Before reading: This post discusses miscarriage, child loss, and the aftermath of those events.

Healing can be a strange thing, you can spend so much of your life believing there are parts of you that will never recover from the grief you once felt. Sometimes healing can be loud and captivating. Other times, God can restore parts of us so quietly that we don’t recognize the healing until we speak, and all of a sudden, we realize we are not who we used to be.

Before I get too far ahead of myself, this piece of my story requires a bit of background.

In 2017, Jake and I had been married for almost three years. We had Riley, who was a rambunctious little toddler who kept us on our toes. Jake had started a new job, and I was a stay-at-home mom. We had decided to grow our family.

It felt like it took no time at all before those two little pink lines popped up on a test. I still remember the day that test “popped positive.” I was so excited that everything was happening so quickly. Riley and I got dressed, loaded up in the car, grabbed lunch, and went to visit Jake at work to surprise him with the big news.

I showed him the test, and the joy that followed was overwhelming.

The next several weeks were spent in the precious bubble of knowing we were going to be bringing a new baby into our world. We bought Riley a “big sis” T-shirt, and she wore it as we delivered the news to our family. Pictures were taken to let our Facebook friends know our family was going from three to four. I bought all of the cute maternity shirts that would so cleverly let the world know I was expecting another sweet baby, and we spent hours planning our new future and daydreaming about the time Riley would spend with her new sibling.

I was unbelievably sick, morning sickness every single second of the day, but I didn’t care. I was just so happy. Happy to be able to have another baby to love and happy to plan for the future.

But, as we all know, sometimes those plans and dreams we have—well, they don’t come true.

Sometimes, those plans end in a cold and sterile hospital room, with each piece of that future you’ve built crumbling before your very eyes. Walls shaking. Floors giving way. A world collapsing at the sound of five words, delivered by a doctor who wouldn’t even meet your eyes:

“Your baby has no heartbeat.”

Honestly, the next few days were a blur. Doctor’s visits, hugs and visits from family and friends, flower deliveries, calls and texts…none of them really meaning much at the time.

Because I was barely breathing, drowning in an ocean of grief and plans for a future that would, now, never happen.

I could probably skip ahead to the “healed” part, the part that made me want to write this post in the first place. But I think the “grief” part matters, too. Because you can’t always understand the beauty of healing without understanding what you’ve had to walk through to get there.

Everyone grieves so differently. Miscarriage and child loss are deeply personal. I can only speak of myself and my journey.

I spent the first several weeks after our loss trying so hard to make sure that our baby was remembered that I never truly let myself grieve properly. I wanted the world to know that my baby was here, that he mattered, and that he was loved. I was so scared that this little baby, who changed our world and whom we loved so deeply, would be forgotten so quickly. Our world was changed, upended, completely wrecked, and the world seemed to forget what caused it all.

I think that’s always been one of the hardest parts about grief for me, no matter the loss: that you can be completely destroyed, your world changed forever, your heart beyond broken, a hole created so deeply by loss that you can’t ever seem to really breathe, and the whole world goes on. Life goes on. People move on. And, pretty soon? You’re expected to do the same. Like there’s a time limit to grieving a nightmare you’ve been drowning in.

I remember the moment I finally let grief in for the first time. Anger and bitterness hit me like a tidal wave. I clung to my husband, who was carrying his own grief, crying out and questioning, “How is this a part of God’s plan? Why give us a baby we couldn’t keep? A baby we’d never meet on this side of Heaven?”

Anger and bitterness were quickly followed by feelings of guilt and depression. I can’t exactly pinpoint a day or one single moment when the grief became easier to bear. There wasn’t one single turning point or huge epiphany that led to me letting go of the pain I was carrying. Instead, it was a hundred small moments linked together.

It was watching Riley grow older and spending my days pouring love into her. It was my husband, who stood steady and clung to my hand as grief tried to drag me down. It was time. Because, as cliché as it sounds, time really does make grief easier to carry.

