Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Chapter 6: The Love That Made This Loss

Love is strange. It can be the most profound force in the world, powerful enough to create life, and yet, it cannot always protect what it creates. I feel it everywhere, in every ache and heartbeat, in every thought and memory. This love, ours, is what brought our baby into existence. It is the very thing that made this loss possible. And sometimes, in my grief, that feels almost unbearable.

I think about the decades we spent apart, the years where life pulled us in different directions, the outside forces that kept us from each other. And then I remember how, against all odds, we found our way back. Against distance, against time, against circumstance, we returned to each other. The reunion was so deep, so undeniable, so full of longing fulfilled, that our love became almost tangible. Something you could touch, feel, and carry with you.

And then we created life with it. Our love, the love that survived everything, became something tiny and miraculous, a promise of the future we had both dreamed about for decades. It was the embodiment of devotion, patience, and desire. It was hope given shape, a symbol of our union, a testament to the life we built together even before the child existed. And yet, it was fleeting. It was fragile. It was taken.

Sometimes I replay the moment I realized I was pregnant. The shock, the joy, the disbelief, the trembling of my body as my heart expanded beyond what I thought it could hold. I remember telling my husband, seeing his face light up in awe and wonder, feeling the bond between us deepen even more. That love, that moment, that tiny life, was ours. And in losing it, I have come to understand just how big love can be because the grief is equal to the depth of the devotion that created it.

It’s not just romantic love. Its reverence, its awe, its faith in each other and in the life we imagined. I loved him through every obstacle, every year of waiting, every separation, every silent desire to be with him, even when we weren’t in communication, he was always that missing piece that completed my every lasting unfulfilled puzzle. That love didn’t just survive; it thrived. It created something extraordinary, and even though our baby is no longer here, the love that brought them into existence cannot be erased. It exists in the way I think of my husband, in the way I remember the hope that danced between us, in the way I still feel the connection that made this life possible. It’s a constant toggle, almost excruciating with the back and forth.

This love also brings pain. It makes every loss sharper, every sorrow more acute, every empty space more overpowering. Because love is not neutral. Love invests itself in life, in people, in moments, in possibilities. When that love is met with loss, it leaves a mark, an imprint so deep it feels like a hollow carved into your very soul. It is a pain that does not diminish over time. It shifts. It changes shape. But it is always tied to the love that created it.

Even now, I find myself marveling at how deeply we loved. At how capable we are of feeling, how willing we were to pour ourselves into something so precious. I can see it in our conversations, in the way he holds my hand, in the way he looks at me when grief threatens to overwhelm. I see it in the small gestures, the quiet ways we try to carry each other through pain, the shared acknowledgment that something beautiful existed, even if it was brief.

Sometimes I cry because of the love itself. It’s a strange, impossible pain to feel so full and yet so empty at the same time. To remember the joy and the connection and the hope, and yet also know that life has been interrupted. To feel gratitude and devastation at once. That is the complexity of love in grief. It refuses to be simple. It refuses to be ignored. It is overwhelming, consuming, relentless, and enduring. It’s out of your control… and I’m not used to that.

I hold onto this love. I honor it in the way I write, in the way I think, in the way I grieve. I remind myself that it is not weakened by loss. It is not negated by absence. The love that created this life continues to shape me, to shape our story, to remind me that even in grief, there is beauty and truth. It is proof that our hearts are capable of extreme devotion, of deep tenderness, of courage even in the face of unimaginable despair.

Sometimes I imagine our baby, surrounded by this love. Even though they are no longer with us, I like to think they feel the intensity of it, the devotion that carried them into existence. I like to think they know how wanted they were, how deeply cherished they remain. And I take comfort in that thought, small as it may be, because love transcends absence, loss, and even death in ways that are difficult to articulate but impossible to deny.

This love, powerful and enduring, also gives me a thread of hope. Hope that even in the face of loss, we are capable of surviving. Hope that the bond we share will continue to guide us through grief. Hope that our hearts, though broken, are resilient enough to hold both sadness and dedication at the same time. Love is not a guarantee against pain, but it is a lifeline. It is the reason we can endure, the reason we can carry momentary memories, the reason we can continue to breathe even when our hearts feel too heavy.

And so I hold onto this love relentlessly. I let it guide me through the rawest moments of grief. I let it remind me that even in absence, there is presence. Even in loss, there is proof of what was real and what mattered. Even when the future I imagined is gone, the love that created it continues to exist; steadfast.

The love that made this loss is not a curse. It is a testament, a constant reminder that I clearly need. Even when life does not unfold the way we dreamt, the love that existed before, during, and after that brief life cannot be taken away. It remains, a quiet, unbroken force in the midst of grief.

Even when my chest aches with grief even when tears burn my eyes, even when the world feels unbearably empty, I carry this love. It sustains me. It defines me. It reminds me that I am alive, that I am capable of feeling, that I am capable of loving so fully that it leaves a mark on the universe, even in loss.

And in that love, I find the courage to keep moving forward, feeling like I have no other choice at time. I have to remember that my daughter counts on me, my husband, myself. To breathe. To remember. To grieve. To hope. To carry my baby in memory and heart. And to carry the bond that made this life possible, unbroken and eternal, as proof that love endures, even in the face of the deepest depths of this everlasting agony.