The Grief I Didn’t Expect

For a long time, infertility didn’t affect me the way people warned me it would.

I don’t say that lightly, and I don’t say it with pride, more with surprise. I had prepared myself for bitterness, jealousy, resentment… and instead, I felt peace. Real peace. I was able to celebrate pregnancy announcements genuinely. I could watch videos, double-tap photos, send congratulations without that familiar knot in my chest everyone talks about.

And honestly? I was grateful for that version of me.

I had reached a place where my heart was anchored in gratitude instead of timelines. My husband was finally healthy again, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. He was happy. We were healing. We were laughing. We were rebuilding joy after a season that had taken a lot out of both of us. And I meant it when I told God, “This is enough for now.”

I truly believed I had learned how to wait well.

Until recently.

Then something happened that dismantled the peace I had been standing on. It cracked open a grief I didn’t know was there, or maybe one I had been gently holding at arm’s length. All of a sudden, the very things that never bothered me… did. Pregnancy announcements started to sting. Videos I once scrolled past without a second thought suddenly left me breathless and undone.

And that shattered me in a new way, not just because of the ache itself, but because this wasn’t who I had been. I had prided myself on not being bitter. On being joyful for others. On having a “healthy perspective.” And now here I was, crying in quiet moments, feeling the weight of something I thought I had already conquered.

That’s the thing about grief, it doesn’t always show up loud and obvious. Sometimes it waits. Sometimes it’s patient. Sometimes it waits until you finally feel safe.

In Scripture, the story of Hannah has never felt more personal.

Hannah desperately wanted a child. Her womb was closed, and her pain was public. Her husband’s other wife, Peninnah, could conceive easily, and Scripture tells us she provoked Hannah because of it. Over and over again. Mocked her. Reminded her of what she lacked. Twisted the knife in a place that was already tender.

What strikes me most is that Hannah didn’t just carry infertility, she carried humiliation alongside it. Her suffering wasn’t quiet or dignified. It was exposed.

And yet, Hannah didn’t harden.

She wept. She grieved. She poured herself out before the Lord so intensely that Eli mistook her anguish for drunkenness. She didn’t polish her prayers or tidy up her emotions. She brought God the whole thing, the envy, the ache, the confusion, the desperation.

And God met her there.

Not because she earned it. Not because she said the right words. But because He is faithful.

This season has taught me that faithfulness doesn’t always look like immediate answers. Sometimes it looks like sustained presence. Sometimes it looks like God holding you together when your emotions shift without warning. Sometimes it looks like allowing yourself to feel heartbreak without letting it turn into hopelessness. 

I am learning that it is possible to grieve what you don’t have while still trusting God’s character.

I am learning that a delayed ache does not mean a weak faith.

I am learning that being triggered by something that never used to bother you doesn’t mean you’ve regressed, it might mean you’ve gone deeper.

God’s faithfulness is not threatened by my tears. His goodness is not diminished by my honesty. And His plans are not derailed by my confusion.

Hannah’s story doesn’t end with cruelty or longing. It ends with God remembering her. With God seeing her. With God being exactly who He has always been, faithful.

I don’t know what our ending looks like yet. I don’t know the timing, the details, or the how. But I know the God who writes the story. And even in this unexpected wave of grief, I am choosing to believe that He is still good, still near, and still trustworthy.

Even here.

Especially here.