A year ago, I walked out of my doctor’s office believing I had just heard some of the worst news a mother could hear.

Today, I would give almost anything for that news to have been the whole story.

October 31st is a day I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

I can remember it almost as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Even now, putting the memories into words makes it a little harder to breathe.

I was around 18 weeks pregnant with Ethan, going in for what was supposed to be a routine ultrasound and appointment. Ben and Austin dropped me off at my doctor’s office, and the plan was simple. Once I was finished, we were headed into Dallas for a little trick-or-treating adventure with family. Something sweet and fun for Austin.

But that afternoon changed everything.

I remember the first ultrasound tech doing her scan. And then she kept looking. And looking. She seemed to be struggling to get something she needed.

You know that feeling when something just isn’t right? Nobody has said anything, but somehow you already know.

Eventually, another ultrasound tech came in.

And suddenly, the pictures weren’t the fun pictures you hope to get at an ultrasound. They weren’t pictures of his sweet little profile, his tiny feet, or his hands.

They were pictures of his abdomen. Of his stomach. Or what should have been there.

I remember lying there for what felt like forever, knowing something was wrong but having absolutely no idea what it was.

I could hear his heartbeat.

I could see him moving.

He was alive. He was right there.

And yet something was wrong.

My hands were shaking. I was trying to keep my composure, trying to make sense of what was happening, and desperately wanting someone to tell me that everything was okay.

When I met with my doctor after the ultrasound, I honestly don’t remember much of the conversation. I think sometimes your mind only holds on to certain pieces when you’re trying to process something you never expected to hear.

But I remember her explaining that there appeared to be something wrong with Ethan’s abdominal wall. That it looked like his intestines might be growing outside of his body.

And I remember her saying that, out of the possible complications, what we were potentially looking at was something that might be manageable.

We needed to see a maternal-fetal medicine specialist for a closer look and an official diagnosis. There were still so many unknowns.

But if it was what they suspected, it might mean surgery after he was born. It might mean time in the NICU. It might mean a harder beginning than we had planned.

But it was something we could face.

Something that could potentially be fixed.

I remember sitting there, shaking and fighting back tears, thinking, I just need to make it to the car.

And then I remembered that Ben and Austin were waiting in the car.

I cried in the elevator.

By the time I walked out, Ben could tell something was wrong just by looking at me.

I had to find the words to tell him that something might be wrong with our baby.

And in that moment, it felt like our world was crashing down around us.

If only I had known how desperately I would someday wish that what we feared that afternoon was all we had to face.

I remember telling Ben that we should still go trick-or-treating. I didn’t want to take that away from Austin. I didn’t want what had happened that afternoon to overshadow his first little Halloween adventure.

So we went.

We walked around. We smiled. We tried to enjoy the evening.

But my mind was somewhere else entirely.

I was thinking about Ethan.

About the little boy growing inside of me.

About what was wrong and whether he would be okay.

About the specialist we now needed to see and all the questions we didn’t have answers to.

And almost nobody knew I was pregnant.

We hadn’t shared our news yet. Even before that appointment, I had felt hesitant. I wasn’t ready to tell the world. I couldn’t quite explain it, but I had this lingering uncertainty about whether everything was going to be okay.

And now here we were.

Carrying a secret that suddenly felt so much heavier.

That night, after we got home and Austin was asleep, I asked my parents if we could FaceTime.

I remember crying. A lot.

I remember trying to explain what we had learned, what it might mean, and what would happen next.

Would Ethan be okay?

I was trying to make sense of that question myself.

No, he wasn’t okay.

But yes, he was going to be okay.

He might need surgery. He might be in the NICU for a while. It might be a difficult beginning, but we would get through it.

At least, that was what we believed.

What I didn’t realize that night was that I was already beginning to grieve Ethan’s life.

I thought I was grieving the possibility of not having a healthy baby. Of not getting the birth experience or the homecoming we had imagined.

I had no idea what was actually coming.

