Grieving the Unborn Child

As a man, grief over a miscarriage or infertility may feel very different—but it is still very real.

Each day, as I drive to work, I watch the world pass me by—young children caught up in their own big, wide world of fun and games. One morning, my eyes were drawn to a little girl, around two or three years old. Instantly, my mind wandered to a quiet, distant compartment where the memory of our unborn child, lost three years ago, lay tucked away.

For reasons I can't explain, I’ve always imagined that the baby we lost was a girl. In my mind, I see her in a polka-dotted dress, with pigtails bouncing as she runs around laughing. I imagine myself as the proud father of this precious little girl, sharing life with my wife in a way we never got to experience.

I see young dads on motorbikes, taking their uniformed kids to school—something many consider a tedious morning chore before a busy day at work. I wonder, will God ever give me such a blessing?

It took me a long time to realize I hadn’t grieved the loss of our unborn child. There were unresolved emotions with no outlet for expression. There was no funeral, no grave to visit—no place to mark her existence. I was so focused on comforting my wife and making hospital runs that I didn’t believe it was my place to grieve. Perhaps, being a man, I told myself I’d deal with it later.

Our friends and family directed all their attention toward my wife, offering words of comfort and sympathy. After all, she carried the baby and endured the physical and emotional trauma of the miscarriage, including emergency surgery and a painful recovery. We were both so consumed by her grief that, unintentionally, mine was forgotten—especially by me.

I avoided talking about it with my wife, not wanting to add to her pain. I told myself I needed to be strong for her and would take care of my own emotions later.

Then came more heartache. After the miscarriage, we were unable to conceive naturally, and a new kind of trauma set in. My wife was devastated—and so was I. But again, I pushed my feelings aside. I thought,' She needs me now. I can’t afford to fall apart.'

Almost two years later, one night as we discussed fertility treatments and decisions we had to make, something broke open inside me. I finally spoke about what I was feeling. To my surprise, my wife shared that she too had bottled up emotions, assuming I had already moved on. That conversation lifted a heavy burden off both our hearts. It marked the beginning of my grieving process.

In hindsight, I wish I had opened up much sooner. My wife coped better because she had talked to others—friends, women who had been through the same pain. I had kept everything inside. I never sought out other men who had experienced this kind of loss.

I thought, This isn’t what guys do. Other men will think I’m weak. But now I understand—other men may be feeling the same way I did, and talking about it truly helps.

Over the last two years, my wife and I have visited fertility clinics in multiple cities. We’ve been married for four years now, and we still have no children. I’ve asked many people to pray for my wife, but I’ve never once asked them to pray for me. I thought I needed to be the strong one, the protector. But I’ve learned that bottling up my feelings didn’t help anyone—least of all me.

By avoiding my own pain, I became less emotionally available to my wife as well. I just didn’t want to think about it. But today, our relationship is stronger. We’ve learned to talk openly with each other, and we’ve found ways to support other couples walking the same path.

This journey has been painful, but I’m assured that God has a plan. I’ve learned that while I am called to be a comfort and strength for my wife, I must also allow myself to grieve and heal.

There hasn’t been a single day when we haven’t prayed—out loud—for God to grant us the desires of our hearts. As I write this, I’m reminded of the promise in Romans 8:28: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

I trust that God knows what’s best. All I can do is submit my desire to become a father into His hands. My comfort comes from knowing that Jesus alone can heal my grief, and my hope is firmly built on Him.