I lost my daughter and reclaimed my purpose

There’s a version of grief that people understand.

The casseroles. The flowers. The cookies. The acknowledgment that something devastating has happened.

And then there’s the version many women quietly carry every single day. The kind where you still answer Slack messages, join Zoom calls, smile in meetings, and somehow remember to respond “Looks great!” on a document you barely processed because your body is still trying to understand what it lost.

That is my reality after losing my daughter, Hope.

Hope was our IVF mosaic embryo. The embryo that carried so much uncertainty, but somehow even more possibility. We fought for her, prayed for her, and believed in her so deeply. For weeks we were extremely hopeful. I made a Pinterest board for her room. I bought clothes for her. We told our IVF miracle boys that God is so, so good and they were going to have a sister. Then she stopped growing.

When she died, the world didn’t stop. Work didn’t stop. Life didn’t stop. In fact, work was messier than it had ever really been for me. And that's why I felt like I had to share her with you.

I recently read a quote in The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion by Beth Brower that captured something I haven’t been able to fully articulate since losing Hope:

“It takes a great deal to trust the future after one is acquainted with loss.”

It feels impossible, for longer than is comforting. And then too tentative to trust.”

It does. But it seems that sword pierced Christ so that we always have a future. Even one different than planned.”

That’s what grief has felt like for me. Not just sadness, but a complete reshaping of how I see the future. After loss, even hope can feel fragile. Especially after infertility and IVF, where hope already comes attached to so much waiting, fear, calculation, and emotional exhaustion.

This wasn't my first pregnancy loss. In fact, I had a horrific experience miscarrying at work before my IVF miracles were born. The culmination of years of being in the thick of infertility has made this loss extra difficult. A common misconception with IVF is that most people have lots of embryos. That has not been the case with me and many of my IVF friends. We feel extra thankful for our boys given we were told we'd never have biological children. And the weight I feel for those who are still in the thick of waiting for their miracles has deepened.

What changed me most through this experience wasn’t only the grief itself. It was realizing, once again, how many women are carrying unimaginable pain while still trying to function as though nothing happened. Women navigating infertility treatments, miscarriages, pregnancy loss, hormone crashes, anxiety, depression, death, family caregiving and impossible decisions still show up to work every day trying to be professional, capable, productive, and “fine.”

Losing Hope gave me an even deeper sense of purpose in the work I do now as a coach because career coaching has never really about resumes for me. It has always been about people. It has always been about helping women navigate ambition, identity, burnout, confidence, motherhood, transition, and all the complicated realities that exist behind a polished LinkedIn profile.

Before losing Hope, I cared deeply about helping women build careers that actually supported their lives. Now I care just as much about helping women survive hard seasons without losing themselves in the process. I would NEVER have made it through the last few months without the women in my life; my family and sweet friends have kept me going.

There were days this spring that I didn't go an hour without a text or someone checking in. I rarely felt alone. I am so grateful for friends who reached out even when it was uncomfortable.

Grief has changed the way I coach. I listen differently now. I notice exhaustion differently. I understand the women who say, “I don’t know why I can’t focus lately,” because sometimes the answer isn’t laziness or lack of ambition and sadly, sometimes the answer is heartbreak. Sometimes someone is simply trying to survive something they never imagined they would have to carry.

I think workplaces would look very different if we remembered more often that some of the strongest people in an organization are quietly enduring things nobody sees. I think women need more genuine connection, more honesty, and more room to be human instead of feeling pressured to perform resilience perfectly.

Hope’s life was brief, but she changed me permanently. She made me more compassionate, more intentional, and more aware of what truly matters. She clarified the kind of impact I want to have through my work and the kind of women I feel called to support. God is good and while I don't understand why this happened and don't think I ever will, I am thankful for the purpose my pain has given me.

I don’t just want to help women climb ladders anymore. I want to help them build lives and careers that can hold them through every season, including the devastating ones. Because success means very little if there’s no space to be human inside of it. And we all need that reminder when things go sideways at work and in our relationships.

And to every woman quietly carrying loss while still showing up to work and life every day: I see you. What you are doing is extraordinarily hard, even if nobody around you fully realizes it. I hope you find support and can grieve in your own time and in your own way.