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I’ve experienced some significant losses in my life, and my interpretation of these events has always been negative. Loss inevitably takes something away, and it never feels pleasant. They say that loss is a necessary part of life, but when it occurs, it feels as though the very air has been ripped from my lungs, leaving me breathless and broken. It doesn’t seem like a catalyst for growth; instead, it feels like sheer destruction.
That’s how I felt when I lost my baby and my relationship. It wasn’t just the physical pain that consumed me, but the emotional turmoil of losing a life that could have been—a life I had hoped would fill the empty spaces inside me. This loss was experienced under the suffocating weight of an unstable relationship, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about bringing a child into a chaotic world.
The relationship had been faltering for months. We loved each other once, but love alone wasn’t enough to keep us together. We fought more than we spoke kindly, struggled to find peace in each other’s presence, and were constantly at odds. I had hoped the pregnancy would bring us closer, that it might heal the cracks in our fragile foundation, but instead, it intensified the stress. It became too much, and I felt like I was drowning. When I lost the baby, it added a layer of grief that deepened the distance between us. The guilt gnawed at me every day, leaving me wondering if things could have been different.
At my lowest point, I didn’t think I could go on. The pain of losing my baby, the end of the relationship, and the shame of my decision all weighed heavily on my heart. I felt hollow, trapped in a cycle of regret and self-blame. It was tempting to stay in that space, to let the pain define me and rob me of any hope for the future. But somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered: This doesn’t have to be the end.
I realised that amid all this loss, I had a choice. I could allow it to break me completely, or I could let it shape me into something new—something stronger, something wiser. The pain, the grief, and the heartbreak were real, but maybe, just maybe, they could serve as catalysts for growth. I had to confront the truth that my past had shaped me into someone afraid of vulnerability, terrified of showing weakness, and dependent on others for my sense of worth. Losing the baby and the relationship forced me to confront these truths.
As I began the painful process of healing, I discovered that the losses I had endured were stripping away the layers of who I thought I needed to be—perfect, self-sufficient, and in control—and were slowly revealing who I truly was. The loss of the baby, though heart-wrenching, had pushed me to ask myself difficult questions. Could I bring a child into this world as the person I was before? Could I teach someone else how to navigate life when I hadn’t yet learned how to do it myself? I wasn’t ready then, but now, in the wake of that loss, I see the chance to become someone better; someone who could one day offer stability, love, and understanding to a child when the time is right.
The end of the relationship, while devastating, also became an opportunity for growth. The relationship exposed my fears, my insecurities, and my need for validation through another person’s love. Without him, I had no choice but to face myself, to acknowledge the areas where I needed to grow. I had clung to him, hoping he could fix the broken parts of me, but in truth, no one else could do that. The loss of the relationship forced me to begin the work of fixing myself. It was uncomfortable and painful, but necessary.
I started to rebuild my life, piece by piece. I was determined to unearth the deep-rooted issues that had kept me from truly being happy. I learned how to sit with my pain instead of running from it. I discovered how to be kinder to myself, and to forgive myself for the mistakes I had made. I learned that the pressure to be perfect—to never falter, to always lead, to bear the weight of the world—was something I had carried since childhood, especially as the firstborn. It wasn’t just the loss of the baby or the relationship that I was grieving; it was the loss of my own identity, an identity I never truly had a chance to discover because I had been so busy meeting everyone else’s expectations.
As I worked through these realisations, I began to see a glimmer of hope. What if this loss, as painful as it was, wasn’t the end? What if it was the beginning of something new—something better? Maybe the baby, the relationship, and everything else I had lost weren’t meant to be part of my journey just yet because I still had work to do on myself. Maybe I needed this time to grow up, to face the realities of my life, and to become the person I was always meant to be.
I started to set boundaries with my family, something I had never done before. I stopped trying to meet their impossible expectations and began focusing on what I needed for myself. I began to understand that love—true love—wasn’t about fixing or saving someone, but about growing together, supporting each other, and accepting one another fully.
Now, when I think about the future, I no longer feel the same weight of expectation. I don’t have it all figured out, and I’m still healing from the losses I’ve endured, but I’m hopeful. Hopeful that these experiences, as painful as they’ve been, are shaping me into someone stronger, someone wiser, and someone capable of offering real love and stability to others. I’m learning that loss, though devastating, can also be a form of gain.
I’m learning to trust that the pain I’ve gone through is carving out space for something new—something better. Maybe I had to lose the things I thought I needed to realize that the only thing I truly need is to be at peace with myself. And now, for the first time in a long time, I believe that peace is possible.
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Feature Image by Ekaterina Bolovtsova for Pexels
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