You don’t think much about your body until something changes. Until the things you once did without thinking—walking up the stairs, laughing without pain, trusting that tomorrow will feel just like today—become uncertain. Maybe it was gradual, a slow slipping away of strength. Maybe it was sudden, an accident, a diagnosis, a moment that split your life into before and after.

And now, you find yourself grieving something most people don’t even realize can be lost. Maybe it’s your independence. Maybe it’s your energy. Maybe it’s the version of yourself you always thought you’d be. People might tell you to stay positive, to be grateful for what you still have. But they don’t understand that this is loss, too.

Here, you’ll find stories from others who have faced this kind of grief—the frustration, the sadness, the uncertainty. No toxic positivity, no pressure to move on—just space to acknowledge the weight of it, to sit with the loss, and to know that even if your body has changed, you are still here.

And that matters.

Some grief is invisible. It doesn’t leave an empty chair at the dinner table or a box of old clothes to sort through. But it’s there—in the quiet moments, in the dreams you had, in the love you were ready to give but never got to.

Maybe you saw the lines on the test and imagined the nursery. Maybe you whispered their name when no one else knew. Maybe you carried them for days, weeks, months—only to have to say goodbye before you even got to say hello. Or maybe you’ve been waiting, hoping, trying, and every negative test feels like another door closing on a dream.

This kind of loss is complicated. People don’t always know what to say. Sometimes, they don’t even acknowledge it. But here, you don’t have to explain why it hurts. Why it lingers. Why it feels like you’re mourning someone the world never met, but who was already so real to you.

You’re not alone. Others have carried this grief too. And while nothing can erase the ache, you don’t have to hold it by yourself.