The scallop shell is made of two halves.

One side faces the open water. It is shaped by waves, salt, wind, and time.  It becomes darker, rougher, marked by everything it has endured.

The other side faces inward.  It is lighter.  Smoother.  Lined with a soft, pearly surface formed layer by layer as a way of protecting what is tender.

Grief after pregnancy and infant loss can feel very much like these two halves.

There is the side of us the world sees.  The part that has learned how to get out of bed.  How to show up. How to smile when expected.  How to carry the weight quietly.

That side often holds the marks of what we have been through.  The exhaustion.  The ache.  The anger.  The moments when the waves of grief crash without warning.

And then there is the side few people ever see.  The side that holds our babies.  The side that remembers tiny heartbeats, ultrasound images, hopes, names, and dreams.  The side that is soft and vulnerable and fiercely loving.

Both sides belong.

The weathered side does not mean we are broken.  It means we have survived.  The tender side does not mean we are weak.  It means we loved deeply.

Like the scallop shell, we are shaped by both what has touched us and what we have protected.  Neither place is wrong.  Neither place means we are failing.

Our babies are not only held in what the world can see.  They are held in the inner spaces of us.  In memory.  In love.  In the way they have forever changed who we are.

And just like the scallop shell is still whole because of both halves, we are whole too.  Not because this didn’t hurt.  Not because we are “okay.”  But because love remains.