A Different Kind of Weight: When Grief Walks Beside Us

Grief doesn’t ask for permission

It shows up uninvited—in the middle of a trail run, in the shape of a child’s shoe, or in the stories we never got to write.

This weekend, I laced up my running shoes for the first time after a painful fall. I was still bruised, still unsure. But something in me needed to move again. Something needed to breathe.

And then I saw it: a small child’s sandal on the side of the road. Worn. Soft at the heel. Green stitching dulled by time and sun. It looked like it had seen playgrounds, creek beds, scraped knees—and joy.

I almost ran past it. But grief has a way of pulling you back.

Grief doesn’t ask permission. But sometimes, it gives us gifts. Like this one...

I went for a run this weekend—my first after a six-day break. The fall I’d taken earlier in the week had left me scraped up and wary, my thumb still unbraced, waiting on an MRI. The heat was already pressing in, but it felt good to move again. Healing, even.

Midway through the run, something caught my eye on the side of the road.
Dark. Small. Familiar in a way that had no words.

It was a child’s sandal—tiny, rugged, Velcro-strapped, the kind that speaks of creek beds and playgrounds and scraped knees. A Merrell, worn soft at the heel, with green stitching still trying to glow. The kind of shoe meant for adventures… or for running behind a parent on a trail like this one. It looked like it had stories, like it had been somewhere.

I ran past at first, but something pulled me back. I turned around and picked it up, even though I don’t like carrying things while I run—it throws me off balance. But I couldn’t leave it there.

As I cradled that little shoe in my palm, my mind wandered back to other shoes I’ve found. Years ago in an antique shop, I saw a pair of worn, turquoise ballet slippers—no longer than six or seven inches. Clearly used. Clearly loved. I didn’t buy them that day. But weeks later, I returned. They were still there, waiting. They now sit in my office. Quiet. Still. Sacred.

And it hit me today, as the sweat ran down my spine and I tucked that sandal into the crook of my arm:
I’ve been collecting the tiny shoes of the daughters I never had.

My story includes two decades of infertility. Of rising hope and crashing disappointment. Of IVF cycles, ultrasounds that turned into silence, and pregnancies that didn’t make it past the whispered beginning. Of a ruptured ectopic and emergency surgery. Of prayers and grief and the hollow ache of not knowing why.

There is no child who outgrew that sandal I found. No daughter whose voice echoes down these mountain trails.

But somehow, her absence still speaks.

The tiny shoes I carry are not empty.

They hold every dream I once dared to have. They hold the grief that didn’t break me, only remade me. They hold space. For what never came. For what still matters.

And as strange as it may sound—this, too, is healing.

Because healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means holding the weight differently. It means allowing even grief to become part of your restoration.

It means knowing that what we carry—when carried with love—can still bring us home.

I placed the tiny sandal beside my own when I got home.

Side by side, they looked like mirror souls. Same structure. Same spirit. But one filled with stories I’ve lived—and the other, stories I never got to write.

Maybe that’s the kind of weight we carry. Not the weight of what's lost, but the presence of what still matters.

And maybe, just maybe, healing means learning to walk forward—with both shoes in hand.

Conclusion

There is no single path through infertility grief or pregnancy loss.
But there are moments—unexpected, sacred, and quiet—that remind us we are still walking. Still healing. Still whole, even in the spaces that feel empty.

Sometimes, healing isn't about letting go.
Sometimes, it’s about carrying what was never ours—with love.
And placing it gently beside us as we move forward.

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