Holding Grief in One Hand and Hope in the Other (Samantha Groce)

I used to think grief was something that came after a loss. Then I had two miscarriages, and now I know that sometimes grief follows you into the very thing you prayed for next.

I am pregnant again, carrying our baby boy, and after everything we went through, I wish I could say I have soaked up every second of this pregnancy without hesitation. I have dreamed about his little face, bought tiny clothes, imagined the day they finally place him in my arms, and allowed myself to picture our lives with him in it. But there is another side of pregnancy after loss that isn’t nearly as pretty.

I’m scared. Sometimes, I’m absolutely terrified. Because after losing two babies, pregnancy doesn’t feel innocent anymore.

Pregnancy After Loss Is Different

Before miscarriage, a positive pregnancy test meant a baby. After miscarriage, a positive pregnancy test meant maybe. Maybe this time. Maybe we’ll make it. Maybe I’ll get to bring this baby home. Maybe I can let myself get excited. Or maybe my heart is about to break all over again.

That has been one of the hardest things to reconcile during this pregnancy. I prayed for this baby. I wanted this baby. I already love this baby more than I could possibly explain. But sometimes loving him this much makes the fear of losing him feel even bigger.

There are moments when I catch myself preparing for something to go wrong even when nothing is wrong. I’ll realize I haven’t felt him move in a little while, and suddenly my mind starts racing. Is he okay? Why hasn’t he moved? What if something happened? Then there he is, a kick, a wiggle, a tiny movement that probably means nothing extraordinary to anyone else. But to me, it means I can breathe again, even if it’s just for a moment.

Living From Heartbeat to Heartbeat

Appointments feel different after loss. There is a moment before they find his heartbeat when I feel like I’m holding my own breath. I watch, wait, and silently pray, Please, God.

Then I hear it, that beautiful, fast little heartbeat, and everything inside of me releases. He’s still here. I can breathe again.

But eventually the fear creeps back in. It might be before the next appointment, during a stretch of time when he hasn’t moved as much as I think he should, or when I feel something unfamiliar in my body. My mind remembers something my heart wishes it didn’t know. I have been pregnant before and still came home without a baby.

That’s the part of pregnancy after loss that I don’t think people always see. You don’t just carry the baby growing inside of you. Sometimes you’re carrying the babies who came before, too.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I understand that verse differently now. God didn’t ask me to stop being brokenhearted before He came close to me. He met me there. He met me in the losses, He met me in the waiting, and He meets me now in the fear. He meets me every time I whisper, “God, please let my baby be okay.”

Faith Doesn’t Mean I’m Never Afraid

For a while, I thought stronger faith would mean being less afraid. Maybe if I prayed harder, trusted God more, or stopped allowing those thoughts into my head, I wouldn’t struggle so much with fear. But I’m learning that faith isn’t always the absence of fear. Sometimes faith is being afraid and choosing to keep trusting anyway.

Isaiah 41:10 says, “Do not fear, for I am with you.” I’ve realized that the promise isn’t that there will never be something that scares me. The promise is that He is with me.

SometimeGods my faith is confident. Other times it sounds more like, “, I’m scared. Please protect my baby. Please let me bring him home. Please help me trust You with the thing I am most afraid to lose.” I believe God hears those prayers, too.

Grief and Joy Can Exist Together

I’m learning that grief and gratitude aren’t opposites, and neither are fear and faith. I can be unbelievably grateful for this pregnancy and still grieve the babies who came before him. I can celebrate every kick from this little boy while still wishing I had gotten to experience those moments with the babies I lost. I can prepare to bring one baby home while still loving the babies I never got to bring home.

One of the biggest things I’m learning is that loss doesn’t eventually come with forgetting.

For a long time, I think part of me believed healing meant reaching a point where it didn’t hurt anymore. Maybe eventually the dates wouldn’t matter. Maybe I wouldn’t wonder who they would have been. Maybe moving forward meant I was supposed to stop looking backward.

