My Pregnancy Journey

March 17, 2025

Warning: This post includes a miscarriage. If you are pregnant or trying to become pregnant, it may be best to read this at a time when your mind won’t feed you fear for your own pregnancy journey.

Praise the Lord!
For it is good to sing praises to our God;
for it is pleasant, and a song of praise is fitting.
He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
He determines the number of the stars;
he gives to all of them their names.
Great is our Lord, and abundant in power;
his understanding is beyond measure.

Psalm 147:1, 3-5

November 7, 2024

Two weeks after my bout with covid ended and my battle with double pneumonia began, my mother was visiting me to help me with tasks around the house. I was weak and easily exhausted, and I couldn’t walk the twelve feet from the couch to the stove to make myself something to eat without feeling breathless and dizzy. Even standing to fix something as simple as a fried egg, I would have to sit halfway through and take a break, often burning my food in the process. I was also two days late for my cycle, and deep down I knew I was pregnant.

My mom had brought me two pregnancy tests, still inside their yellow Dollar General bag, and put them within easy reach to use whenever I felt ready. Brenden and I weren’t planning to get pregnant, and with being so sick, the prospect of pregnancy felt overwhelming to me, especially this soon in our marriage. But I also wanted to be able to plan, and the week-long wait between my first potential pregnancy symptoms and now had felt like an eternity.

My mom left for the day and, despite knowing the tests would be most accurate in the morning, I increased my water intake and took the first test around 5:30pm, hoping for some answers before Brenden got home from work. Not 30 seconds passed before I happened to glance at it, not expecting it to already be so clear.

A mix of emotions washed over me. Fear, excitement, exhaustion, happiness. The overwhelm hit hard and I cried, but I wanted a second opinion from the other test before I took any action, nervous that somehow the test was wrong. I tried my best to calm myself down, hiding the positive test and my inner turmoil before Brenden arrived home.

We had dinner that night, and all I could think about was taking the other test. We both had suspected the result based on my symptoms, but with my being so sick and having similar symptoms from the covid and pneumonia, it had been difficult for us to say. My basal temperatures were also no help as an indication, as I’d had consistent fevers with my infection, leaving me with no choice but to wait. After we ate, Brenden left again to get a few groceries, and I saw my opportunity to take the second test. Once again, in less than a minute, the test read clear as day: I was pregnant, and once again I was overwhelmed with tears.

I washed the tests and put them with their boxes on the counter, resuming my position on the couch to wait for my husband to return. When he got home and saw them, he just stood in the doorway to the kitchen and looked at me, a shell-shocked amazement written on his face.

“So… exactly how accurate are these?”

November 8, 2024 – December 25, 2024 (Weeks 4-10)

As the days passed, I began to prepare, excitement officially kicking in and shooing away my fears and doubts. I downloaded the What To Expect app onto my phone, learning that my baby was only the size of a poppy seed when I took the tests, which earned it the nickname “Poppy” from my husband. I started to consider options for the birth, revisited my list of favorite baby names to get Brenden’s input, and watched lots of YouTubes of pregnancy and gender reveals. I kept a journal of pregnancy symptoms and tracked my diet, doing my best to eat healthy, and eating lots of protein and calories to build the growing placenta while also rebuilding my strength.

By Thanksgiving, I had finished my antibiotic for pneumonia with only a light crackle left in my lungs, just in time for a UTI to take advantage of my weakened immune system. After a weekend of cranberry juice and D-mannose brought no results, I gave in and took my fourth pregnancy-safe antibiotic in five weeks.

Thanksgiving was also my second day experiencing morning sickness, as I was six weeks and one day pregnant. My biggest food aversions then were meat, cheese, and eggs. This proved to be quite an interesting battle as I attended dinner with my husband’s extended relatives on Thursday and a second dinner with my family on Friday, all while still keeping it secret that I was pregnant. Strong smells were also difficult, activating my gag reflex and making it hard to be around so much food and that many people. Thankfully, in its own weird blessing, the antibiotic and the D-mannose both made me queasy, giving me an excuse.

At six weeks, my baby, “Poppy,” was the size of a pea, and I started a new routine with my husband. At the start of each new gestational week, I’d text him at work with a “photo” of the baby’s growth, a description of its size, and an update on its development achievements from the previous week:

“Here’s an artist’s depiction of a baby at 6 weeks. Its little recesses on the head are the ear canals forming, and the nubs on its body will be arms and legs. The placenta is smaller than a dime, and the baby is about a quarter inch from crown to rump. It already has kidneys, liver, and a heart beating at around 110 bpm.”

