hopeful. When I realized I would miscarry in May of 2022, my second miscarriage after Sully (my third total), I remember feeling suffocated under the weight of that news. It wasn’t just losing another child, it was realizing that what I thought was the end of a brutal season was only kicking into high gear. I think there is beauty in imagining that the end is in sight, but there is also depth that comes from realizing that you are living in the middle and surrendering to it. I’ve had to surrender this season over and over again, and I’ve made notes along the way of every time that I have felt taken to the end of my rope and given it back to God. Each time, it’s painful, and each time, I learn something new.
2. You Have to decide who you’ll be if you never get what you want.
I spent the majority of 2021 justifying my bad behavior because I was longing for something I didn’t have. And after that, I was grieving, so I justified it even more. Whether it was slacking off on my job or making my identity revolve around motherhood or being unkind to Ross, I racked up a lot of “little” sins that began to chip away at the person I was and the life I had built. By summer of 2022, my foundation was in shambles, and I was faced with the task of rebuilding aspects of my life that desperately needed attention, while operating at 10% capacity as a human being. Hear me when I say that I pray every single day that God will redeem this story in my life, but I also have been faced with the truth that I have to choose who I am going to be and how I’m going to leave a legacy if God never gives me the desires of my heart. It’s an edge that most of us will never come to unless we face a great deal of pain, and while I can’t say that I’m grateful for it, I’m probably better for it.
3. You will witness someone else’s best season in the middle of your worst
I listened to a commentary this year about Moses preparing Joshua to lead the Israelites into the promised land. Moses had messed up and disobeyed God, and the consequence was that he would only see the promised land before he died, but he wouldn’t be able to enter it with his people, after all he’d done in Egypt and 40 years in the wilderness. Instead, he was called to prepare Joshua to do the role that he had intended to do. Now, let’s not take this too deeply, as I am absolutely not comparing myself to Moses, but the commentary I heard really made me imagine how Moses must have felt, knowing that he was preparing Joshua for an incredible season of life. And he wouldn’t get to experience it.
Without being too dramatic, I have had to learn how to celebrate and walk alongside others in the midst of my darkest days. Nearly every single married friend I have has gotten pregnant, had a baby, and some have even had 2, in the last 2 years. Just as they have walked alongside me and supported me in prayer and long conversations and the rare times I have just broken down with them, I have had to learn how to walk with them through their joy. And in an odd way, I’ve been the person to prepare a lot of friends with knowledge and resources and wisdom that I have learned because of my love of all things birth and health. I know it’s been a benefit. And while I could sit around and pout about why all of my knowledge hasn’t seemed to benefit me (trust me, I have), it won’t serve me.
If you’re reading this and feel like I somehow have a really mature outlook on my circumstances, let me bring you back down to reality. I need to find purpose in pain because it helps me survive it. So, if that’s writing down a few lessons and tying them up in a neat little bow, so be it. But the truth is that I’ve screamed, cried, shaken my fists at God, been overcome with jealousy, and battled anxiety and depression more days than I can count. Any “maturity” you see is what God’s allowed to come from this, and most of it has been really ugly.
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Before I close this out, I’m going to leave you with one more story that happened to me in March of 2022, a few weeks before I got pregnant with my most recent pregnancy. I had just started my period, again, and I was standing in church behind a couple that was sobbing through all of worship and the majority of the service. As I sat behind them, I felt sure that the girl had lost a pregnancy, and I kept hearing God say, “You need to ask them if you can pray for them.” Now, I do not hear from God often, especially not like that, and I argued the thought the entire time because it felt so uncomfortable. I was sure that I was projecting my own experiences onto this couple, and I committed to praying for them inside my head, instead. But the Holy Spirit nudges kept coming, and I heard, “If you pray for them inside your head, they won’t know that I (meaning God) see them. They won’t know that I notice their pain.”
So, at the end of the service, I swallowed my discomfort, tapped the girl on the shoulder, and asked them if I could pray for them. I said that they didn’t have to tell me anything specific if they didn’t want to. She glanced at her husband, took a deep breath, and told me, with eyes full of tears, that she’d just had a miscarriage. I was shocked and not shocked at the same time because I already knew. I told her I understood and was so sorry, and I prayed for them. To this day, the experience gives me chills because I got to be a part of something God did in their lives that day, and it also reminded me how intimately God knows our pain.
So, if you’re reading this and struggling through this kind of pain or any other, I hope this post can serve as a reminder that God sees you, especially in the moments that feel all alone. No matter where you are in your story and no matter the outcome, He has not forgotten you, and that’s a reminder we all need.