Finding Forty

Going deep today, but I feel led to share, so here goes.

In October 2022, we lost a pregnancy.

And I’m embarrassed to admit what came next.

I sighed a breath of relief.

Even typing that feels ugly.

We were in the thick of fostering. At that point, the goal of the case was adoption. We loved those boys. We had spent years praying for children, and suddenly we were staring at a future where we might become a family in a way we hadn’t expected.

And then I was pregnant.

It was too much to hold at once.

How many children would we have? What would adoption look like? What would another baby mean? Could we do all of it?

I was overwhelmed.

So when that pregnancy ended, there was grief.

But there was relief too.

And I didn’t really let myself grieve because how do you grieve something you’re also relieved happened?

Still, that pregnancy gave me something before it left.

Hope.

For the first time in a long time, I knew pregnancy wasn’t completely implausible for us.

There were options.

There was hope for our family no matter which direction the foster care story went.

I didn’t name that baby.

Honestly, I barely gave myself permission to acknowledge that there had been a baby to name.

And now, almost four years later, I think I grieve that baby more than I did then.

Not long after that loss, everything changed again.

The goal for our foster boys moved from adoption to reunification.

And I praised God.

Their mom was turning it around.

They longed for her.

There was something incredibly beautiful about watching the way those children loved their mother. Completely. Unconditionally.

I had started foster care reunification-minded. Ultimately, that was what I wanted for them too.

But two years is a long time to live with your own future on hold.

We loved them.

We wanted what was best for them.

And our own family planning was pressing.

Those things were all true at the same time.

Then, in early 2023, I got pregnant again.

Liam.

Except he wasn’t Liam yet.

He was Franklin.

Because after losing pregnancies, I knew how easily babies disappeared.

And I was terrified.

My number one goal during that pregnancy was to give my baby a name.

The October baby didn’t have one. When little moments of grief would unexpectedly find me, that bothered me more than I expected.

There wasn’t even a name.

So this baby would have one.

I rubbed my belly and called him Franklin.

But I chose Franklin very intentionally.

It was a name I knew I probably wouldn’t actually use if we brought him home.

That’s hard to admit too.

I wanted my baby to have a name.

I just wasn’t brave enough yet to give him his name.

I went to Peek-a-Boo every month.

Sometimes more.

I needed to see him.

Then eventually I could feel him, and every kick gave me a moment of relief.

He’s still here.

He’s still here.

He’s still here.

I lived from reassurance to reassurance.

And somewhere far into the depths of that pregnancy, I finally let Franklin become Liam.

I wish I could say I enjoyed that pregnancy.

But the truth is, I was too afraid to deeply love that baby.

Not because I didn’t love him.

Because I loved him so much that I was terrified of what would happen to me if I let myself fully feel it and then lost him too.

I thought maybe keeping one little piece of my heart guarded would make losing him survivable.

Then Liam came home.

And eventually there was another positive pregnancy test.

Too soon.

My body wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t ready.

And there was that feeling again.

Here we go again.

Then we lost that pregnancy too.

And once again…

relief.

There it is.

That word I wish wasn’t part of my story.

But it is.

Relief and loss.

Gratitude and grief.

Wanting a baby and knowing the timing wasn’t right.

I’ve spent a lot of years believing those feelings weren’t supposed to exist together.

But they did.

And then came Elias.

By the time I carried him, something in me had changed.

I had learned that guarding my heart hadn’t actually protected it.

Loving Liam cautiously wouldn’t have made losing him hurt less.

Fear hadn’t protected me.

It had only taken pieces of the experience from me while he was safely there.

And I didn’t want to do that again.

So my prayer for Elias was different.

I remember it so clearly.

No matter how long he lives inside of me, I’m going to love him.

Deeply love him.

That was it.

Not, God, promise me I get to keep him.

Because I knew by then that there are no guarantees like that.

I just wanted to love him for every single day I was given.

If I got weeks, I wanted him loved for weeks.

If I got months, I wanted him loved for months.

And if somehow I was blessed enough to get a lifetime…

I’d love him for that too.

I still worried.

I still checked.

I still held my breath.

Choosing love didn’t magically make me fearless.

It just meant I wasn’t going to let fear decide how much of my heart my baby was allowed to have.

And now here I am.

Both of my boys are here.

And strangely, it’s now that some of the grief finds me.

Grief for babies I didn’t name.

Grief mixed with guilt because sometimes loss brought relief.

Grief for the pregnancy with Liam that I spent waiting for something terrible to happen instead of allowing myself to believe he might really be mine.

And overwhelming gratitude for the babies I eventually got to bring home.

Maybe grief doesn’t always come when the loss happens.

Sometimes you’re surviving.

Sometimes life is too complicated.

Sometimes there are foster children who need dinner and baths and bedtime.

Sometimes there’s another pregnancy.

Sometimes you’re just trying to make it to the next ultrasound.

And maybe grief waits.

Until you’re ready.

Until life gets quiet enough.

Until years later you’re looking at the children you were eventually blessed to hold and suddenly wondering about the ones you didn’t.

I don’t fully know why this is on my heart so heavily right now.

But I feel led to stop pretending the complicated parts aren’t part of my testimony too.

I have been relieved by pregnancies ending.

I have felt guilty for that relief.

I have been so afraid of losing a baby that I was afraid to completely surrender myself to loving him.

And I have prayed over another baby:

No matter how long I get you, I will love you.

None of those truths erase the others.

Maybe that’s what I’m finally learning.

Grief isn’t proof that I wasn’t grateful.

Relief isn’t proof that I didn’t love.

Fear isn’t proof that my faith wasn’t strong enough.

Sometimes they simply existed together.

And maybe the babies I never named deserve this much from me now:

To acknowledge that they were here.

That they changed me.

That their very short lives became part of the mother I eventually became.

And that even if it took me years to understand it—

they were loved too.