“I’m fighting a battle You’ve already won.”

These words were sung during worship at church today, and although I’ve heard this song countless times over the years, today it hit differently.

Today, those words found me in the middle of a battle I never asked to fight.

A battle between my heart and my reality.

A battle between the life I imagined and the life I’m learning to accept.

A battle between deep grief and deep faith.

Today is Mother’s Day, and although I have a mother, this year the day felt heavier than ever before.

As I sat in church surrounded by mothers holding babies, children wrapped around their legs, and families filling the pews beside me, I felt the ache of loss in a way I hadn’t expected.

Last Mother’s Day, I sat in that same church dreaming about the day I would finally get to have my own baby.

This year, I sat there trying to process the reality that after my hysterectomy; I will never experience motherhood the way I once pictured it.

And if I’m honest, some days that reality breaks my heart all over again.

People lovingly remind me, “You can still be a mom. It will just look different.” And I know that down to my core. I know that motherhood can still be part of my story.

But grief has layers.

Because I’m not only grieving motherhood—I’m grieving the version of it I carried in my heart for so long.

I’m grieving the pregnancy announcements I imagined sharing.

The baby kicks I dreamed of feeling.

The experience of carrying a child I prayed for.

There are days I feel strong in my faith. And there are days I feel angry. Days I feel confused. Days I wonder why this had to be my story.

Before my surgery, my reality was endometriosis and adenomyosis. The doctors didn’t know if I could ever have children naturally, but there was still hope.

Still a chance.

And sometimes that chance was enough to hold onto: A chance to try. A chance to pray.
A chance to believe God might work a miracle in the way I had imagined.

But now, my story looks different than I planned, and I’m learning that trusting God sometimes means trusting Him while grieving. It means believing He is still good, even when life feels painfully unfair.

It means surrendering the future I pictured and trusting Him with the future I cannot yet see.

I don’t know whose womb may one day carry my child.

I don’t know how God will write this story.

But I do know this:

God is still faithful in my heartbreak.
And maybe faith isn’t pretending the pain doesn’t exist. Maybe faith is choosing to believe that even here—even in disappointment, even in grief, even in unanswered questions—God is still holding me.

So today, on Mother’s Day, I’m allowing myself to grieve what was lost while still trusting God with what’s ahead.

Because there is room for both.

Room to be heartbroken. Room to hope. Room to wrestle.

This is just another opportunity to trust God with my future, a future only He can hold.

-Taylor Kate