Grief doesn’t follow a neat timeline. (Wouldn’t that be nice?!) It doesn’t pack up and leave when the funeral ends or when a new baby fills your arms. For me, grief has been like a quiet river running beneath the surface of years. Sometimes still, sometimes rushing, always there. Shaping every part of my story. Changing shape with every chapter.
On October 1, 2016, my journey began with a miscarriage, my first pregnancy lost too soon. I named that baby Avery, holding her name tenderly in my heart, a quiet presence I carried in every step afterward. Avery is woven into the fabric of my story. She made me a mother.
Then came Stella and Lucy.
They add so much joy and laughter and fullness to my life. They are both so sweet and precious and mischievous in their own ways. Being their mom is the greatest blessing I have. But underneath it all, deep down where no one always sees, there’s a raw, aching place that longs not only to hold those babies I’ll never get to touch this side of eternity, but to know deeper the One who made me a mother all those years ago.
The truth is, my heart holds unrelenting love for all four of my children, two here and two in heaven, joy and grief tangled together in a way only a mother can know.
Now, after another early pregnancy loss, I’m back in that raw, tender place. Choosing a name for this baby is something I haven’t yet been able to do. I carry a little bit of mom-guilt about that, like I should already know what to call this precious life. But I don’t. Honestly, I feel a bit lost. The ache feels fresh and heavy, like a quiet shadow that follows me through my days. It’s a mix of sorrow and hesitation. A waiting, as if my heart needs more time to find the right words to hold this little one. Though the pain is familiar, this loss carries its own weight, and I’m learning to be gentle with myself in this tender, in-between season.
As I Walk Through Another Loss
As I walk through another loss, I’m noticing just how much has changed this time around. Every loss is different, and with each one, grief shows up in new ways I didn’t expect. At first, when the loss is fresh, the grief is strong and loud, the pain sharp and acute, almost overwhelming. It feels like I’m drowning, gasping for air beneath the weight of it all.
But this time, what surprised me most was the numbness—the way parts of me just shut down, like my heart was trying to protect itself. Instead of the all-consuming pain I expected, there was a quiet emptiness, like a heavy fog settling over my emotions. It kept me at a distance from the grief, as if my heart was putting up walls to shield itself from breaking apart all over again.
Slowly, the storm begins to quiet, and I come up for air, even though the water still ripples around me. The grief doesn’t disappear. Instead, it changes shape. It softens in some ways but deepens in others. The sharp edges dull, but a quiet ache settles in... a presence that lingers in the background of my days, reminding me this loss is still part of my story. It becomes part of the rhythm of my days, shaping my steps in ways I’m still learning to understand, tethered to the One who holds my heart and understands even when I don’t.
The In-Between Feelings
Grief isn’t just sorrow. It’s a mix of emotions that don’t always make sense. Some days it’s heavy and overwhelming. Other days it’s quieter, just sitting in the background. There’s sadness, yes, but also moments of joy, gratitude, guilt, confusion, even peace. All of it can exist at once. It’s those moments when you’re here but your heart is somewhere else entirely—and learning to live in that tension is its own kind of hard.
Over the years, grief has walked beside me in the soft, ordinary moments. At birthday parties, when candles flicker and wishes float up. At bedtime, when little voices whisper prayers and songs. In the quiet spaces between busy days.
When my daughters reach milestones, my heart swells with pride, and then quietly breaks for the birthdays I’ll never plan, the first steps I’ll never see.
There’s the family the world sees, and then there’s the fuller story. The one with tiny souls tucked deep inside my heart.
Sometimes, conversations feel safe and easy. Until they don’t.
It’s in the way my heart flinches when someone asks about our plans for more children, and they don’t know I just buried another dream.
There’s a pause, a fragile moment as I decide how much of my truth I have the energy to share.
Years later, tears still come. Uninvited. Unexpected. I wonder if others expect me to have moved on. Sometimes, I wonder that of myself.
Grief and joy don’t cancel each other out. They live side by side. Sometimes awkwardly. Sometimes tenderly.
What I’ve Learned About Holding the In-Between
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Grief doesn’t cancel joy. I love my daughters fiercely and still carry aching love for Avery and the baby I haven’t named. Both truths live side by side.
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It’s okay not to have a name yet. Naming Avery helped me heal then, but every loss is different. I’m learning to give myself the space and time to be ready.
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Grief isn’t something to fix. It’s a winding journey — sometimes slow, sometimes messy. I’m learning to walk it with gentleness and patience, without rushing to “move on.”
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The in-between can be sacred. It’s where memories live, hope quietly grows, and love gently changes form.
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Most of all, it’s where the Lord meets us — in the waiting, in the brokenness, with comfort and steady grace. We are never alone here.
Embracing the “Already, Not-Yet” of Grief and Hope
When Scripture talks about the “already, not-yet,” it means that through Jesus, God’s victory is already won and His kingdom is real and alive today. But we still live with pain and waiting, hoping for the day when everything will be healed and made right.
We already know God’s love and comfort. We already trust His promises. Yet, we have not yet seen the full healing, the complete restoration, or the reunion with our loved ones.
My grief lives right here, in this tension. I hold onto precious memories like Avery’s name in my heart, while also waiting, maybe hesitantly, to name this newest baby and trust God’s healing over time.
Romans 8:18 says, “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” And Revelation 21:4 promises, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.”
This tension reminds me that my story is still being written. I don’t have to have all the answers today because God’s perfect timing is sure. And one day, every tear will be wiped away.
How Grief Changes Over Time
People often say, “Time heals all wounds,” but I’ve learned that’s not exactly true. Nearly nine years later, the sharpest pains have softened, but the weight of grief still lives with me.
Grief changes shape with time. Sometimes it quiets. Sometimes it grows in unexpected ways. It’s less a sharp sting and more a deep ache. A quiet, constant presence beneath the everyday.
Time doesn’t erase grief, but it teaches us how to carry it differently. It invites us to lean into God’s comfort and hope, even as we keep holding the hard parts.
And in time, we stop expecting it to go away and start learning how to carry it with a little more grace.
For Anyone Holding Their Own In-Between
If you’re reading this and feel what I mean—the ache that doesn’t go away, the surprise moments when grief hits, the hope and heartbreak tangled tight—you’re not alone.
The in-between isn’t broken. It’s a place where the heart holds all its pieces. Tender and whole.
If you, too, still need a name for your baby, or just a quiet moment to be with your feelings, I see you. I’m walking this path too. Imperfect. Grieving. Loving. Hoping.
A Prayer for Holding the In-Between
Dear Lord,
Thank You for meeting us right here. In this messy, tender place where grief and hope meet.
Thank You for the babies we carry in our hearts, named and unnamed.
Help us trust Your timing when healing feels slow and the waiting feels long.
Remind us that we don’t have to have all the answers today, or even tomorrow.
Hold our hearts gently in this “already, not-yet” space.
Help us lean into Your promises, even when the pain is real and the road is unclear.
Wrap us in Your unfailing love that never lets go.
Give us courage to grieve, hope to keep going, and peace that passes understanding.
We rest in Your truth. You are at work, even in the waiting.
And one day, every tear will be wiped away.
Until then, hold us close, steady our steps, and remind us we are never alone.
Amen.
