When Faith Looks Like Showing Up Empty-Handed

I’ve been reflecting lately on a season from a few years ago, one that quietly reshaped the way I understand trust, surrender, and faith.

After several miscarriages, I found out I was pregnant with my current youngest Lily.

That season taught me more than I ever expected. Not about answers or certainty but about what it actually means to trust when nothing feels guaranteed.

It taught me how quickly joy and fear can exist in the same breath.

How loving deeply can also mean bracing yourself for loss.

And how trusting God doesn’t always look like confidence, it often looks like surrender.

The Body Remembers

The morning of my first ultrasound with Lily, my body remembered everything.

The night before, I had the most vivid, stressful dream.

I was late to the appointment.

We didn’t leave on time.

We kept turning the wrong way.

The car was tiny and painfully slow.

I kept trying to call the doctor, but nothing would go through.

And when someone finally answered, they weren’t sure they could even see me anymore.

I woke up before I ever found out if they did.

Even after I opened my eyes, the dream stayed with me. It felt symbolic, like my body replaying an old fear I knew too well.

The fear of being out of control.

The fear of missing something sacred.

The fear of needing answers and not getting them when it matters most.

Holding the Unknown

That morning, I felt sick to my stomach.

Not because I expected bad news—but because I didn’t know what to expect. And that kind of unknown carries weight.

I knew I couldn’t force myself into positivity. I also knew spiraling into fear wouldn’t protect me.

So instead, I prayed for neutrality.

Not for guarantees.

Not for outcomes.

But for the grace to accept what I couldn’t control and the wisdom to choose where I placed my trust.

It was a quiet prayer. One without big declarations. Just a soft request to be carried through whatever came next.

When Faith Isn’t Loud

The ultrasound went well.

The baby was measuring five days smaller than I thought, but I felt at peace. We would check again in three weeks, and that was enough for that day.

What surprised me most was how faith showed up in that moment.

It didn’t look like certainty.

It didn’t look like clarity.

It didn’t look like rising ahead with confidence.

It looked like showing up anyway.

Like trusting with empty hands.

Like believing that being held was enough even without knowing what the future would bring.

Presence Over Answers

Looking back now, I can see that God met me there.

Not with explanations.

Not by removing the fear.

But with presence.

I wasn’t rescued from the waiting but I was held inside of it.

And that moment quietly redefined faith for me.

Faith stopped being about control.

It stopped being about certainty.

It stopped being about having it all figured out.

It became about staying connected.

About continuing to show up.

About trusting that presence is enough, even when answers are not immediate.

The Kind of Faith I Carry Now

That season changed the way I walk through uncertainty.

I don’t rush myself toward clarity anymore.

I don’t demand peace before it’s ready to arrive.

I don’t assume faith means feeling brave.

Sometimes faith just means staying open.

Staying honest.

Staying willing to be carried.

And maybe that’s the kind of faith many of us are learning right now.

Not loud faith.

Not polished faith.

But steady, quiet faith that chooses connection—even in the waiting.

If you’re in a season where joy and fear feel tangled together, I hope this reminds you that you’re not doing it wrong.

Showing up counts.

Trusting without guarantees counts.

Staying connected, especially when your hands feel empty counts.

That’s what faith has looked like for me ever since.

Not certainty.

Not control.

Just staying.

I shared a short, quiet reel on Instagram just a glimpse of Lily.
If you want to see it, click here.