The Story Between Storms

April 29

In September, I found out I was pregnant.
One missed pill. That’s all it took.
One skipped moment in the middle of routine chaos—
and just like that, I was carrying life again.

My hands shook when I held the test.
Not because I didn’t want it.
But because I did.
And that terrified me.

How do you hope again after heartbreak?
How do you let joy back in when grief is still renting space in your chest?

---

They gave me a due date: May 24.

And my breath caught in my throat.
Because my daughter’s funeral was on May 12.
Twelve days later, I was expected to deliver new life.

A new baby.
A new beginning.
While still aching from the weight of goodbye.

That’s not poetic timing.
That’s the kind of timing that splits your soul in half.

---

People celebrated the news.
They saw it as restoration. Redemption. A sign that “God makes all things new.”

But no one talks about how trauma shadows your joy.
No one talks about the guilt that comes with hoping again.
No one tells you how exhausting it is to be both excited and terrified, every single day.

Because I wanted this child.
But I feared this story.

---

The doctors had warned us to wait.
They told us I needed at least a year—to let my body heal, to let my heart breathe.
But now here I was, just months later, pregnant again.
With a womb that still remembered surgery.
And a heart that still remembered loss.

And I couldn’t help but ask:
God, are You sure this time?

Are You sure I’m strong enough?
Are You sure my body can handle this?
Are You sure my soul won’t shatter again?

Because I’ve trusted You before.
And You let my baby die.
So why would this be different?

---

This pregnancy has not been easy.
Not physically. Not emotionally. Not spiritually.

It has been a series of anxiety attacks disguised as doctor’s visits.
A string of silent prayers I wasn’t even sure You heard.
A tug-of-war between fear and faith, played out in the same breath.

Some days I talk to You.
Other days, I go completely quiet.
But even in the silence—I know You’re still here.
Even if I don’t always want You to be.

---

I’m not writing this from the other side.
I don’t know the ending yet.

But I do know this:

I’m carrying again.
Not just a child—
but the weight of every memory, every fear, every whisper of faith I’m trying to recover.

And somehow, through all of that,
I’m still showing up.

Still breathing.
Still walking.
Still waiting for peace to meet me in the middle of it all.