October

October.

It drifts in quietly, with its gold-drenched leaves and cinnamon-scented promises… and yet for some of us, it is the month that screams.

It’s not loud to the world. It’s not wrapped in ribbons or broadcast on billboards. There are no celebratory sales or costume parties for this kind of remembrance. It’s a silent memorial, stitched into the very marrow of our bones.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

You might never know it exists, unless you’ve lived it. Or more truthfully… unless you’ve survived it.

Though “survive” doesn’t quite describe it, does it?

Maybe you crawled.

Maybe you collapsed.

Maybe you bled in a bathroom and held your breath while the world kept spinning.

Maybe you stared at an ultrasound screen that stayed heartbreakingly still.

Maybe you named someone you never got to know. Maybe you buried your baby—and somehow had to remember how to breathe.

Maybe you never told a soul.

Or maybe you told the wrong ones, and they didn’t know what to do with your pain.

Maybe the silence around it felt even heavier than the loss itself.

And maybe you asked questions you never thought you’d ask.

“God… where were You?”

“Why would You let this happen?”

“Do You even see me?”

“Are You even real?”

“Are You good?”

P one wants to talk about it.

Because it’s uncomfortable.

Because there’s no clean ending, no guaranteed rainbow after the storm.

Because grief this sacred… this devastating… has no script.

But friend, hear me:

Your grief matters.

Your baby matters.

Your questions are not too much for God.

Your ache does not disqualify your faith—it reveals it.

You held love in your womb, and now you carry that love in your soul.

And whether you were six weeks or six months or you held them in your arms for six minutes—

You were a mother. You are a mother.

And what you lost was not an idea.

It was a life. A heartbeat. A hope.

The world might move on.

But October invites you to remember.

Not just the ache, but the miracle.

Not just the loss, but the love.

Not just the silence, but the song that still lingers.

So light the candle.

Say their name.

Cry the tears.

Let the waves come.

And when you’re ready, lift your eyes.

He is still here.

He still weeps with you.

He still collects every tear.

And though the cradle is empty, His arms are not.

Because He, too, lost a child.

And because of that loss, death is not the end of the story.