The Grief That No One Can Explain

There’s a grief I carry that doesn’t come with flowers or casseroles.
It doesn’t have a funeral or a name on a gravestone.
But it lives in me. Quietly. Heavily.
It’s the grief of infertility.

No one prepares you for the way your heart can ache for someone who never existed.
For the month after month of silent hope and loud disappointment.
For the well-meaning comments that feel like paper cuts,
“Just relax and it’ll happen.”
“You’re still young.”
“Maybe it’s just not meant to be.”

It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t felt it,
what it’s like to grieve something invisible.
What it’s like to walk through a baby aisle and feel your chest tighten.
What it’s like to avoid baby showers, not out of jealousy, but out of preservation.

I used to think grief had to be loud.
But this one is different.
This grief is subtle. It slips into my thoughts while I'm making coffee.
It hides in the silence after a negative test.
It lingers in the space between what is… and what could have been.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

Grief and hope are not opposites.
They coexist.

For a long time, I thought I had to choose,
to either stay in the sadness or “move on” and pretend I was fine.
But now, I allow both.

I can feel the ache and still smile at a sunset.
I can cry in the shower and laugh with friends over dinner.
I can grieve the child I may never have and still live a beautiful life.

Infertility taught me to listen to my body.
To slow down.
To appreciate what I do have, love, partnership, resilience, breath.
It taught me to mother in different ways:
To nurture my dreams.
To birth new parts of myself.
To show up for others walking this invisible road.

Some days I still feel the heaviness.
But other days?
I feel light again.
Not because the grief is gone…
but because I’ve made peace with its presence.

If you’re walking through this too…
I see you.
Your pain is valid. Your story matters.
And even in the middle of your unanswered prayers,
there can still be meaning.