The Side-Eye of Healing: Notes from Middle Grief

Because sparkle and sorrow can sit in the same chair

 🩹It’s Just a Paper Cut (Right?)

OK. So, I’ve been writing a lot in my head. Like… a lot a lot. The kind where your mental drafts get so detailed that you realize you’ve basically narrated your Target run like a memoir and should probably just sit down and get it out already.

So here I am.

I’ve been noticing everything lately. Hyper-observant. Like superhero-level awareness of Every. Single. Thing. I wonder if it’s grief, or maybe overstimulation, or maybe I’m just turning into a character from a Hallmark movie who notices one meaningful detail and suddenly unravels their life.

Anyway. Have you ever had a papercut? Teeny. Tiny. Practically invisible. But sooo painful. And suddenly, every bend of that finger, turning the faucet, digging for a pen, holding the steering wheel, is like a neon sign that says: “HELLO! STILL HURTING!”

That’s what grief feels like for me right now. Papercut grief. And sometimes broken leg grief. Honestly, I think there are all sorts: stubbed-toe grief, bruise-you-forget-about grief, grief that shows up two weeks after the event and says “surprise.”

But what I’m learning is: size doesn’t matter. Small grief, big grief, it all finds a way to consume and interrupt. There is no “acceptable” measurement. It just is.

And yeah, that’s not super uplifting, but hang with me, this goes somewhere.

Salt in the Papercut

Grief lives in the in-between. In the asiago cheese spread I was craving, that I ate the night before my appointment. The ginger candies I carried in my purse. The book I dog-eared while lying nauseous on the couch. The parking spot at Wegmans where I sat and ate a plain slice of cheesecake. With my hand.

(Yes. My hand. No fork. No shame. Only grief, carbs, and cream cheese.)

And then there's the chair I sit in at my daughter’s stunt practice. The one where I first whispered prayers of joy after that positive test. The one where I sat wringing my hands after the first scary ultrasound. And the one where my husband sat for me after the second ultrasound, because the day we got the news, I couldn’t even get off the couch. Not from exhaustion. From grief.

That chair and I, we’ve been through some things.

And I can’t help but wonder, how many other people are sitting quietly in chairs like that? Bursting with joy or silently breaking apart… and we don’t even know it.

When Your Body Doesn’t Get the Memo

So, here’s something I didn’t know: you can be pregnant, the baby can pass away, and your body might just… not get the memo.

I always assumed you’d know, a symptom, a pain, a sign. But no. Sometimes your body keeps going, keeps releasing pregnancy hormones, keeps making you feel pregnant, keeps playing along.

It’s called a missed miscarriage or a silent miscarriage. And guess what? That’s what I had.

I decided to wait and see if my body would recognize the loss on its own. Surely just a few days, right?

A week later, nothing. My doctor offered surgery for Friday. That gave me two more days to wait, two more days to pray.

Spoiler alert: my body stayed silent.

Sprinkles and Curtains

Friday morning, I’m in a hospital gown. IV in my arm. Motion sickness patch behind my ear. Antibiotics flowing through me, and all I can see are the sprinkles.

Hospital socks. The pattern on them looked like little sprinkles.

And something inside me went, “Okay. A little bit of sparkle. I’ll take it.”

They close the curtain. I sit there. I can hear the nurses outside starting their shift, laughing and greeting each other:

“You’re still pregnant?! When are you due?”

“Next week! I’m so ready!”

Really?

I wanted to say something. Gently. Kindly. Something that said: “Maybe… read the room?”

And then I paused. You know what? Let her have that joy. Let them have it. That nurse deserves to be excited. They didn’t know what was behind my curtain. They didn’t know about my papercut.

And honestly, I would’ve been just like them. Loud. Joyful. Glittery and unfiltered.

Their happiness wasn’t malicious, it was just bad timing.

Turns out, the world doesn’t stop spinning because we’re sad. We might feel like we’ve frozen in time. But everything else keeps going.

Deliveries, Robins, and Realizations

An hour later, my nurse came back to let me know that we were almost ready, my doctor just finished delivering a baby upstairs and then I was next.

Oh. Cool. Awesome.

SOMEONE JUST HAD A BABY WHILE I’M HERE TO LOSE MINE, THANK YOU FOR THAT UPDATE.

I didn’t say it. But I felt it.

And then again… maybe that’s the point.

Afterwards, fast forward (trust me) as we pull into the driveway of my house, I look up at the front of our house. The robins are at it again. Again. The same spot they always rebuild their nest. It’s adorable. We call it the Birdie Birthing Center.

Really, guys? Today you had to start building?

Everyone is having babies but me.

Salt.

So What Do You Do With That?

Here’s what I’m learning: the world keeps turning. God keeps doing. He doesn’t stop because I’m hurting. He keeps growing, building, creating, weaving.

And while I still feel like I’m sitting here with my paper cut wide open and salt everywhere, I can also see the goodness.

The surprise gifts from friends. The text messages that say, “no need to respond, I just love you. "The gift cards, the premade meals, the ice cream delivery. The people who said, “I’m showing up anyway.”

I still feel the cut. I still notice the salt. But there’s air. There’s breath. There’s beauty.

So I’ve decided I’ll let myself stare at the cut. I’ll name it, sit with it, let it sting.

But I will not let it steal everything good from the world.

Your Turn

If you're grieving, if your cut is small, or large, or just starting to sting, I see you.

If you’re not, but someone you love is, show up anyway. Because you never know who’s holding joy, or loss, or both… in the chair next to you.

💛 H.U.G. is a book I’m creating, real, honest stories from women who’ve experienced miscarriage or pregnancy loss. It’s comfort in pages, placed gently into hands that need it.

If H.U.G. speaks to you, you can:

• 💛 Share your story (it doesn’t have to be polished, just true)

• 💛 Donate a hug (a book placed in the hands of someone walking this same path)

• 💛 Spread the word to anyone who might need to know this exists.

  
  

→ faithsparks.com/hug

Even in grief, God doesn’t stop creating. This is a project about bringing beauty from ashes, one story, one shared hug at a time.