For the Ones Who Are Still Waiting

There is a quiet kind of courage in continuing. In waking up every day with your heart still tender and choosing to hope again anyway. If you are holding your breath in the space between loss and life — this is for you.

Maybe you’ve experienced the kind of grief that rearranges everything. The kind that doesn’t show on the outside but touches every moment of your day. Maybe your body has held more goodbyes than it ever should have. Maybe you’ve heard the words “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat” — or maybe your story ended in silence, in confusion, in a kind of aching that can’t fully be named.

Grief after pregnancy loss doesn’t move in a straight line. It loops. It lingers. It can settle in places you didn’t expect — your shoulders, your breath, your calendar, your thoughts while standing in line at the grocery store.

And then, maybe, comes the decision to try again. Or maybe that decision was made for you — in a moment, in a rush of hope, or without much planning at all. However, you arrive at the doorstep of what if again, the waiting begins. And this wait is different than before.

This time, your body might feel like a battlefield and a sanctuary at once. This time, you know more than you did before. You know about the fragility of things. You know that nothing is promised. You know the exact weight of what’s at stake.

It can feel impossible to relax into that. To surrender to a process that once hurt you. So, you might become hyper-aware, overly careful. You monitor every symptom. You become fluent in the language of reassurance — heartbeats, numbers, early scans, statistics.

And even with all that — it still feels like you’re holding your breath.

To those who are in that space, I want to say something plainly: You are doing so much more than most people will ever understand. This kind of waiting is not passive. It is a full-body, full-soul effort. It takes enormous strength to stay here — to stay soft, to stay present, to stay pregnant, to stay open to the possibility of joy again.

You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. You don’t have to feel grateful all the time. You don’t have to push down your fear in order to “deserve” this new beginning.

You are allowed to feel both joy and terror. You are allowed to protect your heart and love the life inside you. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to ask for help. You are allowed to take it one hour, one breath, one heartbeat at a time.

And if no one has told you this lately: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not too much. You are not alone.

Your story is still being written — in quiet bravery, in slow healing, in the smallest moments of hope. You are worthy of peace and gentleness as you walk this road. And however this chapter unfolds, I am holding space for you.

With so much tenderness,

Victoria

I am allowed to carry both hope and fear. I trust my body, even when it feels hard. I am doing enough. I am enough. This moment is sacred, and I am not alone.