But I don’t want healing to mean forgetting them.

They existed. They were wanted. They were prayed for. They were loved. They were ours.

And they still are.

My Children Will Know About Their Siblings

Until now, I haven’t really celebrated the anniversaries of our losses. Maybe part of me didn’t know how. Maybe it hurt too much. Maybe I thought remembering would make moving forward harder. But now, as I prepare to physically hold a baby in my arms, I’ve realized something that I want to carry into our family’s future. 

Having a baby in my arms does not take away from the babies I will always carry in my heart.

My future children will know about their siblings. They’ll know that there were babies before them who were deeply loved, even though we didn’t get the lifetime with them that we wanted. They’ll know that our family is bigger than the people they can physically see, and they’ll grow up knowing that, according to the hope we have through Jesus, we believe they have siblings waiting to meet them in heaven.

I also want us to begin remembering them around the anniversaries of our losses. I don’t know exactly what that will look like yet. Maybe we’ll light a candle, buy a small cake, do something kind for another family, or simply spend time together remembering them. Whatever it becomes, I want my children to understand that remembering someone we lost isn’t something sad that we have to hide from.

I haven’t done that until now. And maybe part of the reason I’m ready to is because carrying this baby has helped me understand that loving him doesn’t replace them. I can celebrate the son I hope to hold in my arms while honoring the babies I will always hold in my heart.

He isn’t their replacement.

He’s their brother.

There Is Room in My Heart for All of Them

Pregnancy after loss has taught me that love doesn’t have to choose. I don’t have to choose between grieving the babies I lost and celebrating the baby I’m carrying. There is room in my heart for all of them. There is room for grief and joy, remembering and anticipation, tears and excitement. There is room for the babies I carry in my heart and the baby I pray I will soon carry in my arms.

Ecclesiastes 3 tells us there is “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.” I used to imagine those as completely separate seasons, but I’m not sure they always are. Sometimes we mourn while we’re dancing. Sometimes we cry while we’re celebrating. Sometimes one hand holds grief while the other holds hope.

And God is present in all of it.

I’m Still Learning to Breathe

There are moments now when my baby moves and I instinctively put my hand on my belly. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I talk to him. Sometimes I thank God. And sometimes I just sit completely still and feel him move because, for those few seconds, my mind finally gets quiet.

He’s here. He’s moving. He’s okay.

Breathe.

I wish I could say the fear disappears more and more every day, but it hasn’t completely. Maybe some part of me will always know how quickly life can change. But I don’t want fear to steal every beautiful moment from a pregnancy I prayed so hard to experience. So I’m learning to take this pregnancy one heartbeat at a time, one kick at a time, one appointment at a time, and one prayer at a time.

Jesus says in Matthew 6:34, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” That verse has become incredibly real to me because sometimes tomorrow feels overwhelming. When my mind starts racing ahead, I’m learning to bring myself back to today. Today, my baby is here. Today, I get to love him. Today, I get to feel him move. Today, I get to thank God for him. Today is what God has given me, and today is enough.

Pregnancy after loss has taught me that hope doesn’t always look fearless. Sometimes hope has tears in its eyes. Sometimes hope remembers exactly what happened last time.

Sometimes hope is afraid to get excited. Sometimes hope has experienced the worst and still chooses to believe there can be something beautiful ahead.

Sometimes hope holds its breath while the Doppler searches for a heartbeat and then finally exhales when the room fills with that beautiful sound.

Maybe healing doesn’t mean leaving grief behind. Maybe healing means learning how to carry it differently. I will always be the mother of the babies I lost. I will tell my children about them. We will remember them. We will celebrate them. And I will hold onto the hope that one day, when this life is over, our whole family will finally be together.

Until then, I’ll keep carrying them differently.

Some of my babies will be carried in my arms. Some will always be carried in my heart. But every single one of them will be carried with love.