Walking Into Healing: Hysteroscopy and the Layers of Emotion

Hi Friends,

Have you ever felt hope and grief at the exact same time?
That’s exactly where I was when I wrote this a few days ago, just a few hours before my hysteroscopy. I was feeling a lot, and I know I’m not alone in that feeling.

Maybe you’ve been here too… when your heart is full of possibility, yet heavy with loss. Or when the future feels fragile, and every step forward carries a memory behind it.

This post is about that space: the overlap of hope and grief, of healing and remembering.

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What a Hysteroscopy Is

For anyone unfamiliar, a hysteroscopy is a minimally invasive procedure where a doctor gently inserts a thin, lighted camera through the cervix to look inside the uterus. It helps identify issues like:

• Polyps
• Scar tissue
• Inflammation
• Anything that could affect embryo implantation

In my case, a small polyp discovered during a water ultrasound in January needs to be removed before we can move forward.

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Anxiety: The Body Keeps Score

Walking into the same clinic where my ovary was punctured and sliced last May is triggering. Trauma doesn’t always respond to logic. I know this is relatively noninvasive, but my body remembers.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend gifted me a small cross to carry with me, right before we began all of our testing with Brialle. Holding it now reminds me that even in moments of fear, I am not alone and that hope can exist alongside anxiety.

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When Efficiency Meets Vulnerability

Communication for this procedure has been only through email or text. A year ago, I would have liked that… efficiency, clarity, speed.

But after last year’s experience, I wanted a bit more human touch:

• A phone call checking in
• Acknowledgment of the history in my chart

I understand clinics are busy, and I’m not their only patient. But it’s okay to want to feel seen, especially in a setting that can feel so vulnerable. And the reality is that I didn’t feel seen in this.

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Grief and Hope: Holding Both

Grief shows up in unexpected places. Today, it shows up as I prepare my uterus for another embryo transfer, when in another life, I would be well into my third trimester.

Both hope and grief exist at the same time:

• Hope for a pregnancy
• Grief for Bri

Yes, I call Brialle “Bri” now. Holding both today feels heavier than usual.

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Navigating Others’ Journeys

This past week, I’ve heard both the joyful news of pregnancies and the devastating news of miscarriages within my circle. Each one stirs something different in me.

When I hear pregnancy announcements, I sometimes catch myself comparing… She’s on her second baby. They weren’t trying long. Meanwhile, Ian and I are entering our third year of trying to grow our family, and we still don’t have a living child in our arms. I don’t love that comparison shows up, but pretending it doesn’t would be dishonest. Writing and talking through my feelings is how I process, so I’m naming it instead of burying it.

And when I hear about a miscarriage, it’s always a gut punch—especially when it’s someone’s first. There really aren’t words that fix that kind of loss. You grieve a life you hadn’t even met yet—the ideas, the future, the imagined moments. Often, especially in early losses, people try to soften it with phrases meant to help:

“At least you know you can get pregnant.”
“At least it was early.”

Those statements might be technically true, but they rarely provide comfort. I say that gently, because I used to say those things too.

After three losses of our own, I’ve learned that what meant the most to me wasn’t advice or words—it was presence:

• A meal dropped off
• A coffee left on the porch
• A Starbucks gift card
• Someone sitting quietly on the couch next to me

Presence is what heals.

So now, when someone I love is hurting, I try to show up with action instead of just saying, “Let me know what you need.” When life is heavy—miscarriage, a new baby, surgery, loss—my goal is to be the friend who shows up.

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Personal Layers of Grief

Today, I’m walking into this procedure hopeful:

• Hopeful my body is healing
• Hopeful we are moving forward
• Mindful that healing isn’t linear—emotionally or physically

Two feelings can exist at once. Today, I’m letting them.

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I’d love to hear from you:

• How do you hold space for complex feelings in your own life?
• Have you experienced moments where hope and grief coexist? How did you navigate that?

Sometimes, sharing your story can help someone else feel less alone. If you feel called, leave a comment or share a reflection below. Let’s hold space for one another.

With Love,
Britt