Each week was amazing to learn of its rapid growth and development, and each week I became more excited and felt more ready to be a mother. Pregnancy brain was gradually setting in, vivid nightmares would wake me at night, I was throwing up from morning sickness 4-6 times a week, and I had constant cravings for oranges, Subway sandwiches, blueberries, French fries, donuts, orange juice, jalapeño poppers, and cottage cheese with cinnamon sugar. I was bogged down with fatigue as my body continued to heal from the infections, and I worked to rebuild my immune system as much as possible through the cold and dreary winter that December brought.

I was also in full planning mode, readying my mind, body, and heart for the future I saw ahead of me. I signed Brenden and I up for birth classes in February and, looking toward the birth, I spent the month reading books and articles, praying, and weighing pros and cons. Eventually, I decided to go the route of a natural and unmedicated home birth.

I set out to find a good midwife, and after two weeks of calling, researching, budgeting, and talking to my husband, we decided on Kristin Richard-Capp, who offers her services to the southwestern side of Michigan. Reading through her website, we were reassured in our decision and felt that her values for birth aligned with our own. We were on the edge of the area she took clients from, but despite the longer drive to reach her, I was excited to work with her. One very good consultation and some paperwork later, we scheduled our first appointment for January 9, 2025. With that figured out and arranged, I began to work on writing out my birth plan, hoping to have it ready for when I’d see her.

December 27, 2024

In my journal that Friday night, I wrote, “I had a hard day today. I ate my usual orange this morning before getting up and immediately throwing it up. Waited a bit and got some cottage cheese and egg nog for breakfast, but threw that up as well. I felt discouraged and frustrated and was nervous to eat anything just to waste it. Thankfully, Subway! I kept it down just fine, thank God. Then I had lasagna for dinner (followed by some heartburn in bed). I also told my family tonight that we’re pregnant!”

At eleven weeks and two days pregnant, my pregnancy seemed perfectly healthy, and since my sister was in town, my parents, all six siblings and sister-in-law, my nephew, aunt, and both grandmothers would be at dinner that night. So that morning, after weeks of prep and deciding how to break the news, I layered a gift bag with a baby onesie reading “New to the Cousin Crew,” some tissue paper beneath it, and wrote on a paper, “Baby Hirn coming July 2025,” laying it at the bottom.

At dinner, I presented the bag to my dad, who opened it in front of everyone. He held up the onesie.

“I don’t think this is going to fit me.”

“Look: there’s one more thing in the bag.”

And after he removed the layer of tissue paper to reveal the due date underneath, he happily displayed it for everyone else to read while he crossed the room to hug and congratulate us.

The rest of the evening was filled with excitement as I talked with my family members, telling them of my experience so far and hearing their perspectives on different events where I’d been pregnant without their knowing yet.

January 1, 2025

Another fun and opportune day, as Brenden’s parents were hosting a family day. All sixteen of his siblings, his five siblings-in-law, and eight niblings (with one more on the way) would be attending. The plan was to have brunch, take family photos (his sister is a photographer), and play games for the afternoon. And my plan was to announce our pregnancy.

That morning I donned my carefully-curated outfit: the blouse hiding my new baby bump, and the pants being one of the last to still fit me from my non-maternity wardrobe. The “New to the Cousin Crew” onesie was tucked carefully into my pants pocket, out of sight but easily within reach as I waited to carry out my plan.

The morning played out, and pictures were being taken, until it was our turn for photos as a couple. We took a few, then I asked my sister if I could see them, “since we don’t have our picture taken often, and I want to make sure I like it.” After she showed me, I asked for one more and, resuming my pose next to Brenden, I pulled the onesie out. We held it up for the next photo as our family excitedly celebrated and congratulated us.

Both family announcements had gone smoothly and to plan, and we had a lot of fun. In one of the later photos, the sisters who were mothers all held their 2024 babies and 2025 bumps. They invited me to join, and it felt like such a privilege to stand in line with five of my sisters, three nieces, and two nephews, knowing our babies would all be growing up together.

