I am grieving every month. Each cycle feels like a heart-wrenching dagger, fading away the slightest hope of becoming a parent. An empty womb leaves a void filled with sorrow and despair. Oh, did I say – I grieve every month? It is actually a quiet death; I die each time the calendar turns. With each passing moment, I can’t help but feel a saddening reminder that some dreams might remain forever a dream.

In a society where women are expected to carry their husband’s surname, submit to his authority, and take on domestic roles – having an empty womb leads more to harsh judgment and ridicule. It feels like you are standing on the edge of a cliff, where people are ready to throw stones at you as they keep asking you a never-ending question, ‘So, when are you going to have a child?’

For years, I’ve been enduring the ache of answering the same question with an empty womb. I genuinely smile, but it only masks the deep longing within – the hope of carrying a life inside a womb.

This is not only my story. I also hear the cries of other women at the edge of the bed or at the corner of the room longing for a child—some losing hope with each passing month, others trying to embrace the reality of the possibility of a life without motherhood, yet the sadness is visible in their eyes. Some still try and hope every cycle, even if it already breaks them multiple times. We hear them.

About a month ago, I cried hard and totally gave up, experiencing the most painful month as if the dagger had twisted deeper into my heart and had ended all my hopes. It took days before I came back to my senses, but I can still feel the dagger, keeping me in pain every time I breathe.

While reflecting on the pain of having an empty womb, the image of an empty tomb appears and crosses my mind – a cold, empty tomb. I look closer with a heavy heart, searching for meaning in this empty tomb. Tears blur my vision as I wonder if this emptiness mirrors my own. Is this truly the depth of my sorrow and the ache of loneliness within me?

It took me time to realize that I needed to look not just closer but beyond the empty tomb. The powerful image of women witnessing the resurrection of Jesus, the tomb brightened by the light of the rising sun, the rolled stones that overcome barriers for a new beginning, and the image of the folded linen, which means Jesus was not stolen but was risen.

I cried even more. I never imagine and look at the easter story this way. The empty tomb gives hope to an empty womb.

This empty womb might feel dark and cold, yet it receives light and warmth from individuals, families, and communities who support, pray, and walk alongside us on this journey. No burden is too heavy when nurturing communities carry it with you. And yes, I am not being robbed of being a parent, for when the moment is right, this empty womb will embrace and carry a new life alongside the cherished communities that inspire me deeply.

This has inspired me and reignited my hope to look beyond the empty womb. God has guided me in this meditation—this is what Jesus has risen for me: hope in the midst of despair, resurrection in the midst of death-defying hopelessness, and victory that I overcome with our God with the message of Jesus’ resurrection. This is my story and the stories of many women.

Today, with a heart full of love, I am birthing this blog page, which will share the stories of those who bravely transcend the empty tomb.