Grief is a familiar visitor to most of us. But there’s a second guest that often walks in right behind it, one we don’t talk about as much: fear.
After my second miscarriage, I discovered this the hard way. The grief was heavy, but it wasn’t the only thing sitting on my chest at night. Underneath it was a quieter, more relentless voice asking questions I couldn’t answer.
Will I ever get pregnant again? Will I ever carry a pregnancy to term?
When “Common” Stops Feeling Comforting
I already knew, in my head, that miscarriage is common. I’d read the statistics. I understood that many women — even friends I loved and admired — had walked this road. My doctors reminded me gently, more than once, that pregnancy loss happens more than people realize, and that experiencing it more than once doesn’t make me broken or unusual.
Here’s the thing about grief, though: knowledge doesn’t always reach the heart the same way it reaches the mind. Statistics can explain a season, but they can’t comfort it. The second time it happened to me, “common” stopped sounding like reassurance and started sounding like my own biography. It wasn’t a statistic anymore. It was my story, and I didn’t know how it would end.
Learning to Rest Instead of Rushing
With my first miscarriage, I went straight back to work. Busyness felt like a shield — if I kept moving, maybe the pain couldn’t catch up to me. But this second time, my body wouldn’t let me pretend. The bleeding was severe and lasted for weeks. I had no choice but to slow down.
And honestly? I needed to slow down long before my body forced the issue.
I took time off work. I gave myself permission to grieve without an audience, without a deadline for feeling “okay” again. If there’s one thing I’d tell any woman walking through loss, it’s this: healing isn’t a task to complete quickly. It’s a season to be lived through honestly.
Bringing the Fear to God, Instead of Hiding It From Him
Underneath my prayers, fear kept whispering its questions. So instead of pretending I didn’t hear it, I started bringing it directly to God — out loud, in tears, in half-finished sentences that He somehow always understood.
Three verses became my anchors during that season.
When the sorrow felt too heavy to carry, I held onto:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
When the future felt like a fog I couldn’t see through, I whispered:
“Do not fear, for I am with you… I will strengthen you.” — Isaiah 41:10
And when I felt too spiritually exhausted to even pray properly, I remembered:
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life… nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.” — Romans 8:38–39
These weren’t verses I read once and moved on from. I returned to them again and again, some days multiple times a day, until they stopped feeling like quotes and started feeling like truth I was standing on.
Hope Isn’t Just a Feeling — It’s Also a Decision
Here’s something I had to learn: hope isn’t only an emotion that visits you on good days. Sometimes hope is an action you choose, even before the feeling catches up.
As a journalist, research has always come naturally to me, so I turned that instinct toward my own healing. I started asking better questions — about why pregnancies are lost, about what good care and support actually look like, and how I could steward my body wisely. I focused on health and balance, on doing what was within my control, without turning that control into an idol I worshipped instead of trusting God.
Faithfulness looked like doing what I could — and surrendering what I couldn’t.
One Morning at a Time
My husband and I kept praying. We kept believing, even on the days belief felt like a whisper instead of a shout. And slowly, day by day, God met us in the grief — not by erasing it, but by walking through it with us.
The verse that carried me through it all was Lamentations 3:22–23:
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”
That became my survival strategy. Not “how do I get through this loss” as one enormous, unanswerable question — but “how do I get through this one morning.” God’s mercy didn’t come in a single, life-fixing moment. It came fresh, every single day, exactly when I needed it.
| Consider this: Knowledge doesn’t replace comfort — but truth still anchors you. Understanding why something happens doesn’t erase the pain of it happening to you. Let Scripture meet you in the place facts can’t reach. Rest is not weakness; it’s wisdom. You don’t have to rush back to “fine.” Give yourself permission to grieve fully before you try to function normally again. Faithfulness means doing what you can and trusting God with what you can’t. Hope isn’t passive. Take the steps that are yours to take — and release the outcomes that are His. His mercies are new every morning. Great is His faithfulness |