It was God. Because His unending grace met me in the middle of my anger and in the middle of my hurt. And slowly, He began taking those broken pieces of grief, anger, and depression, replacing them with comfort, peace, and strength.

He sent us the blessing that is our Hattie, and we found out we were expecting her about six months after our loss, and her presence brought even more healing.

It’s been years since my miscarriage and the loss of our baby boy. The grief became easier to carry during those years, but grief is also a strange thing, and it can creep up on you when you’re least expecting it. During those years, I’ve had moments where pieces of anger have shown back up, shreds of guilt have made their way to the surface, and memories of a life that could have been have brought new waves of pain.

We’ve kept the memory of our baby boy alive over the years. We say his name. We speak openly about the love we hold for him. Our daughters know they have a brother in Heaven, and they know him by his name: Mason Emory.

Which leads us to the reason I wrote this story: What happens when we meet a healed version of ourselves?

A couple of weeks ago, we were settling down after dinner. Homework was being finished, and backpacks were being made ready for the next day. We were making small talk about a pregnancy announcement we saw on Facebook.

And all of a sudden, Hattie started sobbing. Not just crying, but full-body sobs. The kind of crying that leaves your body aching.

I immediately went into mom mode and began trying to understand what had happened. After our sweet girl caught her breath, she looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and said, “I was just thinking about how our baby you lost, our brother who passed away. Why couldn’t he be here with us? How hard that has to be for you and Daddy!”

You see, something you need to know about Hattie—she feels everything. She came into this world as pure sunshine. I always say the good Lord and her angel brother placed actual sunshine in her soul when she was given to us.

She is so completely empathetic and so understanding of her feelings and the feelings of those around her. Not only is she understanding, but she cares. She cares if you’re sad or hurting, and she hurts right along with you.

And this sweet child was hurting as she tried to understand the pain of the loss we had felt when we lost her brother.

I took a moment before answering because, honestly? I was speechless. Never in my life had I expected her heart to be hurting over this loss.

I was ready for all of those familiar feelings to come flooding back. Ready to feel that bit of anger and hurt prick my heart, to hear the crack of my voice as I tried to fight back the tears while talking about the loss that changed my very existence.

But do you know what I was met with instead?

A peace that overflowed from my soul, strength that I had never felt before, and grace that led me to discover healing.

I was able to pull Hattie into my lap and speak of her brother from a place of love and peace. I told her how blessed we were to have had her brother, even though time was short. That our loving Heavenly Father thought so much of us and knew that we would love our baby boy so deeply that He gave us the gift of being his parents.

And what a beautiful thing to know, thhat He thinks of us and loves us that much.

I was able to tell her that I found peace in knowing her brother spent his life loved and protected, safe from this world. And what a beautiful life that was to have.

How beautiful it is that the first thing his little eyes saw was the face of Jesus.

I think about who I was all those years ago. That woman who was still a new wife and mother, whose world came crashing down. The woman carrying the full weight of grief and guilt and loss. The woman who held all of that anger and bitterness close to her like a shield. The one completely lost in her pain.

If I could go back and talk to her, tell her that God and time truly do bring healing, would she believe me? Would she let go of any of that pain she was carrying? Would she reclaim the joy of this life a little faster? Would the healing come sooner? Would she have to go through as much as she did to get to that healed version of herself?

But then again, I guess that’s the thing about it. You have to go through it.

Grief is a journey, with each step leading you toward healing. Every moment is shaping you into exactly who you’re meant to be.

I think about all the other versions of me, the ones who haven’t quite met their healing. The ones still grieving, still hurting, still working on forgiving, still reaching out for grace, still on that journey. And, I wonder, will there ever be a time when I will meet each of those healed versions of me?

Isaiah 43:2 says “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”

We are not promised a life without pain or heartache. As sure as the sun rises…hard seasons will come, loss will happen, grief will overcome us, and hurt will bring pain. Instead, we are promised that our Heavenly Father will be with us through it all.

And I am reminded that the journey is where God will meet you, with His unending grace, to guide you through to your healing.