Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Chapter 5: The Gaping Hole

There is a space inside me now that no one else can see, a hollow that stretches wide and deep, carved out by grief. It is a gaping hole, one that swallows me whole in quiet moments, in crowded rooms, in the middle of a mundane day. It is not just sadness. It is the absence of something I have loved with every fiber of my being, the absence of a tiny life that should have been, the absence of the future we imagined.

I feel it first in my chest. A weight that presses down until I feel like I cannot breathe. My ribs tighten, my stomach twists, my skull feels like a delicate glass orb on the verge of shattering. Sometimes I have to hold myself upright just to keep from collapsing into the floor. Grief is not something that lives only in the mind. It lives in the body, in the muscles, the heart, the air I breathe. Every part of me knows what has been lost. Every part of me aches.

People try to comfort me, but they cannot fill this hole. They offer words, hugs, advice, gentle attempts to soothe what they cannot see. And I appreciate it, I really do. But nothing can reach this emptiness. Nothing can replace what was never fully mine to begin with, feeling at an arms length. So close but yet so far. Even my own words feel insufficient. Even the act of writing them cannot capture the magnitude of what is missing.

I try to picture what it would have been like, and the imagining is almost unbearable. I see tiny fingers, curled in sleep. I hear soft breaths, faint and fragile. I feel the warmth of a body against mine that will forever create a bond, skin to skin, it will never exist in reality for this baby or us. I imagine their first words, first steps, the eyes that would have reflected our love back at us, and the hole inside me stretches even wider, as if my imagination is both a gift and a curse.

The world does not pause for this grief. Life continues in its constant rhythm. Babies laugh, parents celebrate, milestones pass without me. Every ordinary moment is a reminder of the extraordinary loss I carry. The hole is not quiet. It echoes, loudly and insistently, in every space where my baby should have been.

I try to fill it with thoughts, with memories, with love. I hold onto the image of the tiny life that existed, even briefly, inside me. I hold onto the love my husband and I shared, the decades of devotion that made this loss so profound. I remind myself that this hole, as crushing as it is, is evidence that something beautiful existed here. Something worth loving, worth grieving, worth remembering. Even with the short period of time that existed. It was such a precious thing, the morning sickness, distinct cravings, pure exhaustion and the exceptionally comfy pregnancy pillow I created a nightly routine with.

Even so, the emptiness is relentless. It creeps into ordinary tasks, ordinary conversations.

Grief also makes me angry. Angry at fate, angry at circumstance, angry at my own helplessness. Why give me a love so strong, a desire so deep, a life so cherished, only to take it away before it ever began? The hole is not just absence. It is a mirror reflecting the unfairness of the world, the cruelty of timing, the fragility of hope. The weight of time often comes with an unspoken expectation: there’s a certain when it feels like you should be starting a family (which I’m no stranger to) but if you miss that window, it can feel like it’s too late. It’s a constant push and pull, where society tells you to wait for the “right time” only to realize that the opportunity may slip away before getting that chance with my husband.

Through it all, the hole is also a connection. It connects me to my baby, to the love that created them, to the depth of emotion that only loss can bring. It reminds me that I am capable of unconditional love, that my heart is not closed, that even in emptiness, there is still space for devotion. The gaping hole does not erase the life that existed. It amplifies it, holding every imagined milestone, every heartbeat, every moment of joy that will never be lived.

I have tried to fill it with distraction, with work, with routine. I have tried to ignore it, to push it away, to pretend the emptiness is smaller than it feels. But the hole cannot be surpassed. It grows when I neglect it, shrinks only when I acknowledge it. I have learned to hold it gently, to cradle it in my mind and heart, to let myself feel it fully.

Sometimes I think the hole will define me forever. That it will always be part of who I am, a permanent space in my heart and soul. And perhaps it will. Perhaps grief is not something that ever truly disappears. But I also think it can teach me. It can show me the depth of love I am capable of. It can show me the strength I carry. It can remind me, every day, of the tiny life that was loved, even in absence, even in loss.

The gaping hole is not a void that can be filled by anything external. It is not something to be patched or covered. It is a sacred space, a testament to love, a marker of loss, a place where memory and longing exist side by side. And in learning to carry it, I learn to carry the love, the grief, and the hope that remain intertwined, even though it’s a sliver of it.

Even when it swallows me whole, I carry it with me. Even when the emptiness is overwhelming, I hold onto the thread that ties me to the baby I lost, to the love that created them, to the life that could have been. This hole is mine to carry, but it is also mine to honor, to remember, to cherish.

And so, I live with the pain and I breathe through it, I walk through it, I write through it. The gaping hole is both the heaviest burden and the most intense proof of love, a space that will never be filled, yet will never be forgotten. It is the measure of what I loved, and the reflection of what continues to shaped me, as I live through these moments.