And Finally...

on living a fragile new hope, one day at at time

Outside my window a steady stream of water drop drop drop’s onto the metal downspout jutting away from the house. It snowed this morning, most of which has already seeped into the driveway, the rest melting off the roof and dropping from the tree branches at random.

We’re having our “quiet time” — otherwise known as the only time during the day I really have to write. It comprises of me sitting nearby as my daughter steps about her room getting mad when her Legos don’t fit together quick enough. I’m interrupted often to calm her down or help her fix something, and occasionally I get some worthwhile words in. Occasionally.

This time, I’m trying to work out how one writes about something so precious, so fragile it feels as if putting it on a page might be the end of it — like the act of fitting it into words will be too much for it to handle. I know these are all silly, irrational feelings, and writing it out has no true impact.

Though it does make it more real.

The reality is what scares me. The reality of having it before only to unexpectedly, devastatingly lose it. The reality of hoping for it again, month after month, to no avail. Those months dragged their feet as they passed me, slowly mounding together into one big, looming year.

One. Whole. Year.

And finally…

…I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant.

Writing those words pulls a sigh from my chest as something deep within me releases a little. Every time I say it, every time I think it, I feel it stir.

There’s both too many feelings and none at all.

Too much to talk about with nothing to say.

I was five weeks along when I began these words, seven weeks along¹ as I finish it. Plenty of women don’t find out until later on — but I found out at three weeks. It’s such an early, tender, terrifying time, each day bringing the smallest bit more of hope.

One more day.

             Just one more day.

Pregnancy after loss is both easier and harder than I expected. At first I couldn’t bring myself to think on it for too long, though I’d expected to be completely consumed by it. Now, it’s nestled itself in the back of my mind, a constant thought — sometimes fully realized, sometimes just a feeling.

I cling to each new symptom. Fatigue and nausea are welcome reminders and indicators that my hormones are strengthening. The several tests I’ve taken rest together in the bathroom cupboard, their lines dark and prominent — another encouragement.

Time seems to have come screeching to the aggravatingly slow pace of a snail. Each day feels like a week, each week like a month. It doesn’t help that I found out so early; somehow it’s been a month since we learned, but I’m barely halfway through the first trimester.

There’s no timeline, no finish line of relief until this baby is actually in my arms. I don’t know what this pregnancy will be like or how it will go — the due date and baby names and gender guesses almost feel like wishful thinking, somehow.

But this much I do know:

The Lord is the One that opens the womb,
the One that keeps it closed.
He is the One that knows what is true,
and what my soul’s afraid of.

The Lord is the One that knows how this will end,
what lies in store at the end of the road.
My God holds me close, in the palm of his hand,
in Him I can fearlessly hope.

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Thank you for being here friends. Substack, besides close family and friends, is the first place I’ve said anything about this pregnancy. It is still so early and tender, but I have been vulnerable about our journey here so far and truly felt eager to share. Thank you all for being a place I can share something like this — it means the world.

And if you find yourself in the same place that I was this past year, I want you to know that I’m praying for you. Do whatever you need to do to protect your heart, be it muting or unfollowing or skipping past my pregnancy posts. And never, ever forget to keep hoping.

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© 2025 Sol. All words solely the work of the author (and never AI).

1. 10 weeks, as I publish this!