I fell out of love with my life sometime in 2022. Perhaps, like most, I was still exhausted post-pandemic and uncertain about how to move forward. But I think it really started when my husband and I were diagnosed with unexplained infertility.

“I fell out of love with my life sometime in 2022.”

Then, my younger sister was rushed to the hospital with a rare medical condition that left her paralyzed for all of summer. I became one of her caretakers, driving 150 miles to and from the hospital each day while lugging around my laptop to catch up on work. I was also “lugging” around a five-week pregnancy that would end in a miscarriage — but only after eight weeks of persistent bleeding and an ER visit. 

It sounds morbid because it was, and when the new year came, I begged for healing and a better hand. Instead, in 2023, my husband and I had our first failed round of IVF. I went numb from the pain, and somewhere, in an abandoned parking lot where I sat for hours with the news, a former version of myself still lingers.

“Somewhere, in an abandoned parking lot where I sat for hours with the news, a former version of myself still lingers.”

They say when it rains, it pours, and I was certain that I couldn’t take any more grief. I wasn’t sure I could or would ever love my life again. But then a friend came to visit in December, a few weeks after our failed round of IVF. She saw the circles under my eyes and scooped me up, carried me to the beach.

For an entire weekend, I was invited to feel my pain and sit with it. She didn’t try to fix me or offer perspective. Rather, she held my hand as we cried at a Damian Rice concert, then poured me more wine as we watched The Black Swan on my couch.

“For an entire weekend, I was invited to feel my pain and sit with it.”

At the end of her visit, we collected shells in Malibu and drove to West Hollywood for tattoos. Then, she rearranged the furniture in my house and put up string lights to make the space feel cozy. Paint your walls, she told me. Fall in love with your space again. On the curb at the airport, her parting words were the first stitch in a gaping wound: You are more okay than you know.

In January, something shifted, and it wasn’t because I did anything other than allow myself to feel what I needed to feel. I hated my life. But I wanted to love it again. Admitting these two truths unlocked something inside of me: You are more okay than you know. Also: Loving your life does not mean your life looks like ease. 

“I hated my life. But I wanted to love it again.”

The grief did eventually soften, but not with my efforts. Rather, it was the cold sand in the middle of winter; it was saying yes to a friend to start a podcast about infertility because I could feel myself itching for a creative project, and I was desperate to make purpose out of my pain.

The healing wasn’t linear or sensible; it was rage tears and throwing ideas at the wall and running three miles one afternoon because it felt good in my body. It was writing the words “you are okay” on my living room wall and then turning up Maggie Rogers while painting the hallway green. It was leaving my job and coming back to it; it was sending a scary email that meant I’d be accountable for writing again. 

“The healing wasn’t linear or sensible; it was rage tears and throwing ideas at the wall and running three miles one afternoon because it felt good in my body.”

It was also discovering that peace is different than happiness. While I don’t buy into the idea that we get to “choose” how we feel or even that happiness is a choice, I do believe we can choose to be at peace with the path we are on. Peace can exist even in our pain, as can joy — they have to for us to survive. 

“Peace can exist even in our pain, as can joy — they have to for us to survive.”

For all the painful moments that happened in 2022 and 2023, one memory stands out more than the rest. It was two days after I learned IVF had failed, and I spent the afternoon with my three-year-old nephew. We went to a bookstore and read about Buzz Lightyear, ordered hot chocolates, and played at the park in the leaves. When he fell asleep in his car seat on the drive home, the sun was the most spectacular gold through the dying oaks. My heart was shattered, yet, being with my nephew that day, I felt so much warmth and peace.

Falling in love with my life again meant discovering that my life looks different than before, and that’s okay. I never imagined this to be the case with grief, but I’d heard the stories from others. The grief never goes away, people would tell me. But it does soften, and you learn to live with it.

Kayti Christian is the Senior Content Strategist at The Good Trade. She has an MFA in Nonfiction Creative Writing and has been featured in TODAY, Shondaland, and The New York Times. She is the creator of Feelings Not Aside, a newsletter for sensitive people, and cohost of the FriedEggs Podcast, a podcast about IVF and infertility.