Five days ago I found myself sitting with my husband in a small, dimly lit room waiting for an
anesthesiologist to stop by and insert an IV into my arm.

After weeks of blood tests, ultrasounds, and doctor’s visits, we had come to this moment yet again. Nine weeks into a pregnancy and nothing but a heart full of grief to show for it. So here I was, waiting to be whisked away to an operating room for surgery to make this nightmare finally end.

We all thought this pregnancy was going to be different. It started off great. HCG levels doubling every two days. Progesterone level perfect. Morning sickness right on schedule. First ultrasound: normal. Second ultrasound: expected growth. Third ultrasound: I’m sorry but your pregnancy has stopped progressing. We don’t know why.

I thought I’d already hit rock bottom before. I thought I’d already been through my dark night of the soul, several times over.


This fourth miscarriage brought me to a whole new low, one that unleashed a seething rage I’ve never experienced before. (We’re talking want-to-drive-my-car-off-the-road angry.) They say that God only gives you what you can handle. That whatever hurts you only makes you stronger.

Fuck that.
I’m tired of dealing with “what I can handle.”
I’m tired of being strong.
I’m tired of staying positive.
I’m tired of praying for miracles that don’t happen.
I’m tired of relying on a universe that doesn’t feel like it’s helping me.
I’m tired of feeling abandoned when I need help the most.
I’m tired of believing that there’s a reason why all of this is happening.

Even if there is a reason that I’m not able to understand now, that doesn’t make any of this experience easier. Infertility and three years of failed pregnancies has pushed me to my limits emotionally, mentally, physically, and spiritually, and I AM TIRED. Force that Little Engine That Could over the  Mountain a few too many times and his engine’s gonna burst into flames. I’m a resilient woman, but I  have my limits. I’m human. I cry uncle.

Right now I am far from okay. Though I have no physical scars from surgery, the wounds on my soul are fresh and run deep. I’ve never felt so disconnected from source before. I’ve never been so angry at God. I’ve never felt compelled to tell the universe to fuck off before, but now? The words flow out so easily and vehemently.

I’m not proud of it. I don’t like it. But it’s my truth in this moment. I’m sure my truth will shift eventually. For now though, I’m giving myself permission to feel like a victim, to curse at the world, to rage at the injustice. It’s okay to live in this space for as long as I need. I’m just going to be however I am through his phase of my journey. I think that’s the best thing any of us can do in times of turmoil.  Let yourself feel. let yourself be.  And love yourself through it