And suddenly I’m on the other side of a phone call I’ve made so many times, and I’m silent.

Her tears come fast, her words frantic and breathing uncontrolled.

Another cycle, another failed attempt to become pregnant.

And she asks me the question I may never have the answer to, “why?” Why her? Why them? Why hasn’t it work? Why are they here? Why do they have to wait? And why, why, why does it have to hurt this deeply?

All I can say is what I know, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I honestly do not know.”

She’s breaking. I can hear the pieces of her crashing to the floor. She’s angry, her fists are aimed at the sky, but she doesn’t know who she’s fighting. She’s lost, somehow moving forward in a world that she wasn’t meant to be a part of–fighting a fight she neither asked for or was ready for.

Her sobs reach down deep into her soul and pull parts of her from their roots, then evacuate themselves from her. I wish I could tell her they would come back some day, but parts of me are still missing.

There is something that dies each time you try and fail to conceive. As your trying becomes more insistent, more involved, more active–so too your hope does and each subsequent failure cuts at the stems of your will. Soon enough, what has grown within you starts wilting and withering and you have no way to restore life to it.

I know her aching, but I have nothing to give her to relieve it. I think back to all of the times, the months that would go by of me escaping to my car over lunch and calling Anthony to do the same–to completely fall apart before having to wipe my face and pretend to keep spinning with the rest of the world. I doubt I’ll ever forget the feeling of loss and want and wishfulness and confusion and anger. I’ll never forget the look of fear in my husband’s eye as he told me he could hardly recognize me anymore. I remember losing myself in bits and pieces then in mountains and hills. I remember vacating my body and leaving it to survive by itself.

And I hear it all in her. I hear that pain I never was able to overcome.

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore,” she said. I know, I know, I know. But that’s not what she needs. She doesn’t need me to not know. She needs me to know something–anything–because she doesn’t.

“But you will,” I said, calm but firm. “You will do this. You will try again and if it fails, you will try again after that,” I close my eyes, tears tap on the edge of my cheeks. “Want to know why?”

She is quiet.

“Because, somehow even with everything you are feeling right now. Even greater than the pain you are feeling now is your desire to have a baby, to have your family. Right?” She doesn’t answer, but I know she nods. “You will have your family. I don’t know how you’ll get there. I don’t know why you have to go through this and, God, I wish I could tell you why. Even now, I don’t understand why Anthony and I went through it. But I know this–I wouldn’t have stopped. I know you won’t either. You are resilient and, even if you don’t feel like it, you are so, incredibly strong. You will have your baby. Someday. I swear it.”

Eventually her sobs slow. They’ll come again. They always do. But for the moment she is able to see her future instead of her present and it gives her the second of strength she needs for now.

We get off the phone and I sit in my car. I close my eyes. I cry in that silent effortless way that you do when your heart aches for someone else. I pray for her, not just for her to have the child she’s always wanted, but I pray for her heart–that it stays strong and pure in spite of the darkness in her path.

All I can reason is that part of my story is to share it with others–part of the answer to my “why” is to attempt to bring hope to others. Some days I’m not sure that I’m even qualified for that.

Before I got out of the car, I placed my hands on my stomach and am greeted by the wiggling and dancing of our two boys. “Thank you,” I whisper as I finish my prayer. We survived–we found life again and healing within that. I don’t know why God chose us for the noble job of raising these boys. I don’t know why we got a “yes” when we did and why so many got a “no” at the same time. All I know is that no matter what happened, we wouldn’t have stopped until we got here. Maybe it was insanity, natural instinct, or some form of faith, but here we are–expecting our twin boys in just a few short weeks.

You may not feel strong enough. You may not be strong enough. I wasn’t. I gave up, friends. I threw in the towel. I was a shell of myself. But God had plans for me. He has plans for us and for our family. It wasn’t up to me. God carried me to our family. I didn’t have the strength, but He did–and that was much greater than anything I could have given.

I pray for your hearts–that they heal, that they remain free of bitterness, that they find a way. I pray for your journeys–that the path is short and simple and if it isn’t, that you find your destination soon.