January 2, 2025 – February 5, 2025 (Weeks 12-17)

On January 6, I wrote in my journal, “Brenden’s sick with a stomach bug today. He slept for most of the morning. I threw up once right away this morning from morning sickness, but around noon I threw up twice more, less than 15min apart, and that queasiness felt a lot different from before. Broth and noodles, ginger ale, and toast got me through today with this stomach ache, and a long nap helped me with the headache and general achiness. Hopefully tomorrow is better.” Once again, sickness had set in, this time in the form of the flu. Frustrated, I contacted my midwife, postponing our first appointment. Thankfully, the bug was short-lived, and the flu-like symptoms passed within a day. We had a week of respite, and my pregnancy symptoms began to alleviate as I transitioned into the second trimester.

The day before my midwife appointment, I texted Brenden his weekly update on Poppy: “It’s week 14, which means we’re in the second trimester now! Morning sickness, fatigue, and moodiness should start to fade as new symptoms, such as congestion and swelling, move in. Poppy is the size of an orange, measuring 3.5-4 inches long and weighing around 2 ounces! She’s still growing hair, developing eyebrows and a fuzzy crown to keep her warm and to catch vernix, protecting her from the amniotic fluid. She’s also starting to pull faces, trying out the muscles and tiny features of her face with some scrunches. In the next 4-6 weeks, I should be able to feel her moving, she’ll be able to hear us, and an ultrasound should be able to detect gender.”

Our midwife appointment went well. We met with Kristin and discussed the pregnancy and my symptoms, took a few labs and tests, my belly measured seventeen weeks, and we asked her all the questions we had. Inside, I was filled with the excitement that it was all real: I was going to give birth to a beautiful baby, be a mother, and watch Brenden become a father.

She took out her doppler to listen for heart tones, and both Brenden and I felt our excitement peak, waiting to hear the gallop of our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. The placenta was front and center, swishing loud from the doppler speaker almost immediately, but as time went on and Kristin did her best to detect a heartbeat, the excitement in my chest turned to a nervous dread. A second midwife came in and was asked to try with her doppler as well, and a few minutes later, she too had no definitive success. However, both had separately thought they may have picked up on it for just a moment, and separately concluded I may have a retroverted uterus, making it difficult to get a good angle, and especially so with my anterior placenta getting in the way.

My midwife asked me again about my symptoms, relieving my anxiety as she noted I had no worrying ones and still several positive ones (I’d thrown up from morning sickness just before leaving for the appointment). She tried to get me an appointment that same day for an ultrasound with the tech she worked with, but when that fell through, I was scheduled for the earliest slot just a couple weeks out. The midwife told us to go to the E.R. if I developed any worrying symptoms, or even just if we wanted immediate answers. Then she scheduled our February appointment and sent us on our way. With the placenta being strong, my symptoms affirming pregnancy and life, and the ultrasound scheduled, I drove home with a light heart.

Another bug set in for the rest of January, beginning like the stomach flu again and transitioning into some of the worst headaches, nose bleeds, and congestion I’ve experienced. While I sat on my couch yet again to recover, I refined my birth plan, watching YouTubes of different birth experiences — at hospitals and at home, from unassisted and unmedicated to epidurals and doctors, planned c-sections, emergency c-sections, water births, long and short labors. With every video my mind was more and more assured and I looked forward to doing it myself. I began practicing breathing techniques and researching pain and discomfort management to suit my natural, unmedicated birth plan.

I also began to work on my baby registry, scrolling through Amazon to find pieces that I thought I might need, then going back to YouTube and blog posts to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I researched strollers, car seats, cribs and bassinets and pack-n-plays, glass vs plastic bottles, materials and styles of clothing, cloth vs disposable diapers, and so on.

We worked on official name combinations, one boy name and one girl name, and every night at dinner, Brenden would pray that Abba would “let Poppy grow big and strong.” He would often comment that he wanted to hold our baby, jokingly saying it was unfair that I always got to hold our baby and that he wanted his turn. He began to listen to my belly and the placenta several nights a week.

At the start of February, only days before my ultrasound appointment, the sickness was just alleviating, and I was gaining more energy. My 26th birthday fell on February 1, and my husband and family showered me with maternity clothes and a maternity pillow. Anticipation grew in me at the possibility of learning whether I’d have a boy or girl at the ultrasound. Nearing the halfway point of my pregnancy, I was planning my spring and summer, knowing the relief of my second trimester would be gone before I knew it, and the fatigue and limited mobility of the third trimester may make things more difficult, so it was better to prepare now.

