my story
WHERE I WAS
I never thought I would be a wife and mother. My plan was to remain single, to go overseas, to do, you know, big things.
But sometimes surrender looks blessedly normal. I met my husband, we got married, we had kids, we got jobs, we paid rent.
And then, after the birth of my second child, I was plunged into the darkness of severe postpartum depression and anxiety.
The religious platitudes that had been the bedrock of my spiritual upbringing suddenly fell very flat under the oppressive weight of compulsive thoughts, insomnia, panic attacks, and, eventually, suicidal ideation.
I had become the woman I had once judged.
And then, despite my previous two uneventful births, my third pregnancy abruptly ended in miscarriage. I felt sucker-punched with the shock of the loss, especially on the heels of such dark instability.
To numb the pain, I longed for another baby. Instead, I found myself walking the long, lonely road of infertility, every month a tragedy as I stared at only one pink line.
And then at last, our prayers were miraculously answered, we conceived, heard a heartbeat, saw the precious flickering movement of a tiny soul—only to be asked a few weeks later to say goodbye yet again.
Instead of holding the baby we had prayed for, we buried her.
WHAT I NEEDED
The pain of the depression, infertility, losses felt suffocating. My thoughts were like wild horses refusing to be reigned in, driving me into the exhausting cycle of anxiety and despair.
It is in situations like this, these brushes with the Fall, where all of your options seem like bad ones.
—Where is option D: none of the above?
Every decision deepens the pain and underscores the crushing reality of your existence.
And yet, I longed for God’s Word.
I knew I needed Truth to calm the wild horses of my mind, to lead them into green pastures and beside still waters.
But my mind was too unsteady to focus. My eyes would skim the words, wanting them to mean something, willing them to sink in.
What I really needed was Christian community to come around me, to sit with me, to read His Word to me.
Instead, I often felt hurried along in my struggle and grief. I could feel the undercurrent of impatience when, months later, I still wasn’t “okay.”
WHERE I AM NOW
Finally, I came to the realization that healing is not equal to grief-reduction. In fact, to fully process a loss, be it of a loved one, a job, or an identity, one must fully acknowledge the value that its presence held.
Grief equals value.
The deeper the value, the deeper the grief.
I began to realize that lingering grief isn’t a weakness but a lasting testament to life and things that actually matter.
Grief honors the value of the things we care about, and it helps us look forward with hope to a story that is only just beginning.