I had been praying for this baby for almost a year. I had only known I was pregnant for a week. Then, on a Saturday night, I started experiencing extreme abdominal pain. I assumed it was a stomach bug. But by Sunday night, the pain was worse, and deep down, I knew something was seriously wrong.

I called my doctor and was told to go to the ER immediately.

That was the moment everything changed. The moment I had to decide—not once, but again and again—Will I trust God even now?

Because trust isn’t something I chose once that night and never questioned again. It was something I would have to keep choosing—through the diagnosis, through surgery, through the quiet ache that followed.

As I sat in the hospital waiting for results, I prayed it would be anything else. “Please, Lord, let it be my appendix—anything—just let the baby be okay.”

But dread started to settle when the ultrasound technician quietly turned the monitor away from me.

Not long after, the doctor came in and gently told me there was no fetal tissue in my uterus. My HCG levels were too low. It was likely a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. Instead of implanting in my uterus, my baby implanted in my right fallopian tube. The baby was already gone. Surgery was scheduled right away.

I had wanted this baby with all my heart. And in just a few moments, that joy was ripped away. But I turned to my husband and said through tears, “I don’t know what’s going to happen… but I am choosing to trust God.”

In that moment, I realized that trusting the Lord isn’t a one-time decision—it’s something we choose again and again.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.”
—Proverbs 3:5

I knew what it felt like to let anger harden my heart and grow into bitterness from past experience. I had learned—through pain—that trusting God didn’t mean I’d always understand. It meant I could lean on Him even when nothing made sense.

I had to trust God in so many moments: when I was being wheeled into the operating room; when they asked me what I wanted to do with my baby’s remains; when I woke up alone from surgery, and my first thought was, “I’m not pregnant anymore.”

Weeks later, I had to trust Him again as I walked into the doctor’s office surrounded by happily pregnant women. And again, as I sat alone in the exam room, listening through the walls to the beautiful heartbeat of another baby on a sonogram in the next room.

Each of those moments demanded a fresh decision. And even after they passed, the choice didn’t end. The grief didn’t disappear with the surgery. The waves still came, and every wave asked the same question: Will you still trust Him now?

I chose to trust, not because it was easy, but because I knew it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”
—Psalm 56:3

To be completely honest, I didn’t make that choice in every single moment afterward. There were—and still are—moments when grief feels stronger than peace. But I keep coming back to what I know: that God is still good. That He is near to the brokenhearted. That He collects every tear.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
—Psalm 34:18

Trust looks like showing up to the pain and still choosing to believe God is who He says He is. It means holding both sorrow and faith in the same hands. It means I can weep and still believe.

Because Jesus did too.

He stood outside Lazarus’s tomb and wept, knowing full well resurrection was moments away. He didn’t rush the grief. He entered it. And He still does.

That’s what this experience is teaching me:

Trust isn’t always loud. It’s often quiet, tear-streaked, and a struggle to surrender. But when you choose it again and again, it becomes a kind of worship. Not the kind you raise your hands to—but the kind that happens when you raise your eyes in the dark and say, “I still believe You’re good.”

“Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him.”
—Job 13:15

I didn’t feel strong. I wasn’t overflowing with faith. But I kept choosing trust in the middle of the ache. And that’s what I think honors God—not the moments we feel brave, but the moments we trust Him anyway.

“Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful.”
—Hebrews 10:23

So if you find yourself in a season where trust feels hard, know this: You’re not failing if you have to choose it again tomorrow. Or five minutes from now. Trust is a practice. And every time you choose it—even when you’re holding shattered pieces—you’re laying your heart at the feet of a God who is faithful.

“He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.”
—Psalm 91:4

Even when the ache returns. Even when tomorrow hurts more than today. He will still be faithful.