I sat in the bathroom looking at a negative pregnancy test. I had deeply believed, hoped, and felt it would be positive.
The grief came in a wave, and the peak of the sadness carried years of IVF treatments, the ache of getting older, and the softness of watching my only child grow out of her baby stage. I started questioning my intuition, body, and faith. I questioned what it meant to be connected to something greater. On top of it all, I now had to manage both motherhood and grief.
When facing heartbreak, my old pattern was to isolate, close the door, and cry quietly. I would wallow in the story that I was broken, unlucky, or somehow being punished. As familiar as this narrative is, and as easy as it would be to fall into the coziness of that pattern, I no longer wanted that to be my story.
This time, I did something different with my grief and heartache.
When I felt the wave of grief rise, I let it wash over me, regardless of who was around, including my daughter. She’s 2.5 years old, curious, intuitive, and emotionally attuned. And when the tears came, I didn’t hide them. I didn’t wipe them away quickly or offer a made-up excuse for why they were there. When she asked, “Are you okay, Mama?” I simply said, “I’m sad right now, and I need to cry.”
She looked at me. Not with fear or confusion, but with recognition.
Then she asked, “Do you want a hug?”
I said yes. She wrapped her arms around me, and we stayed like that for a moment. And just like that, she toddled off to play. As she left me on the couch, vulnerable and tear-streaked, it was clear she knew two things: 1) she was not responsible for fixing my feelings, and 2) she could offer what was within her power—a hug.
And that was enough.
As parents, we often wish we could protect our children from pain. But in doing so, we may inadvertently be gaslighting them from their real-life experiences. The truth is, life will bring pain, loss, disappointment, and confusion to everyone. What our children need is not the illusion that everything is always okay, should be okay, or must become okay as quickly as possible—but the tools and examples to navigate what happens when it’s not.
My daughter isn’t afraid of big feelings—because I’m learning not to be afraid of mine.
By letting her see my sadness, I was modeling that grief is not something to be feared, fixed, or shoved into the dark. That sadness doesn’t have to be hidden behind a smile. That motherhood and grief can coexist. That a family can hold space for all emotions without shame, guilt, or fear.
And what I didn’t realize until afterward is that I wasn’t just making our home a safe space for her to feel—I was making it a safe space for me, too.
Loss, especially on a fertility journey, is layered and complex. But I’ve come to believe that two things can be true: it sucks and it’s valid to cry about it, AND I can stay grounded in my worth and the truth that I am always safe, always led, even in the absence of understanding.
» » » » » » » RELATED READ: Why I Cry in Front of My Kids and You Should Too « « « « « « « «
This experience wasn’t only about a pregnancy test. It was an opportunity to step into resilience, motherhood, and grief, and show up for myself and my daughter in a moment of heartbreak. And how, in doing so, I created something quietly powerful: a home where authenticity is allowed to breathe.
