Chiiiile, Please!

There’s a kind of grief that lives in the pause.

It lives in the moment when someone casually asks, “Do you have any kids?” and you smile softly, knowing your answer isn’t simple.
It’s in the way your heart flinches during baby showers.
It’s the lump in your throat on Mother’s Day.
It’s the scroll through social media that makes you ache—not from jealousy, but from a quiet, unmet hope.

This is the grief we don’t talk about enough.
The kind that exists in the gray—between joy and heartbreak, between what could’ve been and what still might be.
This is the grief of women who lost pregnancies they prayed for. Women who watched their children pass and live with a grief that has no expiration date. Women who tried everything—doctors, treatments, prayer, adoption paperwork—only to be met with closed doors and crushing silence.

This is also the grief of women who never tried, but still feel the ache.
Or the ones who chose not to have children, but feel misunderstood or judged for finding happiness outside of motherhood.

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Statistics can’t measure the full weight of this sorrow, but they offer a glimpse:

• 1 in 4 women experience miscarriage.
• 1 in 8 couples struggle with infertility.
• Black women are 3–4 times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women in the U.S.
• And many women live with ambiguous grief—grief without a clear beginning or end.

But numbers don’t capture the silence that follows when you’re grieving something people don’t understand.
Or the guilt that creeps in because you’re still hurting months, years—even decades—later.
Or the way you can hold someone else’s baby and smile while something deep inside you tightens and tries to stay polite.

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To every woman in this space:
Your grief is not too old to matter.
Your story is not too complex to be held.
Your feelings are not too much for this world.

Grief doesn’t disappear on a deadline.
It evolves. Some days it screams. Some days it simmers. Some days it sits with you while you laugh—reminding you that sorrow and joy are not enemies, but neighbors. And you are allowed to live in that tension without guilt.

If you’ve lost a child—no matter when, no matter how—you are still a mother.
If you’ve dreamed of a child who never arrived, that longing is real and worthy of reverence.
If you’re a mother who’s tired, resentful, confused, or carrying the weight of unmet expectations—your feelings are not disqualifying.
And if you are whole, joyful, and fulfilled without ever becoming a mother—you are complete.

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What we don’t always say is that this kind of grief needs tending. It doesn’t go away because you stay busy. It doesn’t dissolve because you keep silent. It needs voice. It needs ritual. It needs truth.

So tonight, make space.
Journal to the version of you that never got to grieve fully. Write down what you lost, what you feared, what you still carry.
Ask her: “What do you need from me now?”

Let the tears come if they do. Let the silence stay if it must.
Just don’t silence yourself anymore.

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You are not broken. You are breathing through the pieces.
You are not behind. You are building from the rubble.
You are not invisible. You are seen—by God, by your ancestors, by other women holding the same unspoken ache.

You are not grieving wrong. You are grieving with courage.
And that, my love, is sacred.

With all the softness you’ve earned,
Coach G
@ProvokeChange
Chiiiile Please Blog