Stronger Than My Sorrow

For a long time, I thought sorrow would define me.

It followed me quietly at first — sitting beside me in waiting rooms, whispering doubts during late-night thoughts, showing up in the silence after difficult conversations. Over time, it grew heavier. It became something I carried in my body, not just my heart. But what I didn’t realize then was that I was becoming stronger than the very sorrow that tried to break me.

My journey began in 2015 when I was diagnosed with infertility. Hearing that I might never conceive naturally felt like losing a future I hadn’t even lived yet. I had always imagined motherhood as a natural chapter of my life. Instead, it became a medical journey filled with procedures, hormone treatments, and emotional uncertainty.

IVF became part of my routine. Appointments, injections, blood tests, ultrasounds — they shaped my calendar and my mindset. Every cycle brought hope. Every disappointment brought grief. My body felt like it was constantly under pressure, and my heart felt like it was constantly bracing for impact.

In 2019, I experienced what felt like a miracle. I became pregnant. I remember the cautious excitement, the quiet prayers, the small moments of hope I allowed myself to feel. I was told I was having a girl. For a short time, I believed my sorrow had finally loosened its grip.

But nine weeks later, during a routine ultrasound, there was no heartbeat.

The silence in that room changed me.

Losing my baby felt like losing a piece of myself. It wasn’t just a medical loss — it was the loss of dreams, of imagined memories, of a future I had started to build in my heart. I walked away from that moment carrying a sorrow that felt unbearable.

As if that weren’t enough, I had already lost my mother in 2017 to heart disease. Losing her left me feeling unanchored. She was my comfort, my guide, my steady voice during life’s storms. Without her, I felt alone in my struggles. I wanted to call her after every appointment, every setback. I needed her reassurance, and she wasn’t there.

The weight of infertility and losing my mother combined into something dark. I became exhausted — physically and emotionally. I withdrew from people. I felt angry at my body. I questioned my purpose. There were moments when the pain felt endless, when I wondered how much more I could carry.

Sorrow had settled into my life so deeply that I forgot what it felt like to live without it.

But everything shifted one unexpected day in an emergency room. After years of hormone treatments, I had a severe allergic reaction. Sitting there under bright hospital lights, I had a realization I could no longer ignore.

I had spent seven years fighting for one dream. Seven years of appointments, medications, and emotional turmoil. And in the process, I had neglected myself — my health, my joy, my peace.

In that moment, I understood something powerful: I could not control what I had lost, but I could choose how I moved forward.

On November 27, 2022, I made a decision. I decided that sorrow would not be the end of my story. I decided to fight for my life in a new way — not through treatments, but through healing.

Healing did not happen overnight. It began with small steps. I met with a dietitian and began addressing my relationship with food and stress. I committed to a medically supervised detox to reduce inflammation and reset my body. For the first time in years, I started to feel physically lighter.

In January 2023, I joined a gym. Walking in felt intimidating. I felt weak and unsure of myself. But I committed to working with a personal trainer once a week. Some days were difficult. Some days I wanted to quit. But I kept showing up.

Showing up became my quiet rebellion against sorrow.

In May 2023, I discovered Aquabike classes. The water felt healing. The movement felt empowering. The community felt supportive. I began attending three to four times a week while staying consistent with my nutrition.

Slowly, my body transformed. I lost weight. I gained strength. My sleep improved. My energy returned. But the most important change was internal. The sorrow that once felt overwhelming no longer controlled my every thought.

It was still there — grief doesn’t disappear — but it no longer defined me.

Months later, I became a certified Aquabike instructor. The woman who once felt broken and defeated was now leading others, encouraging them, motivating them. I had turned my pain into power.

On November 27, 2022, I weighed 195 pounds. Three years later, I weighed 125. But this journey was never just about numbers. It was about reclaiming my identity. It was about proving to myself that I was stronger than the sorrow I carried.

I still honor my daughter. I still miss my mother. I still have moments when grief visits unexpectedly. But I have learned that strength is not the absence of sorrow — it is the decision to keep moving forward despite it.

Sorrow shaped me, but it did not break me.

I am stronger than my sorrow.

And every single day, I continue to choose strength.