The night before my ultrasound, I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I was buzzing inwardly, waiting to possibly learn if the baby in my womb was a boy or a girl. I woke my husband up in the middle of the night, and we spent a few hours discussing our excitement, making plans, and enjoying each other’s company in the late hours. He listened to my belly again, mentioning that the placenta sounded different, and he told me that, despite my difficult pregnancy and all my symptoms, I was one of two happiest-to-be-pregnant people he’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but agree that that was an accurate description as I talked and thought of little else than all the plans and preparations.

February 6, 2025

Our ultrasound appointment was scheduled for 10am at the same location as our midwife’s office, so our drive there was a just over an hour. We were both a little tired from being up in the night, but the thought of seeing our baby on the ultrasound screen kept us awake, happy, and motivated as we chatted and listened to upbeat tunes. At seventeen weeks and one day, maternity clothes were all that fit my growing bump.

As we arrived at the office, the tech told us how the appointment would go, fired up the ultrasound machine, and began to look around. My excitement again turned to a nervous dread as she paused, told us she was going to call our midwife in the hall, and would be right back. She stepped out, and Brenden and I exchanged anxious glances, wondering what was wrong. I wasn’t able to see the screen from my position on the bed, but Brenden was standing and could, so I asked if he saw the heart rate anywhere, and he shook his head.

Anxious thoughts swirled through my head in the brief silence as we waited. Was my baby deformed? Was it twins? Was the gestational age somehow way off? Why hadn’t the tech done anything she’d briefed us on before the appointment, like showing us the baby and what things were?

She came back in, told us she was going to take a few more photos, and said that we should call our midwife after the appointment. Our exit was hurried and silent, and when we got back to our car, I called the midwife immediately.

There were no heart tones. There was no movement. Gestational age was estimated to be fourteen weeks.

Our baby was dead.

She gave us her recommendation and checked that we were okay with it: go to the hospital nearby, and she’d call ahead for us, as she knew the doctor. There, they’d induce me and I’d deliver our baby. We agreed, preferring to deliver somewhere unfamiliar so we wouldn’t be reminded of the events. She offered to be there with us for support, but I declined, and the call ended, leaving Brenden and I in our car, over an hour from home, with our swirling thoughts and overflow of emotions.

While we both burst into tears as soon as the call finished, it’s difficult to describe exactly what I was feeling. It just happened so fast. My mind felt numb as it tried to catch up with the news that my heart had already begun reacting to. Brenden drove to the hospital and I called my mom. I broke the news to her, then left her to process it while Brenden called my mother-in-law. Between my mom (who birthed seven children and is a birth-class instructor) and my mother-in-law (who birthed eleven and is a doula registered with our local hospital’s OBGYN), we were advised over several more phone calls with them. With each phone call beginning like, “oh, and another thing,” it was apparent that clarity of thought resumed as the news sank in.

It was a blessing in those twenty minutes to have their counsel and take pause to weigh all of our options. Both mothers recommended a second opinion ultrasound before we did anything at all. With the help of my mother-in-law, Brenden and I found ourselves on the 90-minute drive back to our local, familiar hospital for a last-second ultrasound and appointment with the OBGYN there. Those 90 minutes felt like an eternity, and Brenden and I both spent it crying and praying intermittently.

As we arrived and had our second ultrasound, I was relieved to be able to see the screen, but felt tears pricking my eyes as again there was no movement and no heart tones. I read the tech’s face, and while her expression was neutral, there was sadness in her eyes as she captured the images. They gave me a wordless confirmation.

We met with the OBGYN, who had delivered five babies for three of Brenden’s sisters, and he gave us his recommendations: D&E, or induction and vaginal delivery. He told us not to decide that day, and to just go home and rest. He said to allow the news to sink in, our hearts to grieve, and to make our difficult, no-wrong-answers decision with no pressure.

I don’t remember the drive home. I do remember laying in bed with Brenden, sobbing into his chest as he held me.

That was easily, hands-down, no competition, the longest and most difficult day of my life. I was filled with guilt, sorrow, shattered expectations, crushed dreams. My whole reality had shifted, and every conversation, every plan felt like a stab to the chest to remember. I walked myself through my pregnancy, wondering what I’d done wrong. I walked myself through my life, wondering which sin had caused this. And Brenden did the same, which hurt in a different, unexpected way.

