“When Holding On Becomes Letting Go”

It’s not the first time… But this time sure did feel like the first time. How many babies does one have to lose before it feels familiar? Less scary? Less painful? The truth is there’s no answer to that. There never will be.

You walk around glowing, dreaming, full of excitement and hope. You start to imagine a future that hasn’t even arrived yet. And then it happens. The dreaded day of sorrow, creeping up behind the joy.

When the cramping starts, your first response is fear. But even then, you hold on to whatever hope your heart can piece together. You tell yourself, “It’s okay. It’s minor. Just rest. Just pray. This will pass.” But then comes the spotting. That first glimpse of red sends you spiraling. You search for answers in the color. You search the internet, hoping for stories any stories that say this is normal and still ends with a healthy baby. Hope fights to remain, but deep inside, you're irritable, panicked, and heavy like a ticking time bomb.

This pregnancy completely took over my mind. With my past miscarriages, the loss happened all at once. But this time, I refused to let go. I held on with everything in me. My body, my heart, my soul went to war. I was in labor for over six hours before my better half came home, saw the state I was in, and immediately called for an ambulance. He knew what I wouldn't admit I was in trouble.

Wave after wave, the contractions took over my body.

And with every one, I knew… I knew this baby was going to be with the Lord. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the hospital sooner. I didn’t want to be just another woman crying in a cold room while nurses walked past like my pain was routine. I couldn’t handle their blank stares while I screamed for a life I never got to meet.

I was emotionally gone. And I forgot that I was also physically at risk. My body was so dehydrated they couldn’t even find a vein for an IV. My blood pressure was sky-high heart attack territory. By the time I arrived, I was fully dilated.

And then, just like that... discharged. Sent home to grieve in silence. You leave feeling empty. Sad. Angry. Your body is worn, defeated. Your insecurities swell, and you realize no matter how hard you try to hold on sometimes the real lesson is learning to let go.

And then there’s the loneliness. Even when you're not alone, you feel alone. You stay in fight mode, even when what you really need is just… to be held.