the 1% club: honesty & healing
“But if this thorn in my side draws me closer to Him, then I am content. I am thankful—even in the pain—because it has led me deeper into a relationship with the Father.”
As we’ve walked through our third miscarriage, I’ve come to realize how good I am at hiding. I hide my true feelings. I make sure to smile a little extra so that no one looks at me differently. I let very few people into the harder, messier parts of my grief. But lately, I’ve been trying to change that pattern. I’ve been challenging myself to open up more to the friends in my life—and it has truly been healing.
It’s exhausting to keep a wall up. Constantly worrying that crossing a certain line will cause people to see you differently is draining. I never realized just how much I valued being seen as strong. And when people tell you you're strong, it only reinforces that desire to keep it all together.
I’ve been told that my faith inspires others, that I’m resilient. And while those words are meant as encouragement (and mean the world to me), they’ve also made me reflect—because what I’m learning is that the strength I have doesn’t come from pretending everything is okay. It doesn’t come from acting like I’ve never doubted God through all of this.
I am strong, but my strength is found in running—limping—to God every single day. There are days I feel angry, sad, confused, frustrated, jealous, bitter… yet still, I choose to trust Him.
I don’t want others to get the idea that strong faith means never wrestling with God. For so long, I held back my real feelings because I didn’t want to scare anyone away. Too many times I’ve opened up, only to be met with silence or words that made things worse.
Often, I’ve received “spiritual band-aids”—Scripture or sayings offered without context or sensitivity, as if a single verse could erase deep grief. In many Christian circles, negative emotions are misunderstood.
“The Bible says to focus on good things not bad. Read Philippians 4:8.” I read that text as I was laying in bed waiting for a phone call to tell me if my baby died. Feeling every ache, wondering if I could just lay still enough, I could prevent things from happening.
If you’re anxious, it is assumed you must not trust God. If you’re sad “too long,” it can seem like something’s wrong with your faith or that you’re not walking in the joy of the Lord. You’re “letting the devil win.”
I’ve wanted to share my story, but I’ve played it safe. I usually stick to the same parts: multiple miscarriages, it’s hard, I’ve been hurt, but JESUS! I rarely go into detail—and while there are parts of my story I will never share online (which is absolutely okay), I often feel like I gloss over the harder truths in an effort to stay optimistic. I will always point it back to Jesus. He is the only reason I can stand here today. However, I never want to lead someone to think my faith is built on ignoring the reality of my situation. No, it’s grown by inviting God into it. The image of seeming “fine” stops me from saying “too much.”
Miscarriage is often kept private, and that’s perfectly okay. You never have to blog your grief. But because I’ve chosen to share publicly, I often feel like I stick out. And I’ve allowed the fear of others’ reactions and assumptions to hold me back from bringing awareness to the reality of pregnancy loss. But I’m realizing that hiding parts of the story can do a disservice—not only to the mission I feel called to but to the women I hope to support through this ministry.
Hiding the reality doesn’t validate the experiences of those walking through this grief silently. Holding back on certain details doesn’t help others understand this unique form of loss. So, as I write this, I want to go deeper into my story. I want to be vulnerable—because maybe there’s a woman reading this who will realize she’s not crazy for feeling the way she does. Maybe someone will see how to be a better friend. Maybe someone’s faith will be encouraged in the midst of their own suffering.
And if just one person is impacted, it’s worth it.
So here I go.
Three miscarriages. No living children. There are a lot of feelings.
With the first miscarriage, I felt brushed off. While some people showed empathy, many were quick to try to “fix” my sadness. I heard a lot of “keep the faith” and “this is common for your first pregnancy.”
With the second miscarriage, assumptions were made about my health, and I received private messages full of unsolicited advice. There was more understanding toward my grief, but the focus often shifted to trying to “fix” my body. At times, I worried that I was seen as a wounded puppy.
This is the reality of sharing publicly. I don’t share this to complain—I chose to be open. And the benefits of spreading awareness and comforting women who often feel overlooked in their grief far outweigh the negatives. But that doesn’t make it easy.
Now I find myself processing a third miscarriage. I’m in the 1% club—1% of women experience recurrent miscarriage (three or more). Reading that statistic felt like a weight on my chest. While 1% still represents millions, the number one feels small… isolated… alone.
I know my identity isn’t found in that percentage, but the feelings of loneliness still surface. I look around and realize that the list of women I personally know who’ve walked through three or more losses is getting shorter. I feel disconnected.
I feel even more disconnected when I hear the pregnancy or birth announcements. The last thing I ever want is for my grief to overshadow someone else’s joy (and it never will). I want to celebrate fully—but sometimes my joy just doesn’t jump as high. It is a strange feeling, and while I know it is NOT true, I fall into comparison even easier now because of the 1% club. Is my body just broken? Am I less of a woman now?
Joy can coexist with sorrow. I’m thrilled for others, yet quietly mourning and wrestling with what I still long for.