I called a midwife friend of my mom’s that night, asking for her advice, and she told me that expectant management was also an option. Knowing that my baby had been dead for three weeks or more already, it was also likely that I was nearing the end of the waiting period for my body to catch up to the news and begin the birthing process naturally. Knowing there was a gentler option was a relief to me, even if the emotional toll could potentially be higher and the timetable could be much, much slower.

February 7, 2025

Looking back, I believe it was in God’s grace and mercy that our miscarriage was missed. I said already that, when Brenden listened to my belly the night before the ultrasound, the placenta sounded different. Now, the day after the ultrasound, he couldn’t hear it at all. That night, my stomach began to cramp.

February 8-9, 2025

I began to see spotting the next morning, and the cramps continued, increasing their intensity at night. I decided that I’d wait, but I wanted to birth in the hospital, since neither of us knew what we were doing. I knew infection, hemorrhage, leftover fetal or placental tissue, and preeclampsia were all concerns, and I didn’t believe myself to be in the right mindset to deal with any of them.

My mother-in-law volunteered to join us for support, and we agreed, happy to have someone who knew the nurses and doctor, yet alone who was trained as a doula. My own mother had volunteered as well, but knowing I’d want her at my first live birth (I’d put it in my birth plan to have her there), I wanted to distance this experience from the next one.

People we knew had begun to plan days to bring meals over and sent flowers, cards, and texts of their condolences. Brenden’s brother came and took our dog for a few days, allowing us some respite. Our brother and sister had us over for an afternoon of games and dinner to take our minds off the situation. All of it was hugely appreciated, and the love and support we began to feel from family and friends aided in our grieving.

Those couple days were filled with stress and uncertainty as we waited on God’s timing, feeling ill-prepared and unknowledgeable of what to expect.

February 10, 2025

After a sleepless night of cramping and bleeding, I called the OB’s office for advice on when to call it. They gave me the signs to look for, and after hearing my symptoms, they told me a room would be available whenever I arrived. I talked to Brenden, and we called my mother-in-law, telling her we’d meet her at the hospital that afternoon. After putting together a hospital bag, we left.

I was admitted to the prepared room, and the doctor began giving me doses of Cytotec to speed up the process. They drew blood for labs, and I had two IV slots put in, just in case I needed a blood transfusion while also being given fluids. As the hours passed, the contractions picked up.

It was just after dinner that they really started feeling real. It wasn’t merely like a period cramp anymore, but more like I imagined a contraction to be. The nurses offered me pain options, from Tylenol to an epidural, but I declined, still hoping for the natural birth I’d written up in my birth plan. I wanted to be able to gauge where I was at in the labor process.

Around midnight, I leaned forward on my bed to adjust to sitting with my legs crisscross-applesauce, hoping for some pain relief. As I did so, I felt a “pop” between my hips, followed by a small gush. I assumed my water had broken and called my nurse in. She cleaned up the yellowed, wet bedding beneath me, and brought me a birthing ball to help with pain.

By 1am, I was moaning into the contractions, and my nurse offered to prepare a shower for me. Relieved, I accepted. After a wonderful 45 minutes of adjusting the temperature warmer with contractions and cooler between, I was exhausted and got out. Almost immediately, I threw up, and I could tell the baby was close.

I made it back to my bed and sat forward, crisscross applesauce again, only to feel a bigger, warmer gush come out of me, and my bed pooled with a hot, brown liquid. I realized as I called the nurse back in that the earlier pop had been my mucus plug coming loose, and only now my water had broken.

The amniotic fluid had some blood in it, and the nurse called the doctor just after 2am. He came in with two more nurses, a cart in tow full of towels and other supplies. He sat down on the bed at my feet, told me to give a push, and in a moment, a bloody blob was on the sheets in front of me. Assuming that it had been too easy, I thought at first that the blob was just a large blood clot, but it was in fact my baby attached to its placenta, all fully intact.

The nurse picked it up so we could see it, and they determined the baby was a girl. We looked at her for a bit, taking in her grey, alien-like form. The doctor pointed out to us that her stomach was growing on the outside of her belly, almost certainly confirming that it was a chromosomal abnormality that had caused her premature death.

“Would you like to name her?”

