Content warning: this essay references infant loss.
My daughter and I stand in the middle of the pumpkin patch, one of our happy places, yet a sense of dread works its way from the pit of my stomach up into my throat. I think I’m being tugged through the grounds to jump on the bouncy pillow or soar down the zip line. Instead, we come to a halt in front of the corn maze—the one attraction I have no desire to partake in.
Corn mazes make me feel out of control, and I hate feeling out of control. The whole point is to get lost—to literally give up the control of where you are and what you're doing. Who would sign up for that?
But transferring my fears to her is the last thing I want to do. I offer a reluctant nod and watch the delight spread across her face and settle into a look of happy determination. She arranges her feet into a runner’s position and beckons for me to do the same. We face the entrance of the maze together.
Ready, set, go!
I can already feel sweat trickle down my back as I trail behind her, setting my focus on a silo that will act as my North Star if we can’t find the exit. She runs ahead, her body bounding with energy and curiosity. It’s not hard to stay on track at first. We entered the maze with several other families, and now we all work together to eliminate options. Turn here, make a left there. Numbered signs have been placed throughout the maze, so you know you’re in trouble if you go from spot 3 back to spot 1.
I notice I’m not the only parent with a resigned look on their face. “You have a beautiful family,” I say to a mom of four, whose curly-haired children look like baby H&M models. Her face brightens with the compliment. “Thank you,” she says and points to the little girl twirling through the corn. “Is that your daughter?” I nod and brace myself for the next question.
“Is she your only one?”
My heart sinks. I don’t have the energy to get into details with this stranger.
“Yes,” I say. “She is God’s gift to me.”
The woman smiles politely, and we turn our attention back to our kids. For just a moment, I allow myself to imagine that I am chasing four children through the maze instead of one. It doesn’t take long before we’re on our own, the pounding of sneakers against the dirt leaving us in a wake of dust.
Now that we are navigating the maze without help, we begin to pass signs we’ve passed before. I keep walking, training my eyes on the silo. My thoughts darken the deeper we go into the maze, and it isn’t long before the silo slips out of sight. It’s as if we’ve stepped out of time, the tall stalks shielding us from the crowds of people just a few hundred yards away. We trudge forward, lost in our own worlds—hers likely some magical wonderland filled with fairies and princesses, and mine a frightening fantasy of what-ifs. I so rarely experience quiet, and when I do, my brain seems determined to sort through my most painful emotions.
Every time I think I’ve moved into a posture of acceptance, the anger and confusion somehow bubble up again. We should never have had to hear the final blips of our babies’ heartbeats. We should never have been handed lifeless bodies wrapped in blankets. I shouldn’t have to walk around with this tight-chested feeling reminding me that if I’m not careful, the broken pieces in my heart will shift, and I’ll fall apart again.
I had a vision in my head of what my family would look like. There would be sonogram pictures taped to the fridge, piles of shoes by the door, and a van full of various-sized car seats. I imagined myself like Marmee in Little Women, surrounded by my children, their heads leaning against me while we worked through stacks of books.
Instead, I read to an audience of one at the kitchen table, and picture a high chair in the empty space next to me. Instead of bins of hand-me-downs in the closet, I keep one small basket of favorite baby things, one small container of hope, just in case.
This season of life has been a puzzling mix of gratitude for the gifts I’ve been given, grief for my stillborn babies, and confusion over not being on the same page as my spouse regarding whether or not to adopt another baby. Tucked inside my journal, between the chronicles of blessings and snapshots of my life, are lines that speak to the cry deep within my heart:
I am weary of struggling with sorrow over the past, weary of longing for a future I’m not sure I’ll experience.
God, sometimes I don’t know what you’re doing.
God, help me be content.
I feel as helpless and out of control here in this maze as I do regarding the future of our family. Each opening in the rows of corn beckons me, a choose-your-own-adventure I never wanted to embark on in the first place. And yet, they might provide a way out.
I call my daughter back to me and feel my heart swell as she slips her small, soft hand into mine. As we walk hand in hand and try each escape route, my mind turns to the conversation I had with my husband the night before.
“I need to talk about it again,” I said, my words coming out like a nervous apology. He nodded his head, and I watched as a swallow worked its way down his throat, his telltale sign of discomfort. Neither of us wanted to have this conversation.
“I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t imagine our future without more children. I really want another baby.” I went on, words and tears spilling out of me. I felt sick, already knowing his response.
“I know you do,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
His hands covered mine and we sat together, sifting through the thoughts running through our heads.
“What if God has another baby for us?” I asked. Again, I knew his answer. I could recite this script from memory, yet there was still some strange comfort in hearing the words come from his mouth.
“I am content with our family the way it is,” he gently reminded me, and I felt a rush of love for him mixed with guilt over my own discontentment. I waited expectantly for the words my heart longs to hear.
“But… ” he continued, and I leaned forward to listen. “God has changed my heart before, and He can do it again.”
Suddenly, the air around me fills with the sounds of footsteps, and I’m startled out of my thoughts. A group of teenagers stumbles by and offers smiles to my daughter, who has long since set herself free from my grasp and happily skips through the stalks in front of me, oblivious to the trail of tears on my cheeks.
Wasn’t it just minutes ago that I put on a brave face? I know I can’t stay in my sadness. I have to rise out of the quicksand of grief and move forward, in this maze, in my thoughts. I hear clichés ringing in my ears: step by step, one foot in front of the other, focus on what’s right in front of you.
I wipe my eyes and pull myself to the tops of my toes. If I crane my neck, I can see the silo. It’s there, where it has always been, and I am not lost, only a little turned around. I know the direction I want to be going, even if I’m not sure how to get there.
I tilt my face towards the sky and will myself to soak it all in—the sun, the feel of the earth under my feet, the cheerful chatter of a little girl. I reach out to take my daughter’s hand once more, ready to hold on to something good.
Guest essay written by
. Laura lives in Maryland with her husband and daughter. She has kept track of every book she's read since 2009 and loves giving recommendations. Check out what she’s reading and writing on her Substack.This essay was first published on Coffee + Crumbs. Be sure to check out our fall collection!
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This is beautiful, Laura. Navigating grief and longing is difficult and messy and painful. It’s okay to feel both discontentment and gratitude (which, despite what some may say, can co-exist). Thank you for bravely sharing this ❤️
This is so beautiful, in the grief and hope walking hand in hand. Thank you for this.