Holding On: A Story of Loss, Healing, and Hope
Two years ago, my life—at least the version of it I had dreamed of—changed forever. I’ve spent so much time searching for the right words, waiting for the right moment, or maybe just hoping I’d be ready to share. I know I’ve hinted at bits and pieces, left breadcrumbs of my journey here and there. And I know there are some who might roll their eyes and think, Why share at all? Life is hard. We’re all dealing with something. And I get it. Not everything needs to be on social media.
But maybe, just maybe, by sharing my story, someone out there who is struggling—someone walking a path that feels unbearably lonely—might find even the smallest kernel of light. And in sharing that light, maybe a little piece of myself heals too.
So, let me take you back…
When the Hits Keep Coming
You know that saying, "when it rains, it pours"? Well, three years ago, I was caught in a downpour. Within 48 hours, I said goodbye to my grandfather and my sweet soul dog, Delilah. Grief has a way of making you feel like a kid riding a bike for the first time—wobbling, unsteady, just trying not to fall. I told myself, just get through today, then the next.
But just as I thought I had found my balance, life hit me with another gut punch—a falling out with a family member close to me. It shook me to my core. And like many of us do in times of grief, I coped the only way I knew how: I smiled. I threw myself into work, striving for perfection in every detail I could control. I kept my home spotless, clung to distractions, filled my days with plans, projects, and trips with my husband—anything to keep moving forward, to avoid sitting still or confronting my pain.
I had no idea I was standing at the top of a slide, about to be thrown into the next chapter of loss.
A Dream, A Miracle—And Then, Another Loss
Fast forward to June 14th. I wasn’t feeling well and assumed I had caught another round of the dreaded COVID or the flu. Out of curiosity, or maybe a seed of hope I took a pregnancy test.
Positive.
After six long years of trying, after hundreds of negative tests, pills, needles, after every disappointment, I finally saw those two pink lines. And then three more tests confirmed it. I was so overwhelmed with joy that I didn’t even tell Daniel right away—I wanted the doctor to confirm it first and with it being such a journey I wanted to plan something really special. A stick wasn’t good enough, I told myself. Looking back, I realize how silly that was.
I remember thinking, Things are finally turning around. All that pain was leading to this. God had a plan.
But three days later, standing in my workplace bathroom, my phone rang. My doctor’s voice carried a weight I wasn’t prepared for.
“Yes, the urine test was positive,” she said. “But the blood test… the levels are low for being by calculations about 8 weeks. It looks like you may be in the process of a loss.”
A few days later, it was confirmed. I had miscarried.
The grief, the pain, the questions that flooded my mind—I didn’t know what to do except put it in a box, file it away, smile, and keep going. I worked harder. I busied myself more. I convinced myself I was fine.
Two months later, my body still felt… off.
When "Just Routine" Changes Everything
Worried that something wasn’t right after my miscarriage, I went back to the doctor. An ultrasound revealed a small cyst in my uterus, but it was “nothing to worry about.” Just something to monitor. So, I continued forward, trying to process everything—grieving in silence, questioning if I was even allowed to call it a miscarriage since I had barely told anyone I was pregnant or that I didn’t even carry that long.
By December, when I returned for a follow-up, the “small” spot had tripled in size. A second one had appeared. My doctor recommended a routine D&C to clear things out. Being that I have PCOS( polycystic ovary syndrome) it is a standard procedure, nothing alarming.
The morning after the procedure, I expected a simple follow-up call. Instead, my doctor’s voice carried a sadness I will never forget.
The tissue they removed tested positive. Beginning-stage uterine cancer.
I felt like the ground had been ripped from under me.
I was given two options—though neither really felt like one.
Attempt one last fertility treatment immediately, hope I got pregnant, and then figure out the best course of treatment while racing against time. Extremely risky, my doctor admitted.
A hysterectomy. A final goodbye to the dream I had held onto for so long.
I sobbed, feeling as though a piece of my soul had shattered. We had tried for so many years. And now, I was being asked to choose between my life and the dream of carrying my own child and the risk of being healthy to care for them.
Three weeks later, on March 7th, I had a hysterectomy.
The pathology confirmed I had made the right decision—early-stage cancer in my uterine lining, cystic and pus-filled fallopian tubes with abnormal cells, affected cervix and lymph nodes. My ovaries, though covered in just my normal cysts, were spared. Because we caught it early, no chemo, no radiation needed. A small blessing in an ocean of grief.
The Journey of Healing
It’s been two years. And healing isn’t linear.
For a long time, I told myself if I ignored the grief, it would go away on its own, you know similar to a scraped elbow. But pain like this doesn’t just disappear—it finds new ways to show up. My husband, my family, and my close circle of friends have been my anchors in this storm, reminding me that I don’t have to be strong all the time.
Survival mode makes you push past pain instead of facing it. But unhealed wounds don’t just vanish. They surface in ways we don’t expect. It’s okay to pause. To feel. To grieve.
I’ve learned that healing is a process—one that includes therapy, faith, and finding gratitude in even the smallest things. I thank God that I listened to my body. That I had a doctor who took me seriously. That I am still here.
And I’m learning daily:
You don’t have to carry the weight of the world while pretending you’re fine.
Functional depression is real. Burnout is real.
You don’t have to suffer in silence. Let your family and friends in, don’t rob them of the right to be there for you.
Your healing matters. Your peace matters.
So, no matter what it looks like right now—whether you’re in the depths of loss or the trenches of uncertainty—good things are coming. Healing is coming.
So hold on, my friend. Hold on.
"Only you can decide what breaks you." — Sarah J. Maas
XO
Becca