Nobody ever loved me. That’s what’s blaring at the front of my mind when people ask me why I don’t have kids. And as harsh a truth as that is, it’s the truth. When my nieces and nephews (who don’t even really want me to have kids because then Aunt Shameka’s attention might be diverted from them) ask this question, my mouth forms a catchy but vague excuse: “That’s just the way it goes sometimes,” “I guess it wasn’t in the cards,” or “I got enough to do helping y’all.” And I laugh it off. But there’s nothing funny. And the truth sits on the tip of my tongue, unsaid. Nobody ever loved me. I’m not old-fashioned or traditional by any means. My parents didn’t stay together, but I was conceived in love and born in love. And that’s what I always wanted for my kids. I wanted love—even if it didn’t last forever. But it never happened. I didn’t get love, even when I gave it. My romantic misfortune has been the long-standing subject …

Content warning: This essay contains graphic depictions of miscarriage. Early March 2021 The pandemic and COVID-19 have me feeling as though I’m looking death right in the face. However, my superpowers allow me to fight, not only for my 8-year-old daughter, but also for my son who we’re watching grow and flourish in my womb. March 17, 2021 We take our first 3-D sonogram. Even though he isn’t big enough for me to see all his features, I still love that photo. March 18, 2021  We’re able to see him again. He’s waving. (I thought at the time that it was a “Hi, Mommy.” Now I know he was waving goodbye.) I go to my godson’s house later in the day to wish him “Happy Birthday,” but I leave early due to the pain I’m experiencing. March 19, 2021 I’m using the bathroom so frequently, I think I have a UTI, and I plan to call the doctor the next day. Fighting the pain, I clutch my pregnancy pillow to give me a lil’ comfort. …

I never knew I wanted to become a mom. In my worldview, I thought it was just the natural progression of becoming a woman. It was modeled for me. Go to school, get a good education, graduate, find a good paying job, find a spouse (or let him find you— “He who finds a wife finds a good thing” Proverbs 18: 22 NKJV), get married, and have a baby. I followed this trajectory for my life almost to a tee.  My husband and I didn’t rush to get pregnant. Although the first question people ask as soon as you jump the broom is, “When will you start having children,” we didn’t let the external pressure get to us. We dated long-distance the entire four years of our courtship and didn’t live in the same state, let alone the same city or home, until after we said our “I Dos.” There was no rush to expand our family right away because we wanted to enjoy one another’s company to the fullest as newlyweds. After three years …

My son Julian departed this dimension at 17 years old when restoration was not possible for his “irreparable injuries.” This was after four days of praying for supernatural intervention. Now, in the absence of what I wanted, I have a standing appointment with acceptance or acknowledging what remains. And even this acceptance can shift from resignation to resolution at times. Yet, as I journey into my fourth year as a child loss survivor, I marvel at the magnitude of what is still possible.  I know binaries are rarely satisfying, but if I cannot avoid the bad, I must also accept the good. While it may seem unlikely at times, good can still exist during grief. And goodness may show up on unexpected days and in unexpected ways: ranging from the kindness of strangers online supporting my work to the simple pleasure of ease-y breathing, air freely flowing through my lungs. I learned early in my deep grief to yield to the unexpected, which seemed completely unreasonable. How could I possibly feel anything other than deep …