I long for the thrill of a positive test, the joy of sharing the news in creative ways, the excitement of dreaming up nursery ideas. I long for the moment I get to hang an ultrasound on the fridge. I ache to finally hear my baby’s heartbeat–something I have not gotten to experience yet.
My faith is my lifeline—the only thing that gets me through. I choose to praise God even when life is painful, even when it’s not what I would have chosen. I know He is good. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Suffering can tempt us to question God’s character. The hard part is choosing to believe that He is good, even when circumstances feel anything but. It’s a dichotomy of trusting God’s plan for your life but not being happy about where you are.
Some days, it’s hard to hope. It’s hard to believe that God is working this for good. I won’t sugarcoat it—walking through this three times is discouraging. It’s natural to wonder if God will ever grant the desire of my heart. But I’ve learned that my hope must be in Him, not in an outcome.
I’ve reminded myself of His character through Scripture and daily habits—studying my Bible, placing sticky notes with truth around the house, being intentional with my music choices. These helped build a strong foundation of head knowledge.
But it wasn’t until I came to Him with raw, unfiltered emotion that I truly experienced His heart for me. For a while, I tried to hide from Him, too. I thought I had to be “put together” to pray. I feared He was disappointed in how grief had affected me.
Then one day, I was just done. I needed Him even to lift my head off the pillow and do the most basic tasks. On my own, I couldn’t find healing. So I let it out—cried, yelled, spoke honestly. I laid it all before Him. And what I received in return was a peace so sweet, I could finally rest. My tears stopped, my heart calmed, and verses began to flood my mind:
“Give all your worries and cares to God, for He cares about you.”
— 1 Peter 5:7
I can place my hope in Him—not in circumstances—because He’s the only one who truly understands my pain.
I could sit with every woman who’s walked this road.
I could talk to the best therapist.
I could see a world-renowned specialist.
But no one can offer the deep understanding, love, comfort, grace, strength, and wisdom that God gives me. He knows me better than I know myself. And He doesn’t turn away from the hard parts.
He isn’t scared of the jealousy, the anger as I throw a pregnancy test across the room, the tears, the darker thoughts. He isn’t disappointed when the sadness has me stuck in bed, when the idea of being around babies makes me anxious. He doesn’t slap me on the wrist when I start to replay moments and the emotions hit me all over again. He sees every tear, hears every prayer, and stays right beside me. He gives grace upon grace. He brings comfort. And His word and promises bring me the strength to carry on each day. He doesn’t leave me there, He heals me.
Because every day of leaning on Him, I get stronger. And eventually, there is joy again.
And I’ve had to learn not to seek from others what only He can provide. Otherwise, it leads to disappointment and broken relationships. I went looking for it elsewhere and I was met with conversations that I still am healing from. Forgiveness is a daily choice and trust is so difficult.
That’s why I often say, “invite Him into your mess.” He is the ultimate friend—a loving Father. And He never changes.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
— Hebrews 13:8
Our circumstances don’t change who He is. Even when we can’t see it, He is working all things together for good.
“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love Him.”
— Romans 8:28
Even when our definition of “good” doesn’t match His, we can trust that His way is always better.
There is healing in not hiding.
There is strength in vulnerability and not pretending.
If you’re reading this and find yourself hiding like I did, I encourage you: talk to Jesus. Let Him in. Let the wall down. Speak to Him like He’s right there with you—because He is. Even if friends or family don’t show up the way we hope, He always will. He understands every single emotion.
“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”
— Psalm 56:8
I matter to Him. You matter to Him.
I like to think I’m not discouraged—I’m encouraged. Encouraged by the truth that God sees every tear and hears every prayer. Encouraged that I serve a God who knows what’s best for me. I have faith that He can do a miracle. But just because He can doesn’t mean He will. My hope is in Him alone—not in a particular outcome.
I often hear phrases like, “Your time will come,” or “You’re still young.” I know these are well-meaning, but the truth is—it’s not guaranteed. I don’t know God’s will in this area of my life. This could be a season… or a lifelong journey.
Sometimes, God develops us through suffering.
“We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment.”
— Romans 5:3-5
Matthew 5:4 makes more sense. How are those who mourn “blessed?” They will be comforted by God. They will experience His love in ways like never before, ways they could never experience if things were still sunshine and rainbows.
I remember the day before I miscarried our third baby, our Nugget, I felt God say “you will be in the fire but won’t be burned.” And I couldn’t help but remember this as we picked up the pieces of our broken hearts. What a beautiful thing it is to be held in the hands of a capable Father, safe. While walking through the fire, we won’t be burned. While dealing with pain, I can’t help but say how beautiful it is to be held by Him but also to be pruned. Leaning into Him through this has strengthened my faith in so many ways.
“God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” -Matthew 5:4
I may never know all the reasons we’ve walked this path, but I see His hand in every step. What the enemy meant for evil, God is turning for good. I don’t want to be in the 1% club. I wish we could fast forward to a day with a baby in our arms, or rewind and change outcomes. But if this thorn in my side draws me closer to Him, then I am content. I am thankful—even in the pain—because it has led me deeper into a relationship with the Father.