We’d decided after the ultrasound that the names we’d so carefully curated didn’t make sense for this baby, so we had decided on two other options: one for a boy, and one for a girl. I was relieved in a way to have been given a baby girl.

“Yes. Her name is Poppy.”

They soon all left, leaving us to sleep and rest, promising an ultrasound in the morning to ensure all the tissue was gone.

The rest of our short stay at the hospital was filled with sleep, an internal ultrasound, a few more labs, a quick visit from the doctor to confirm no tissue was left, some paperwork, then some breakfast. By noon, we were discharged to go home with a box containing Poppy’s footprints on a little card with her length and weight, a little crocheted hat that likely would’ve fit her tiny head, a teddy bear, and probably fifteen brochures for different grief and miscarriage counselors and groups.

March 17, 2025

I’m writing about this experience with tears in my eyes, a longing in my heart, and no remaining baby bump. I’d be lying to you if I said the grieving process has been easy for Brenden or for me. For both of us, there are nightmares, moments of overwhelming guilt, worry for future pregnancies, nights of tears that won’t stop, songs and movies that hit too close and too soon, pangs of jealousy, and difficulty seeing other babies, parents, or pregnant women. For me there’ve also been cramps that feel entirely pointless and frustrating.

One night I texted my sister a long rant, “It’s a hard night. Night time is hard. And I hurt and I’m exhausted and I feel irrational guilt and I miss my daughter. And for what? I thought God was telling me I was supposed to be home and be a mom, and now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. There’s just a void and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it. I’m told to sit on the couch and heal physically but I’m so bored and my algorithms are all baby things and I can’t escape it. And I don’t know how to comfort Brenden or our families, and I don’t know how to tell everyone else that I don’t want to talk about it with them or want them to mention it to me. And I’m so scared that this will happen again. I just want to be tov. I just want to be fit for purpose and give my husband children. And it feels so cruel for it to have happened after the first trimester and once I let my guard down. I feel robbed, and I feel like I let everyone down and robbed them. I keep asking, “why us?” and wondering if Poppy was in pain for the short few weeks of her life. I keep wondering if it’s due to my health, or if it’s from some sin I committed in my life, and rationally I know it’s not, but it doesn’t stop me from wondering.”

I have now wondered many times, “What was the point?” as I think back on the unplanned pregnancy that weakened my immune system, leaving me almost bedridden for much of the winter. I had received maternity clothes, finished my birth plan, paid the midwife, readied my registry, planned my summer and fall as a new mom, picked out names, announced it at church and on social media…and for what? I may never know.

If the only good to come of it is to share my story and allow other parents who’ve miscarried feel seen, understood, and any less alone, then I guess that’s better than nothing.

During this grieving process, one thing I can easily pinpoint as having helped is a little devotional book that Brenden’s aunt and uncle sent us: Loved Baby by Sarah Philpott. Momentos have also helped me fill the void left by my empty arms and empty womb. We asked for our ultrasound images from the OBGYN to go into the box with Poppy’s footprints, and I plan to make a “baby book” of sorts with them. I hope my husband, family, and future children might enjoy looking at it. I also made a playlist of songs that make me think of Poppy or my Abba’s comfort for me, Brenden and I were given a bracelet with a forget-me-not seed encased in a resin heart that we both take turns wearing, and I bought myself a gold poppy on a mother-of-pearl setting as a necklace. Inside her box, I put all the cards we received, the notes from any flowers we were given, some poppy and forget-me-not seeds waiting for warmer weather to be planted on our patio, and a little plaque we were given with a saying about our baby being remembered and loved.

It’s difficult to know how to end this post, since it’s still very much an ongoing process despite it being over a month later that I’m writing this. Through it all, I can feel myself being comforted by our All-knowing Abba, and while I still have days where I miss my daughter so much my heart aches for hours, my heart is slowly healing. I do see hope on the horizon, although I imagine a touch of fear will follow me through every pregnancy going forward.

I’ll end with this: pray for me and for Brenden as we open this new chapter. Pray we’ll feel His comfort, and that our future children all arrive healthy and strong to grow old with us. Pray that I’ll know how to help and comfort other parents who I encounter going through this awful situation as well. And pray that we can know His timing to try again.

Thank you for reading, and if you have a story of pregnancy and birth — good or bad — I hope you’ll share it with me in the comments below.

I’ll write again when our Abba lays a new topic on my heart.