Just eleven days later, on November 11th, I would receive Ethan’s life-limiting diagnosis.

The news that would shatter everything we thought we knew about our future with him.

Eleven days.

That’s all that separated the afternoon I thought my world was falling apart from the day I learned just how different our story would be.

And now, a year later, I find myself looking back on October 31st with a perspective I never could have imagined having that day.

Because what felt like the worst possible news wasn’t the worst news we would receive.

I would give anything for it to have just been his intestines.

For it to have been something surgery could fix.

For the biggest worry to have been how long Ethan would need to stay in the NICU before we could bring him home.

Oh, how I wish that had been our story.

The future I was so terrified of that afternoon is the very future I would have given anything to have.

I’ve been thinking a lot about perspective lately.

About how much of our lives we spend looking ahead, worrying about what might happen, trying to prepare ourselves for things we can’t possibly know are coming.

And I’m not saying those fears aren’t real. They are.

The fear I felt that day was real.

The tears were real.

The heartbreak was real.

And knowing what I know now doesn’t make any of those feelings less valid.

But it does remind me how incredibly limited our perspective can be.

I thought I knew what I was afraid of losing that day.

I didn’t even understand what was at stake.

And the truth is, I still don’t know what tomorrow holds.

None of us do.

I think that’s something God has been working on in my heart through Ethan’s life.

Learning that I don’t know the whole story.

Learning that I don’t get to see around the corner.

Learning that my understanding of what is good, what is possible, and what tomorrow might hold is so incredibly limited.

But His isn’t.

I think that’s part of why I placed Ethan’s little handprint in my Bible over Jeremiah 29:11.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord … “plans to give you hope and a future.”

I’ve read that verse so many times throughout my life.

But it means something different to me now.

Because what happens when the future you prayed for doesn’t happen?

What happens when the healing you hoped for doesn’t come?

What happens when you hold your baby in your arms knowing that you won’t get to bring him home?

Where is the hope in that?

I don’t think those are questions that have easy answers.

And I don’t think faith means pretending they do.

There is something about seeing Ethan’s tiny handprint resting over those words that I can’t quite explain.

The Lord knows the plans He has for us.

I believe that.

But I also know that His plans don’t always look anything like the ones we imagined. And sometimes, trusting Him means holding on to that truth when everything inside of us wishes the story had been different.

I’m learning that God’s sovereignty isn’t dependent on whether I understand His plans.

That hope doesn’t have to disappear just because the story looks nothing like I imagined.

That I can grieve what should have been, wish desperately that things had been different, and still believe that God is good.

And maybe that’s one of the hardest lessons Ethan’s life has taught me.

Because I would still give anything for him to be here.

I would still choose the surgeries, the NICU stays, the difficult beginning, and every unknown that terrified me that October afternoon if it meant we could have brought him home.

But that wasn’t our story.

Ethan lived for nineteen minutes after he was born. Nineteen minutes that will never feel like enough.

And yet, his life continues to change mine.

So as October 31st comes around again, I find myself remembering that scared mama sitting in an ultrasound room, shaking and praying that her little boy would be okay.

I wish I could go back and tell her so many things.

I wish I could spare her some of what was coming.

But I can’t.

And even knowing everything I know today, there are still so many things I don’t understand.

I don’t know why Ethan’s story had to look the way it did.

I don’t know why we didn’t get the future we had prayed for.

And I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

But I’m learning that I don’t have to know all of those things to trust the One who does.

Maybe that’s what hope looks like for me now.

Not the certainty that everything will turn out the way I want it to.

Not the promise that life will be free of heartbreak.

But the belief that even when the story is harder than I could have imagined, God is still present. Still faithful. Still sovereign.

And when I open my Bible and see Ethan’s little handprint resting over that promise of hope and a future, I’m reminded that his life, however brief, was never without purpose.

I didn’t get the future I wanted with my little boy.

But I will spend the rest of mine carrying the love, the lessons, and the hope his life gave me.