Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Chapter 3: The Anger That Isn’t Yours

I never knew grief could come with such fire. I knew it would hurt. I knew it would be heavy. But I didn’t know it could make me so angry, so feral, so out of control. And the person who bears the brunt of it is the one I love most. My husband. The man who has loved me through it all, who has held my hand through everything, who has been my home, my safe space and my anchor, is the one who feels the sharp edge of my grief before anyone else.

I snap at him for no reason he can understand. I raise my voice, I say things I regret instantly, and I watch the hurt flicker in his eyes. I’m furious at the situation. I’m furious at the universe. I’m furious at the cruelty of timing, at the word non-viable, at the silence of God, at the life I had imagined being stolen before I could ever hold it. And somehow, the only safe place to land that anger is on him, even though I know it isn’t fair.

Some nights, I lie awake thinking about how my anger manifests in ways I can’t control. I cry uncontrollably, moody, frustrated, impatient, and then i start to feel shame crushing me. I watch him sit there quietly, absorbing my pain, and I feel both gratitude and guilt at once. I apologize, but words feel too small to capture the depth of the grief that fuels this anger. I want to explain that the fury isn’t him, that it’s the loss, but explanations are never enough.

I’ve realized that grief has layers I didn’t understand before. There’s sadness, of course, but there’s also this raw, scorching rage that comes from being powerless, which I’m horrible at from my childhood and past. It comes from realizing that love, as powerful as it is, isn’t always enough to protect the things we cherish most. That our bodies, our hearts, our plans, they are not immune to the randomness of life. That even when you’ve fought for decades to hold onto each other, life can still take something away without warning.

And the worst part is knowing that the anger doesn’t just hurt me. It spills outward. It touches him, affect our daughter, infest our home. It touches the moments we should be sharing in quiet love, the tender closeness of shared grief. I see him hesitate before he speaks, watch him soften his voice, try to hold back his own sorrow so that mine doesn’t overwhelm him. I know he is hurting just as much, but I can’t stop the fire inside me from lashing out.

Sometimes I think of the word non-viable as a spark in a matchbox. It ignites every grieving thought, every memory, every lost possibility, and suddenly I am unrecognizable even to myself. I’m consumed, my soul raw with frustration, pounding in my head, my chest tight, my hands trembling. It’s exhausting, and yet I can’t stop it. I can’t quiet the rage that comes from having something I loved before it could exist fully taken from me. From us.

Even so, through the anger, there’s a strange clarity. I realize that my husband’s presence is a lifeline. That the same love that created the child we lost is still here, still breathing beside me. That even when grief makes me sharp, impatient, and harsh, our love continues to exist, stubborn and unbroken. And maybe that’s what makes this bearable. Maybe the anger is part of the process: a fiery testimony to the intensity of what was taken, the depth of what I feel, and the strength of the bond that endures despite it all.

I have to remind myself to step back, to breathe, to remember that the anger is a reflection of grief, not a judgment of him. That the love that created this loss is bigger than my anger, stronger than my frustration. And even when I stumble, even when I lash out, he is still there, holding space for my heartbreak without letting it crush him completely.

I think of what this anger would look like if I didn’t have him. It would be destructive, consuming, endless. But with him, it’s tempered. Contained by the love we share. It is love expressed imperfectly, through tears and frustration, but always tethered to the truth that he is my partner, my anchor, my heart in human form. I would deem to exist without him. I’d just be surviving, like I’ve been for most of my life.

Sometimes, in the quiet after the storm, when my tears are spent and my chest finally unclenches, I feel the pulse of hope through it all. I feel the knowledge that anger and love can exist together, coexisting. That grief can sharpen you and still leave room for some bit of strength. That pain can stretch so wide it seems unbearable, and yet still fold into something that reminds you why you fight to keep going. Hope.

Losing a child before I could even hold them has taught me more about the unraveled edges of love than I ever expected. It has taught me that grief can be heavy, that anger is not weakness, that loving unconditionally can sometimes hurt as much as it heals. And most of all, it has taught me that even when I’m lashing out, even when my heart feels unrecognizable, love persists. It survives through every scream, every harsh word, every tear. It survives, anchored in the shared memory of what we lost and the devotion that made it possible in the first place. To not revert back to my old ways out of pain, but to let his light in, waving the white flag of surrender into his embrace.

I don’t know if this anger will ever fully subside. I don’t know if this grief will ever stop bursting in flames through my days. But I do know that my husband and I will navigate it together, even when it feels unbearable. That my love for him, and the love that created our lost baby, is unshakable. That this anger, however raw, is part of a journey we are walking side by side.

And somehow, holding onto that truth is enough to keep me going, even in the moments when rage threatens to consume everything I hold dear.