How to Let Empty Refine Us and Not Define Us

“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.” 

My heart skipped a beat. A miscarriage landed me in the bed with low back pain and abdominal discomfort. The same as birth bangs when my daughter was born. Except there’s no baby to hold or name or take home. 

The doctor described this three-day nightmare as a natural way the ten-week-old fetus continued to exit my body. He even said this was the best case scenario to avoid a medical procedure to clear anything left behind. But I just cared about what had happened to my unborn baby and the unseen scars left behind. 

My womb not only emptied itself of the baby I dreamt would be our second child, but I also felt an undeniable emptiness—a hollow space with an echo of loss.

Months after, my empty womb threatened to rob my joy as a woman and as a mother. Sadness crept in while explaining it to my two-year-old daughter every time she asked, “Is the baby in your tummy, Mommy?” Even telling my co-workers and friends seemed daunting. And the waiting period before attempting another pregnancy seemed like forever. 

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