to my husband
I talk about him every chance I get, but not enough of him during our journey.
But I see him.
I see the way he has walked through this valley beside me, with quiet strength, steady hands, and a heart that’s carried both of our grief.
Miscarriage and infertility have a way of stripping you down to your most vulnerable self. It tests your patience, your faith, and your marriage in ways no one can prepare you for. And through each miscarriage, each negative test, each month of hope followed by heartbreak, he has been my constant.
When I was put to the side with others because of what happened, he was there with me.
When I felt like I didn't have family that cared about me, he did.
When I needed someone just to sit with, he was there.
When I cried about other’s announcements, he has been there.
When I was curled up and didn’t want to get out of bed, he was there, rubbing my back, whispering prayers I didn’t have the strength to say out loud.
When I felt like my body had betrayed me, he reminded me that I wasn’t broken, I was still beautifully and wonderfully made.
When I questioned God, he never shamed me. He just held me tighter.
He’s the one who remembers dates I try to forget.
The one who calls them our babies—not just mine.
And now, as we step into this new chapter—IVF—it’s him I still see standing strong. Learning new medical terms, showing up to every appointment, asking every question, and still somehow finding ways to make me laugh through the tears and the hormones.
He's the one who is constantly reassuring me, but also trying to keep my feet on the ground.
IVF is a road paved with both science and surrender. It’s filled with lots of medicine, needles and lab reports and lots of waiting and lots of praying.
But most of all, it’s filled with us.
And I wouldn’t want to walk this road with anyone else.
I know this journey has weighed heavy on him, too. But he’s carried it so gracefully, never asking for attention or recognition, just quietly loving me through every high and low.
To my husband—thank you for loving me when I didn’t feel lovable.
Thank you for crying with me and hoping with me.
Thank you for holding onto God when I was too tired to hold on myself.
Thank you for reminding me that we’re still a family, even if our baby room stays empty a little while longer.
Thank you for making me feel like we are enough, even in the waiting.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But I know this:
Whatever comes next—whether it’s more waiting, more heartbreak, or a miracle long prayed for—I’m already blessed. Because I have you.
And that will always be more than enough.
©️ Jasmine Whitaker
https://www.beautyfromashesblog.com/
