Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Chapter 7: Losing Faith, Searching Anyway

Grief has a way of shaking everything you thought was steady. It doesn’t just touch your heart; it rattles your beliefs, your sense of safety, the framework of meaning you carried through life. I find myself questioning everything, wondering how something so cruel could exist, how life could be so fragile, how hope could be offered and then snatched away. The word non-viable doesn’t just describe a loss; it challenges everything I believed about fairness, about love, about the divine or higher order I had always trusted in some vague, quiet way.

I have never been taught or raised with religion, but I have always believed in God something that holds us, that sees us, that understands the depth of our love and loss. I have called out to God, the universe, higher powers, fate. I prayed for gratitude never asking for anything in return because I don’t believe it works that way. And yet, after this loss, I find myself staring into a void of doubt. How could a force allow something so precious to be taken? How could love, even ours, not be enough to preserve it? My faith feels fragile, splintered, like glass that has cracked under unbearable pressure.

There are moments when I am angry at God, or the universe, or fate. I want to scream, to throw something, to demand answers I know will never come. How could this happen? How could a life I wanted with every part of me be ended before it began? I feel abandoned in a way I never expected, isolated in a grief that seems beyond comprehension. I want guidance, reassurance, a sign that this pain has purpose, that it is not meaningless. And yet there is silence, a heavy, suffocating silence that echoes the absence of my baby.

And still, amidst the doubt and anger, there is a flicker of searching. Even when faith wavers, I cannot help but reach for something beyond myself. I cannot stop believing that there is some order, some meaning, some whisper of purpose even if I cannot see it clearly, now. It is a small thread, fragile and trembling, but it persists. I search for it in the quiet moments, in the breath between tears, in the love that remains. I search for it in the way my husband holds me, in the memory of the tiny sac that was, in the thought that perhaps my baby knows they were cherished even in truancy.

Faith, I am learning, is not always about certainty. It is about continuing to reach, even when the answers do not come. It is about holding onto the possibility of hope when hope seems impossible. It is about believing that love matters, even when life does not make sense. It is about trusting, even when the world feels unbearably heavy. And that is what I cling to — not clear answers, not miracles, not explanations, but the persistent whisper that there is something beyond this grief that matters, something beyond the hollow ache that continues to shape me.

I pray, even in my doubt. I pray to the universe, to God, to hope itself. I pray that my baby is safe, that they know love, that the connection we shared, brief as it was, is honored. I pray that my husband and I can survive this, that our hearts can endure the shockwaves of loss without fracturing completely. I pray for the courage to carry forward, to find light in the shadow, to feel love again even when my soul is shattered.

And there are moments when the search itself is enough. It is not the answers, not the certainty, not the proof, but the act of reaching that matters. The very act of believing, even when I do not understand, becomes a kind of sustenance. It is a tether to possibility, another lifeline that reminds me that the world, even in its cruelty, is not entirely void of hope. Even in the darkness, the human heart has the capacity to search, to seek, to hold onto something greater than itself.

Grief has taught me that faith is not always about resolution. Sometimes it is about acceptance, about acknowledging that we do not have control, that love is not always enough, that life can be cruel beyond imagination. Sometimes faith is about allowing yourself to feel fully, to grieve fully, and to continue searching for meaning despite it all. Sometimes faith is about trusting that the threads of love and hope remain, even when everything else has shifted.

I see it in the way my husband and I hold each other, in the quiet recognition of shared sadness and grief, in the unspoken understanding that some losses cannot be healed, but can be carried. I see it in the memory of my baby, in the love that created them, in the moments we imagined together. Even in despair, there is proof of what was real.

And slowly, tentatively, I begin to understand that faith does not have to be grand or absolute. It can be quiet. It can be fragile. It can exist in small moments, a sigh of relief after tears, a smile exchanged in memory of love, a heartbeat felt in shared silence. It can be enough to sustain me, to guide me through grief, to remind me that I am not alone even when the world feels unbearably heavy. To allow myself to bask in the glory of knowing I have an incredible partner that will help me through. We are the strength that deems us and to protect a rare love that is just ours and know that we can get through anything.

I may never fully understand why this loss happened. I may never find the answers I crave. But I do know that love, even in its fragility, persists.

Grief and faith coexist in ways I never imagined. They are not opposites. They are intertwined, I will keep believing in us, our love, in hope, in the presence of something greater, even when the answers are silent and the world is heavy with loss.

In the search, I find myself again. In the reaching, I feel the pulse of life that remains. In the faith that persists, however small, I discover the courage to continue, to breathe, to love, to grieve, to hold memory and together in a way that honors what was lost and what endures.

And so, even when I am unsure, even when doubt threatens to consume me, I continue. I search anyway. I believe anyway. I love always. And in that, I find the persistent light of hope that guides me through the darkness, even as the echo of loss continues to shape my every step moving forward.