Life After Loss

August 29, 2025

You don’t know what you don’t know—until you’re living it.

Five months ago, I was deep in grief. Now, I’m entering the whirlwind of IVF, and it feels like getting hit with a double dose of emotional and mental overload. To be honest, I think an IVF cycle should officially count as a full-time job. Between the appointments, paperwork, learning curves, and emotional swings—this process has taken over so much of my time, headspace, and heart.

But here I am: cautiously and hopefully preparing for my first egg retrieval cycle this September.

The cost of IVF alone is enough to make your eyes water (more on that in another post). I’ve joked more than once about selling feet pics to cover it—only to be promptly shot down by my husband. Apparently, that particular side hustle is off the table.

But beyond the financials, IVF is demanding in ways you don’t see coming. I’ve spent hours on the phone with doctors and insurance, in waiting rooms, watching educational videos, and signing documents I barely understand. At this point, I’m pretty sure I could teach a beginner’s course on genetics and female reproduction. I know more about rare genetic diseases than any first-grade teacher ever needs to.

The professionals we’ve worked with—our doctors, the genetic counselors—are some of the most brilliant people I’ve ever encountered. And yet I constantly find myself feeling like Michael Scott asking to be told information like a five year old with a lemonade stand.

What’s surprised me the most, though, is that I’m not drowning in stress like I thought I’d be. Instead, I feel a strange kind of peace—an open-handed hope for what’s to come. But even with that peace, fear still sneaks in. I think it always will.

Grief is like a shadow. You don’t always notice it, but it’s there, following you around quietly. It shows up in certain thoughts, in unexpected memories. It’s become part of me. And now, I’m learning to live in that tension between hope and fear—between loss and longing.

I still dream about ten tiny fingers and toes, toothy grins and baby giggles, first steps, and sticky kisses. But sometimes I feel guilty for wanting those things again—like they were meant only for Jack. I wrestle with that more often than I’d like to admit.

When our daughter Nora was born, a dear friend made her a beautiful art piece that still hangs in her room. On it is a verse from Deuteronomy 31:6:

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid, for the Lord your God goes with you.”

It was the first Bible verse Nora ever memorized, reciting it in her sweet little voice. I wonder now if God gave us that verse early, knowing we’d need it more deeply later.

Now, as we step into this unknown chapter, we hold onto that promise more than ever. It reminds me that I can take a leap of faith—even in something as foreign (and overwhelming) as IVF. I can hope again, even while missing Jack every moment of every day. I can be strong, believing Jack is whole and healthy now. And I can be courageous—not just for myself, but for the possibility of another beautiful addition to our family.

IVF is not just about science and schedules. It’s about faith. It’s about resilience. It’s about learning to hold grief in one hand and hope in the other—and somehow finding balance.

So, here we go. September is coming fast, and so is the next chapter of this story.

If you’re walking through IVF, loss, or anything in between—know that you’re not alone. There’s room here for both the pain and the hope. And if you’ve been through this already, or you’re in the middle of it, I’d love to hear your story too.

Let’s keep showing up for each other—with courage, kindness, and maybe just a little bit of humor (feet pics optional).