How do I grieve the children I thought I would have while still hoping?

This is the tender paradox, isn't it? Rabia knew something about loving what hasn't arrived yet—about devotion that doesn't require proof or guarantee. You don't have to choose between grief and hope. They can live in the same body, the same day, even the same hour. Grief acknowledges what you've lost: the imagined future, the identity you thought you'd step into, the specific face you'll never know. Hope doesn't erase that. It just sits beside it. What I've learned from Rabia's life is that pure devotion isn't about the outcome—it's about showing up to your own longing with tenderness. Some days you'll need to cry for the children who aren't coming. Other days you'll feel the possibility again. Both are real. Both are honest. The work isn't to resolve this tension but to stop punishing yourself for feeling both at once. Let yourself be this complicated. The community around you—the ones who get it—they're grieving and hoping too. You're not alone in this both/and.