Ever since our miscarriage, my husband takes me out for Mother’s Day. We skip church because I feel strange when they pass out flowers, unsure whether or not to take one. Navigating my invisible motherhood is complex.

Once, I shared with someone that my husband was taking me out for Mother’s Day to cheer me up. They remarked, “Why would he do that? You are not a mother.” Ouch. I was still reeling from losing our baby a few months prior. It was painful to me that, to this person, my baby’s absence automatically excluded me from the “motherhood club” I so desperately wanted to be a part of.

While I know I am a mother, whether or not I have a child here on earth, seeing Mother’s Day posts on social media is hard. It’s difficult to feel like I really am a mother, because I don’t have a child to show for it. My motherhood cannot be seen; it’s invisible. And, yet, I know I am not alone in this.

Every Mother’s Day, year after year, I am reminded of this long and agonizing wait, even while we pray and hope for a miracle. I now have a love-hate relationship with silence. While I cherish the beauty of stillness and meditation, I often feel the house is too quiet. Sitting alone in my living room, I sometimes feel haunted by the silence. There’s only so much noise two adults and a dog can make.

I often turn on the TV and watch my favorite show to fill the quiet. While a mother with children might long for a moment of peace — and, understandably so — I’m a longing mother without a child here with me, and I crave the noise. I would give anything to have sounds fill my house right now. I never imagined this would be my story in my mid-thirties — trying to conceive and refusing to let the doctor’s label of “secondary infertility” mark the end of my journey.

It feels like there is nothing more painful than meeting the absolute love of your life, building a beautiful life with the man you’ve always dreamed of, and walking through this journey. I remain very hopeful and believe it will happen, one day. But, at the same time, this has been one of the most hopeless periods of my life.

I sat in my car a few months ago, utterly defeated, crying out to God, and unsure how I could carry on. The heaviness of hope deferred made my heart sick. The Bible mentions this “hope deferred” in Proverbs 13:12. I called my brother and told him I felt hopeless and lacked purpose. My dreams were dying, and I felt my prayers and fasting were going nowhere. I will never forget what he told me:

“There is so much purpose for your life; you have to open your eyes and look around to see what God has for you to do right now. What do you need to write? Who do you need to serve? What do you need to create? Explore all the passions God has given you as you wait.”

I did not want to hear him say that. I wanted him to wallow in hopelessness with me, but my brother is not the person to call if you want to wallow. He is the person you call when you are stuck and want to be free. My brother has a special way of speaking to my soul and drawing me out of my pain when it feels like I can’t see. I’m also thankful for my husband who provides gentle guidance, leading me with love and never letting my hand go.

Sis, I want to leave you with some hope because pain and hope do co-exist. I decided to take my brother’s advice and lean into creativity, community, and service. After this low moment in my life, my brother and I started a podcast together. I continued to join small groups at church to cultivate new friendships, and I signed up to volunteer for a local non-profit that helps kids needing advocacy and support.

These days, the house is still silent, the pain is still there, and I still cry sometimes, though I do cry much less than I used to. Even still, I am loving, serving and cooking for my people. I laugh deeply with my husband on the couch at night, and we go on fun dates. I’d always prayed to find a love like ours — and couldn’t be more grateful to have found it in my husband.

We are still believing for a miracle; we have not lost our faith.

Sis, we all wrestle with pain, doubt, jealousy, and envy, but we must decide what to do with those feelings. Will we keep them inside and let the pain and emotions make us bitter . . . or will we release them? Releasing is a daily exercise for me; I must release each day as I wait and trust, believing that God will grant me the desire of my heart — to be a mother.

I don’t know what you desire but, wherever it is, I pray that God meets you where you are this Mother’s Day and every day.