When Hope Hurts, and Faith Still Stays

This post is a reflection on grief, faith, and hope after loss. It is shared tenderly and without answers.

I knew there was a possibility that this wouldn’t work.
I wasn’t naïve about the odds. I understood the science, the statistics, and the uncertainty that comes with fertility journeys.

And still—I hoped.

I spoke hope out loud. I prayed with my whole heart. I believed that maybe this time, everything would fall into place. When you’ve walked a long road, hope becomes both your anchor and your ache.

I’m not angry with God. I never was.
What I feel instead is grief—the quiet kind that settles into your chest and makes you question things you thought were already answered.

I find myself torn between trying again and admitting that I don’t know if I have the capacity to do so. Financially. Mentally. Emotionally. There is a kind of exhaustion that comes from repeated hope, especially when the outcome doesn’t change.

People say to “remain hopeful,” but sometimes hope feels too heavy to carry. Sometimes the bravest thing is not pushing yourself to believe more, but allowing yourself to rest where you are.

There have been moments where I’ve blamed my body—thinking that even with medical support, it somehow failed me. I know that isn’t the full truth, but grief has a way of distorting perspective. It pulls old doubts to the surface and asks painful questions: Did I wait too long? Did I make the wrong choices? Is this my fault?

These thoughts are not convictions—they are wounds speaking.

Despite everything, I am grateful. Grateful that I had the opportunity to try. Grateful for the care I received. Grateful for the family I already have and the love that surrounds me now.

And even in this broken place, I still believe something important: I am not alone. God is with me in this grief—not disappointed, not distant. Just present.

I don’t know what the future holds, and for now, I’m allowing myself not to decide. I’m learning that closure doesn’t always come with answers—sometimes it comes with compassion toward yourself.

This chapter ends here. Not because hope was wrong, but because it was real. And loving deeply, even when it hurts, is never a failure.

Hope showed up—and that mattered.