The Ache That Surprised Me
The morning of my appointment, something unexpected happened. In the quiet before the day began, while I was praying, words spilled out of me that I didn’t even know I had been holding. “I want more children.”
It startled me. For years, I convinced myself I didn’t. I told myself I was content, that I was done, that life as a single mother was already more than enough. I had August, my miracle, my anchor, my everything. And after the trauma of bringing him into this world, I thought it was safer to believe I didn’t want to go through it again. I buried the desire so deeply that I thought it had died.
But that morning, in prayer, it rose up and caught me off guard. A quiet admission that I do want more. I want to hold another baby. I want to see August become a big brother. I want to rewrite the story of pregnancy that was marked more by fear than joy.
Just hours later, I sat in a doctor’s office and received news that may change everything. News about my health. News about my future. News that made that fresh, fragile desire feel like it was slipping out of my hands before I ever truly got to hold it.
It felt cruel. Like God had drawn something out of me only for me to lose it in the same breath. I left that office with more than a diagnosis. I left with questions that rattled around in my chest. Is it going to be just August and me? Is this it?
The love I have for my son cannot be put into words. He is my greatest gift, my greatest joy. But pregnancy with him broke me in ways I am still healing from. It left scars no one else can see. And while I would endure it all again for him, there is a quiet ache for the experience I never had. The one filled with celebration instead of survival, anticipation instead of trauma. I feel guilty even saying that out loud, because none of what I went through was his fault. He is not the reason for the pain. He is the reason I survived it.
And yet, here I am. Staring at the possibility that there may never be another chance. That I may never carry another life inside of me.
That is when the deepest questions rise up. Not just Will I have more children? but Am I even worthy of being loved enough for someone to want children with me? What if no one ever chooses me like that? And if I hold back from doing what I need to do to be healthy, if I risk my well-being for the hope of something that may never come, what if it is all for nothing?
And I find myself asking, does having these longings mean I am doubting God? Does it make me less faithful to want to be loved, to want to build a family, to want more than what I already have? But when I sit with that, I remember that desire itself is not a betrayal of faith. It is a reflection of the way God designed us, with hearts that yearn for love and connection. Longing does not make me unfaithful. It makes me human. It brings me back to Him, again and again, with open hands.
The choice in front of me feels unbearable. To give up the possibility of more children in order to protect my health feels like losing a piece of my womanhood. To let go of that dream feels like letting go of a part of who I thought I was supposed to be. And yet to cling to it may mean sacrificing my health, my energy, and even my time with the child I already have.
It feels unfair to have to make a choice like this at 31 years old. On an ordinary Tuesday. On a day I thought would just be another appointment.
A coworker said something to me that has stayed in my heart. She told me, “Maybe God had you say those words out loud because He’s preparing you for a different kind of answer. Maybe you’ll marry someone who already has children. Maybe you’ll adopt. Maybe His plan for you will look different, but it will still be good.”
And I want to believe that. I want to believe the ache in my chest isn’t wasted. That God wasn’t cruel in drawing out this longing, but tender, making space for something I can’t yet see.
Still, I am grieving. Grieving not only the loss of what might have been, but the loss of who I thought I was. Because it is not just about children. It is about womanhood. It is about identity. It is about wondering if my body has failed me, if I am less than, if I am somehow unfinished.
But this is what I am slowly learning: my worth is not in my womb. My womanhood is not erased if I cannot carry more children. My motherhood is not less because August is my only one. My story is not defined by what I lose, but by the One who holds it all together.
It is rooted in the God who made me. The God who knows the hollow places of my heart. The God who calls me whole when I feel broken, loved when I feel unworthy, chosen when I feel forgotten.
There is a verse I keep coming back to, like a soft place to land:
“He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds.” - Psalm 147:3 (NLT)
Right now, my heart is broken. But I believe He will heal it. I believe He will bind up the places that ache. I believe He will meet me in this hollow and pour honey into it, sweetness I cannot yet imagine but that He promises will come.
So for now, I grieve. For now, I hope. For now, I hold August a little tighter and whisper prayers I cannot always put into words. Because even here, even now, even when the news changes everything, I believe God is writing something beautiful.
Lord,
You know the longings I never meant to speak out loud, and You know the weight of the news that has broken my heart. You see the ache of wondering if I will ever be chosen, if I will ever be enough, if I will ever hold again what I thought I had lost. Teach me to trust that my worth is not in my womb but in Your hands. Show me that my womanhood is not diminished and that my motherhood is not defined by numbers. Heal me in the places that feel too deep for words, and remind me that even here, You are good, and my story is not finished. Amen.
