When everyone else is pregnant again - but me

it hits like a physical blow to my chest

The unfairness of it all hits me. A physical blow to my chest.

Theirs was a similar story to ours in many ways, then carried on at the point we broke course. We were kinda trying, not really preventing, and we got pregnant. They were trying—but the one month they actively prevented was when they conceived.

It happened to be just days from when we miscarried.

I started bleeding at 16 weeks, and my midwife speculated that it was maybe a subchorionic hemorrhage. Harmless, not to worry, it’ll resolve on its own.

The hospital told us there was no heartbeat.

16 weeks later, they woke up to severe bleeding and headed to the hospital, expecting the worst. Instead, it turned out to be a subchorionic hemorrhage.

The rest of their pregnancy was rocky with various complications, scary news, and preparations for a long NICU stay. But, by the grace of God, they ended up with a healthy baby at the end of it.

They’re a family of four now, with a toddler—just nine days younger than ours—learning how to be a big sibling to a beautiful little baby. Somewhere, beneath the grief, I am grateful for them.

But it’s not really about them at all.

When they told us the news that they were pregnant, they told us carefully, conscious of the pain it would likely cause us just a month after losing our baby. I appreciated their tenderness, the way my friend was always aware of my hurt whenever she talked about her pregnancy. She told me she didn’t need to share about it if it was hard to hear—I told her it was okay, that her thinking of me was more than enough.

I really didn’t mind hearing about her pregnancy. But somehow, seeing the photos of them in the hospital smiling at their newest joy is harder. Much, much harder.

Because I thought I’d be pregnant again by the time they had their baby.

I thought—no, I wholeheartedly believed—I’d be pregnant again by March.
Four months ago. Which really isn’t a long time, but every month feels like sand dripping through an hourglass. Like my time is running out.

What happens when that time runs out, I have no idea. I think I’m discovering that I have these conceptions in my brain about our family’s timeline. A larger age gap between kids is bad. That anything bigger than three years apart is too far. My daughter needs a sibling now.

Maybe it’s hard because basically all of the people we know with children had them all within two years of each other. They get pregnant left and right, hardly waiting for the first birthday before intentionally conceiving again.

Maybe it’s hard because we were supposed to be in that camp, too. And now we’re not.

Now we’re waiting around wondering if we’ll ever get pregnant again. If the stress we’re under is affecting us. If I had gotten enough sleep while pregnant, would things be different.

So many questions—with no answers at all.

But as hard as it is, there’s only one thing I can do: trust God. Trust that He knows where we’re at. He knows our pain and our suffering; He sees my hope buried beneath the comparisons. His timing far exceeds ours, and His ways are not our ways. Whatever happens, He is enough.

He is El Roi—The God That Sees.

And He sees us.