One question you slowly learn to stop asking is, “God, why?” and begin to whisper instead, “God, what for?”
That shift doesn’t come easily. It takes countless nights of crying, prayers that turn into silence, and the slow, steady encouragement of loved ones who hold you when you can no longer hold yourself together.

For me, that shift began somewhere along my journey with infertility—a path I never imagined I would know so intimately. I have recently lost my fourth pregnancy. The little and precious thing that my partner and I were ready to meet, to love, to raise. As much as I know I am not the only one who has gone through such loss, I often wonder: how many of us truly feel free to speak about the shame, the questions, and the fear of trying again and failing?

It is triggering to even think: I can carry a pregnancy, but it might not survive beyond 20 weeks. Or, I could carry to term and still face asphyxia or preterm labor at 27 weeks. Each of these moments cuts differently. Each loss leaves a different kind of silence behind.

I have healed differently each time—but this time, I’m not sure I am strong enough to move past it just yet. What keeps me grounded is a partner who is present, patient, and aware of what runs through my mind even when I don’t speak it out loud. His quiet strength reminds me that grief can be shared, even when it’s carried differently.

So, let’s talk about the questions after loss—the ones we rarely voice aloud:

• Does my baby know that I loved them, wherever they are?
• Is my partner losing hope too, even as he tries to protect me from his pain?
• Why should I go through this again? Am I doing this for us, for faith, or for the doctor’s confidence?

These questions don’t have neat answers. But asking them helps me breathe. They remind me that healing isn’t about moving on; it’s about allowing space for what is—the anger, the confusion, and the small pockets of gratitude.

I’ve come to realize that strength isn’t found in pretending to be okay. It’s in acknowledging that sometimes, we’re not. It’s in finding moments of calm amid the ache—a prayer whispered through tears, a hug that doesn’t need words, a friend who just sits beside you.

To any woman or couple reading this and feeling the same quiet ache: you are not alone. You don’t need to rush your healing, silence your questions, or wear strength as armor. There is grace in your grief and purpose—even if you can’t see it yet.

Maybe one day, we’ll all stop asking “Why?” and learn to find meaning in the “What for?” But until then, may we speak, share, and sit with each other in the in-between—where faith and pain meet, and healing begins.