Accounting. Silence

The Thing I Held the Tightest

It’s taken me a long time to be able to give voice to this experience.

For a long time, I held it privately.

I finally had a conversation—one where I allowed it to land somewhere outside of myself.

It was one of the most freeing conversations I’ve ever had.

I’ve known for a while that this was going to surface publicly. Some would ask, why now? If my journey can help someone else find hope in their own process… then why wouldn’t I share it?

Truthfully, I’ve wrestled with putting this in a public space. But that inner voice kept pressing—steady, persistent—telling me it was time to release it. And release doesn’t just mean letting it go internally… it means giving it a voice where it can be heard.

So this is how we got here.

My husband has been part of these conversations over the last few weeks—because this isn’t just my story. It’s his too.

One of the things I appreciate most about Ricardo is the space, respect, and support he gives to my creative process. But even more than that, I value the way he shows up in the hard conversations—the way he listens, processes, and brings clarity when things feel uncertain.

We’ve found ourselves navigating new waters… unfamiliar paths that don’t come with clear direction or easy answers. And in that space, there’s been a different kind of growth—one that requires honesty, patience, and a willingness to sit with things we once tried to carry alone.

This piece… this story… is something I held onto tightly for a long time.

Not because I didn’t want to let it go,
but because I didn’t yet understand what it meant,
or where it belonged.

And what this is…

This is the loss of our two babies—before we ever got the chance to fully celebrate their existence. Two miscarriages and a path that hasn’t led to parenthood. 

The kind of loss that doesn’t always have a place to land.
No shared memories. No visible milestones.
Just the weight of what could have been… and the silence that follows.

But it’s also more than that.

It’s the journey of grief that came after.

The learning, the wrestling, the questions that don’t always get answers.

The slow, quiet realization that life continues—even when something inside you has changed forever.

And while this is deeply personal… I know it reaches further than just our story.

Because loss—real loss, the kind that reshapes you—doesn’t come in just one form.

It can be the loss of a child.
The loss of a relationship.
The loss of a version of your life you thought you’d have.

Sometimes it’s a moment.

Sometimes it’s a season.

And if you’ve ever carried something heavy and unseen…

if you’ve ever had to keep moving while something in you was breaking…

then in some way, this story meets you there too.

And maybe that’s part of the process…

Sometimes we don’t release things because we’re ready—
we release them because we’ve finally grown strong enough to carry them differently.

And maybe… even share them. 

Why I Waited

Fear.

Not knowing what it would become if I gave it words.

Wondering if holding it close would somehow make it less painful.

But internalizing things has never served me well.

When It Resurfaced

As I started writing again, “it’s” continued to come back up.

As new projects began to take shape, I felt that quiet, persistent voice:

You’ve got to surrender this.

Because this…

was the one thing I held onto the tightest. The one I’ve been most private about. I’ve alluded to it but I’ve never come out right and called it what it is. Until now. 

A Season of Surrender

This has been a season of letting go.

Not in the way people usually mean it.

Not forgetting.
Not moving on.

But releasing the weight of things that can’t go with me into the next season.

What This Is—and What It Isn’t

I’m not letting this go in a traditional sense.

It will be with me until I draw my last breath.

That’s the bittersweet part of it.

I look forward to the day I’ll finally see and hold our two babies on the other side of heaven.

For now, my heart is at peace knowing they are in a place of peace—held by the Creator.

Why Share This Now

So why say anything now?

Because you’ll hear it.

In the writing.
In the music.
In the projects that are coming.

I didn’t want there to be speculation.

I wanted you to hear it directly from me.

What I Held Onto

Of all the experiences I’ve had in life—

this is the one I kept the most private.

The one I clung to the tightest.

Death is no respector of age, race, or position (a song lyric that has always stayed with me.) Physical death is also the one thing we can’t avoid. It will find each and everyone of us at some point in our lives. 

Finding Words for It

There’s a song on this project called Accounting. Silence.

It comes from that place.

The space where things were never fully said out loud…

but never fully left either.

The quiet weight of holding something in—
and what it takes to finally release it.

What Grief Looks Like Now

If I sit in it too long—
the what-ifs can still bring me to tears.

Even now. Even years later.

But I hold that grief differently.

I’ve had countless conversations with mothers who have walked this same road.

And that experience has given me a different heart for them.

It’s changed how I listen.
How I pray.
How I show up.

Holding Grief and Peace Together

I share this now to say:

There is still hope.

We don’t have children this side of heaven.

And we’ve made our peace with that.

Grief and peace can exist in the same place.

You can carry both
and still live fully.

I know that—not because I read it somewhere—

but because I’ve lived it.
And I’m living it now.

What Changed

Those experiences will always be with me.

I’m certain of that.

But they no longer have the power to hold me back in how I move forward.

The questions.
The “why.”
The “how.”

They don’t define my next steps or my space anymore.

The experience didn’t change.
The outcome didn’t change.

But how I carry it did.

I’m at peace.

Not because it didn’t matter.
Not because it doesn’t still hurt.

But because I’ve surrendered the weight of it.

Surrendering this experience didn’t mean I was letting go of our babies.

It meant I was no longer carrying all of it on my own.

For Anyone Walking This

If you’re walking through something similar—

I won’t tell you how to grieve.

But I will say this:

Give it a place to land.

Even if it’s just one honest sentence.

Even if it’s just saying, “this hurt me.”

Whether that’s in a conversation, in writing, in prayer…

or in the quiet moments you finally allow yourself to feel it.

You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.

And when you’re ready—
not when anyone else says you should be—

there is freedom in laying it down. 

This is part of what surrender sounds like.
Accounting. Silence.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be releasing a blog series on grief and my journey. 

You’re welcome to follow or share as you feel fit.

If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. 

You can comment here anonymously or send me a message to leyvalm@me.com.

~ Louda