Finding the Shallows: Looking Back and Moving Forward
Years ago, I wrote about what it felt like to navigate pregnancy loss and the terrifying, misunderstood reality of Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy (ICP). When you go through something like that, people often talk about grief like it’s a storm you eventually weather, as if there is a finish line where you finally emerge dry on the other side. But grief doesn’t work that way. Most days, the water is calm. I am okay, I am laughing, and I am living my life. But then, grief proves to be entirely unpredictable. A sudden trigger hits without warning, and I’m right back in the middle of it.
As October arrives, bringing with it Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, I am reminded of how many of us are carrying stories like this. While we may not always have all the answers, especially with conditions like ICP, where research is still desperately needed to understand its full impact, the heartbreaking reality is that so many families navigating this community share the heavy, invisible grief of loss.
Since writing those original words, life has continued to shift. I have lived through a second miscarriage, and have quietly navigated nearly five years of secondary infertility, all while raising my growing son. People often talk about grief as a single event, but for many of us, it evolves into layers. It’s the second miscarriage when you thought you had already paid your dues. It’s watching your living child look up with innocent eyes and ask, “Mom, when is it going to be my turn to get a sibling?” And sometimes, the grief lives right in the physical walls of your home. The room that was once designated to be a nursery is now an office. There is a profound, quiet sorrow in packing away the invisible expectations of a space, trading a crib for a desk, and replacing the dreams of late-night rocking chairs with the glow of a computer screen. Walking past that room every day requires a specific kind of resilience. It is a reminder that life moves forward, even when our hearts are still catching up.
This month is dedicated to breaking the silence, lighting candles, and saying the names of the babies we didn’t get to keep. If you are standing in the middle of an ache right now, whether you are grieving a quiet room, navigating the long road of infertility, or simply trying to figure out how to smile while your heart feels heavy, I want you to know:
Your pain is valid. You never truly “get over” losing a child; you simply learn to grow around the grief.
You don’t have to hide the hard days. It is okay if pregnancy announcements still sting, and it is okay if certain rooms in your house carry a heavy weight.
You are never alone. Finding a community that understands these invisible weights changes everything.
To anyone navigating the winding road of loss this October: I see you. The water isn’t always still, and the waves are unpredictable, but during a month meant for remembrance, we are reminded that we are learning how to find the shallows and catch our breath together.