I sometimes recommend to my clients that they go to Mother Nature. Sit quietly. Pray. Let her help heal you. I don’t say this lightly. I know it works because it worked for me. I was in a terrible state when I turned to nature for comfort and found more than I ever expected.
My wife and I were trying to have a child through IVF, and it failed again and again. Each failure felt more devastating than the last. With every attempt, our hope thinned, our faith weakened, and we both suffered in silence and sorrow. I had to be strong for my wife, always staying positive on the outside, even as I was bleeding inside.
The hardest part of IVF isn’t just the physical or emotional toll. It’s the act of pretending everything is okay, keeping yourself upbeat, and distracting yourself from the fear of more disappointment. It took every ounce of willpower not to collapse under the emotional weight. I did my best to keep my wife’s spirits up. I made sure her favourite musicals were always on hand, trying to keep our little world afloat.
Unless you’ve been through it, you can’t imagine the complexity of the process. It doesn’t just challenge your body. It wears down your mind and spirit. I’ve never been tested like that before. On our sixth attempt, things looked hopeful. A junior doctor at the clinic was confident and told us everything was progressing beautifully. For the first time in a long while, we allowed ourselves to believe. But when the news came that it had failed again, everything fell apart. I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I wasn’t strong. I fell into a deep and dark place.
I tried to rise above it. I tried therapy, prayer, distraction, anything. But nothing worked. My friend Paula, a therapist with what I can only describe as a healing presence, told me to go to nature. She said, “Let it out there. Let Mother Nature hold your grief.” At first, I brushed off her suggestion. But then my wife, sensing I was at my breaking point, urged me to go.
I chose a secluded bench in Hampstead Heath, one that overlooked a quiet pond where ducks and swans glided graciously across the water. I sat in silence. Then the tears started. At first, just a few, then a flood. I asked, “Why, God? Why won’t you give us a child?” My voice rose without my permission. I sobbed, releasing years of stored-up pain and frustration. The suffering had cut deep, and I felt every wound.
At some point, I must have drifted into sleep. In that sleep, I had a dream I will never forget. I saw the outline of an angelic figure and heard a voice in my mind.
“Garo, when we suffer, we do so in His name.”
I woke up tired, but lighter. That message pierced through the fog of despair. It gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: meaning. We suffer in His name. I realized then that perhaps suffering wasn’t something to resent, but something to carry with reverence. That short message stayed with me, rooted deeply in my heart. I went home. I returned to my work at the church. Slowly, I began to heal.
Later, I told Paula what had happened.
“I feel like a great weight has been lifted. Thank you for encouraging me to go.”
“You were hurting so deeply,” she said. “I knew you needed divine help.”
“I still feel sad,” I admitted. “We’re still no better off. We still don’t have a child.”
She paused, then said something that would become another turning point for me.
“Garo, you are in the service of fragile and broken souls. Your natural gift comes with responsibility. Unless you’ve walked through the dark, you’ll never fully understand what it means to be there. Empathy cannot be taught; it must be felt. Your work for humanity is vital.”
She was right. Looking back, I’m grateful for every hardship I’ve endured. It is what allows me to sit with others in their pain to help restore their faith and hope. Eventually, once my wife and I had healed enough, we tried a seventh round of IVF and were blessed with a daughter. It was nothing short of a miracle.
Never lose hope, dear reader, not even hope in hope.
Together we are Light.
