The Day Everything Changed

Category: 💔 Loss & Resilience

✦“Even the shortest stories can leave a lifetime of love.”✦

I guess it started as just an ordinary day.

The sun was warm, the air was soft, and I was out walking Kila—just another morning, except something about it felt… off. Halfway through our walk, I got this sudden wave of dizziness, like the ground beneath me fell away and I was floating. My stomach was bloated—no surprise there, since my husband’s black beans are my weakness. I can eat bowl after bowl, every time telling myself this is it, no more, and every time losing all self-control.

So, of course, I blamed the beans.

But that feeling—the strange dizziness, the way the ground seemed to sway—lingered longer than it should have.

At that point, I wasn’t on birth control anymore. After years of being on the pill, then switching to an IUD to manage my brutal period cramps, I’d finally had it removed. It was due anyway, and we’d agreed to “just see what happens.” My husband was thrilled; he’d wanted to be a dad since the day we met. Me? I wasn’t so sure. I was almost thirty, had never had a pregnancy scare, and honestly, part of me thought maybe motherhood just wasn’t in the cards.

But a few weeks after the IUD came out—barely enough time to process the idea—something in me whispered, go get a test.

I rolled my eyes, bought the box anyway, and peed on the stick.

Two lines.

I didn’t believe it. I took another. Then another. Seven tests later, all positive, and my heart was racing so hard I could hear it in my ears. I ran back to the store, bought two more, and still—they all said the same thing.

Positive.

I was pregnant.

My first call wasn’t to my husband. It was to my brother. I could barely get the words out before laughing and crying all at once. “You’re going to be an uncle,” I said, and I heard it—the little break in his voice, the joy, the disbelief. He always joked that I’d be the world’s best aunt but never thought I’d actually be a mom. Neither did I.

Then came the question: How do I tell him?

So I did what I do best—I wrote. I poured my heart into a letter, folded it carefully, and left it on the counter for when he came home.

He walked through the door, saw it, opened it, and halfway through reading it looked up with this confused expression.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he said.

I laughed through tears. “Just keep reading.”

When he reached the last line—you’re going to be a dad—he looked at me, eyes wide, tears streaming. It was the purest joy I’ve ever seen. He hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe, saying really? really? over and over again.

By the end of the night, both our families knew. Everyone was crying, laughing, dreaming about names, baby showers, nursery colors.

It was perfect.

It was everything.

And then, it wasn’t.

A few weeks later, things changed. I started spotting—just a little, then more. I called the doctor. We did bloodwork, ultrasounds, more bloodwork. The numbers weren’t doubling the way they should. The ultrasound tech went quiet. I’ll never forget her eyes or the way she said softly, “I’m so sorry.”

It was diagnosed as an incomplete miscarriage. The pregnancy had stopped developing, but my body hadn’t recognized it yet. The gestational sac and tissue were still present, but there was no longer any cardiac activity. My heart shattered in a way I didn’t know was possible.

What followed was pain—physical, emotional, soul-deep pain. The medication, the cramping, the waiting, the bleeding. The silence. The empty feeling where there should have been life.

And yet, through it all, there was love.

Love from my husband, who held me when I couldn’t stand.

Love from my mother, who asked all the hard questions I couldn’t find words for.

Love from my doctor, who gave me her personal number and texted to check in.

And love for the tiny life that was ours, even if only for a moment.

I never understood how common miscarriage is until it happened to me. And I never realized how isolating it feels, how strange it is to walk through the world while grieving something no one can see.

If you’ve been there—if you’ve felt that quiet heartbreak that lingers long after the physical pain fades—I see you. I feel you. And I’m so, so sorry.

You are not broken. You are not alone.

Your body carried love.

Your heart carries it still.

In the weeks that followed, the world moved forward—but I didn’t. I stood still, somewhere between what was and what was meant to be. Grief didn’t arrive loudly—it showed up in whispers, woven into everyday moments: passing a mirror and touching my stomach, seeing baby clothes in a store aisle, the sound of a lullaby in a commercial.

But slowly, gently, something else began to take root.

Not hope—not yet.

But the possibility of hope.

This wasn’t the end of our story.

It was the quiet beginning of a strength I didn’t yet know I possessed.

And that is where the next chapter begins…