Overcoming the Silence of My Miscarriages

Last year, I prayed for the Lord to reveal why I was getting so easily triggered—by conversations, songs, or even a scene in a TV show. I asked Him to guide me because, despite being in the Word, worshiping, attending, and teaching Bible studies, I could not move past certain painful experiences and childhood traumas that still haunted me.

For weeks, I wrestled with the thought. I was torn between my deep need for healing and my fear of what others might think. Would admitting my struggles make me look weak in my faith? Would it tarnish the image I had built in my church community? Deep down, I knew God was nudging me toward true restoration.

So, with hesitant obedience, I reached out for help—though only with half a heart. I collected names of counselors recommended by people I trusted, wrote them in my journal, and prayed for courage. A small hope kindled inside me—maybe God was weaving redemption into my pain, even if I couldn’t yet see it.

Be careful what you pray for. When it’s in His will, the Lord will deliver. I scheduled a couple of appointments with Christian counselors but didn’t feel peace about any of them. I still hadn’t found the one—the biblical counselor who would walk me through the unknown.

Then, at a women’s retreat, I signed up for a workshop called Journaling Through the Pain. I didn’t know why it caught my attention, but the title felt… intriguing. Tears began streaming down my face as soon as the instructor shared her testimony. I couldn’t stop crying. “What is going on? Why am I crying, Lord? Where is this coming from?” I asked in silence.

And then, His voice:

“You decided not to have any other children—that was for Me to decide. But I still gave you the gift of being a mother three times. Two are with Me now, and one—your beautiful bundle of joy—you have watched grow.”

I hadn’t thought about that season in years. I realized in that moment that I had made a hasty, selfish decision when I didn’t know the Lord. I had never asked for His forgiveness. I had never mourned my losses. I had never named my babies. This heartbreak had been locked away in my heart, and only my Heavenly Father had the key.

After the workshop, I stayed behind to speak with the biblical counselor. Through tears and a runny nose, I shared a glimpse of what I was feeling. I scheduled an appointment with her, knowing now that the Lord had already chosen who would walk beside me through this process. There was relief—trembling, yet real—in knowing I didn’t have to carry this alone.

The Journey Back to My Losses

The days that followed were filled with small, sacred steps. Every time I picked up a pen, the darkness felt a little less suffocating. I began finding spaces where I could be honest—where brokenness was met with compassion, not judgment. Each act of vulnerability, whether sharing in a prayer group or simply writing my thoughts, became a stitch in my healing.

As I prayed for healing, I sensed Him whisper:

“I am trying, but you won’t let Me into your heart.”

That truth hit hard. My pain was locked behind walls I had built for protection. For years, I believed strength meant silence—that faith required flawless composure. But God was inviting me to let Him touch the places I least wanted to expose. Vulnerability wasn’t weakness—it was the gateway to restoration.

My First Loss

I was barely seventeen, fresh out of high school, when I realized I had missed my period. With trembling hands and a pounding heart, I took a pregnancy test with my friends. Two pink lines appeared—positive. My mind raced: What am I going to do?

When morning sickness gave me away, my mother’s words cut deep:

“Wow, you are pregnant. What are people going to think? You tell your father—I’m not.”

Three months later, I began cramping and spotting. Deep down, I knew. At the hospital, the words came like stones dropped into my soul: You’re having a miscarriage. I wept for the child I would never hold, mourning the future I had already imagined.

My Second Loss

By twenty-two, I was pregnant again. This time, I kept the news to myself and my husband, promising we’d tell others only if I reached the third month. But just four weeks later, the spotting began. The ultrasound showed nothing. I had lost another baby—without warning. Grief settled in again, heavier this time. I began to wonder if I would ever be a mother.

The Gift I Kept

A year later, I gave birth to my precious daughter. The pregnancy was difficult, the delivery complicated, but she arrived—my miracle. In that sacred moment, I vowed never to try for more children. Four months later, I had my tubes tied. I told myself it was for peace. But in truth, it was fear.

Letting God In

Years later, sitting with my counselor, I realized I had never truly mourned my babies. I prayed, asking God for forgiveness for my hasty decision and releasing my grief into His hands. That surrender brought peace—a peace that comes when you let God love you in the places you’ve kept hidden.

My Girls, My Angels

Today, I hold close the names of my babies: Gabriella, who would have been 37, and Anastacia, who would have been 32. I believe they were girls—because girls run in our family. Though I never got to hold them, they live in my heart.

I remember them on the birthdays that never came, the milestones we never reached. I honor them by speaking their names, telling their story, and letting their memory bring comfort instead of sorrow.

Their legacy is one of hope and unending love. They are part of my testimony—a reminder that love endures beyond this life. I look forward to the day we are reunited. Until then, I know they are safe in the arms of our Heavenly Father.

And now, their story lives in your heart too.