Moments
An Essay About Lessons through Games and Miscarriages
Spoiler Warning
This essay talks about key moments in the following games. If you haven't played them and wish to do so unspoiled, what are you waiting for?
Go play them! I'll be here.
- Journey by thatgamecompany
- Outer Wilds by Mobius Digital
- Tunic by Isometricorp Games
"To those who wrote that we might read, to those who fell so we might walk, to those who came before so we might come after, gratitude."
There's a moment in Journey—okay, there are many moments in thatgamecompany's seminal title—but there is this scene before the endgame. You've surfed the sun-soaked sands. You've skirted around mechanical dragons. Your scarf has grown. Perhaps you have even met fellow Journey-ers.
Now you are ascending a tower in floaty bliss uncovering murals that lay out everything you've done, as if it was all foretold by one of those big white prophets countless ages ago. As the pictorial canvas meets up with the current moment, the camera pans around to what lies ahead—the challenge; the cold; the wind; the isolation. Your journey is not over. It's about to get harder and you cannot see the promised light from when you set out so long ago.
That is what seeing another ultrasound of a baby that's stopped growing feels like.
I always wanted just one kid. My relationship with my younger brother is in a state of estrangement. A long time ago, I decided that having one kid would prevent the no doubt inevitable anguish siblings have. It took me a long time to realize that train of thought was both selfish and self-preserving (those often together like horseshoes and hand grenades). I was projecting a scenario about kids that didn't exist yet. I wasn't even giving them a chance to even breathe their first breath before imagining a world where their relationships could mirror my own.
I wrestled with this early in our marriage. I chewed on the revelation while we set out to expand our family in 2021. The outset of that journey led to two miscarriages. It wouldn't be until the fall of 2022 that our daughter Eloise would be born. And sometime in the last 3~4 years, I finished chewing and decided I'd like another kid. My wife Abby always wanted more than one.
After saving a smidge to get the financial ball rolling, we set out to conceive and much to our delight that little test turned positive the first month—a result I know many do not find at the start of their own journey. A positive test is never something I take for granted.
We were elated. Around seven or so weeks we went to the doctor due to some slight bleeding—this is about two weeks into December 2025—and the ultrasound then showed an appropriately sized baby and a heartbeat. Given the timetable, of course we turned this baby into a Christmas announcement for our friends and family. The joy was a bright light on the mountain top. But the bleeding never fully stopped. At some point between ultrasounds, the baby stopped growing and its heart stopped beating. Given how it measured, this happened around Christmas.
Just because we are no strangers to miscarriage did not make this one any easier. How do you explain to your toddler she isn't going to be a big sister quite yet? All the family calls and texts to say it's not happening anymore, please forget the announcement from a couple weeks ago. How do I help with the physical and emotional anguish that Abby is going through? How do I help myself?
The Saturday after the loss, I decided to replay Journey. I hadn't done a full playthrough since it came out on the PlayStation 3 in March 2012. I had to play it on my CRT, because I didn't even have an HD television yet. Gosh, how has it already been 14 years? I've had the itch to play it and knew it could be done in one sitting. The perfect little game to absorb my evening and my mind.
It was the game I needed to play that night. I wanted to be alone and contemplative. I wanted to wander. The servers obliged and I only encountered one other player who, despite my attempted teachings, did not understand how to fly over a wall. Austin Wintory's score was as sublime as ever. The visuals at 4K were a definite step up over the embers of 480i in my mind's eye. It reminded me of how sand was a big graphics pusher at the time. If you had good sand, you had a good game back in the twenty-teens.
Despite the near 15 years, I remember the game's beats. The sand surfing scene still hits. The dragons strike fear. The remains of this civilization stir up curiosity and an unnamed grief. This time though, when I get to the aforementioned ascension, the wind is sucked out of me. This little wanderer has no clue what lies ahead, but I do. Abby's and my pregnancy journey has happened before. The murals sync up. What lies ahead is bitter, cold, and isolating. In the moment, I don't see the light at the top of the mountain. I see the situation freezing us in place, stuck in time waiting for the grief of the past to rip away what little scarf of hope we had managed to knit together for this journey back up the mountain of pregnancy and becoming parents once more.
I can't stop in the game. I can't stop in life. I press forward. The cold awaits.
There's a moment in Outer Wilds—okay, there are many moments in Mobius Digital's seminal title—but there is this tiny comet called the Interloper that flies through the solar system. Throughout your adventure, you've banged your head against this frozen rock time and time again. There is more beneath its obstinate surface, you know it, but you can't figure out the space rock's secret. You happen to be standing on it—contemplating—as its orbit nears the sun.
Then the ice melts.
There's elation with a healthy dose of "no duh." You rush inside knowing the timeloop's clock is winding down and that the answers you have been searching for lie inside this icy cavern. You slip and slide, dodging Ghost Matter like a spooky sci-fi version of Super Mario 64's penguin slide.
At the core of the comet, the ghostly rocks are everywhere and then—you see the corpses. Their logs explain that there is no answer here except what happened to the Nomai and why your species survived. It was a misunderstanding...an accident...a diversion from repeated failure...Dread and grief fill you as the End Times begins to swell beneath. There's no time to leave the comet's core. The grief is both for the characters and the fact you have no new answer for progress. You're exactly where you were moments ago; frustrated, unsure of where the next answer lies, surrounded by ice, only now, sadder. The sun explodes. You die. Another loop begins.
That's what seeing an empty ultrasound after waiting 10 weeks feels like.
After the December miscarriage, we waited the advised amount of time and tried again. Another positive test faded in to life in our sole, crammed bathroom. Given how expensive this initial miscarriage was, we decided to wait for an ultrasound this time.1 We chose 10 weeks as a nice, round number where everything should be healthy and visible.
That didn't stop the bleeding. It was less than before and even subsided for almost all of April. We thought we were in the clear. The weeks to ten were both longer and shorter. You feel stuck, just waiting for the time to pass and an answer to come. The truth is beneath the surface, behind the veil of flesh and blood. There is more inside, we knew it, but we could not see our way inside.
The first ultrasound was at a free clinic. It was an empty and long procedure, as if the technician wasn't prepared to deliver the bad news. We were advised to see our OB/GYN and seek medical advisement for a miscarriage.
The next day, the doctor saw evidence that something was happening and tracked the size around 6~7 weeks, not 10 like we thought. She saw some of the necessary bits and bobs for life. Perhaps we tracked wrong. Perhaps she ovulated late. We just wouldn't know until more time passed—two more weeks. We came out of that appointment with hope and a mission to wait even longer.
Twelve days later—on Mother's Day—Abby's body miscarried. I held her in the shower as her body expelled the life we had hoped and prayed for, unable to do anything except hold her and let the water rain down. We were back to five months ago, frustrated, unsure of where the answer lies, surrounded by pain, sadder. Somehow, the day ends. We sleep. Another loop begins.
Once you play Outer Wilds, you don't really ever stop thinking about it. A few notes from the soundtrack alone are enough to stir a desire for another loop. I have been listening to the Outer Wilds soundtrack a lot during the writing process of this essay. I feel a somber longing, like a tether to a space ship, drifting out of my chest with each note. This cord of melancholy becomes a tangled mess, filling the space in front of me, looming over the keyboard. I wish I could go back before these plucks of the guitar meant something. Back when the solar system was new to me. Back when the stars had possibility. Back when my biggest fear was a blind fish and not a supernova.
I was protected in that loop of Outer Wilds. I couldn't fail. I suppose my only concession of failure was if I turned to a guide. I could solve and save the solar system. If I just thought about it long enough, the answer would come. I could be the hero.
The game is filled with remnants of tragedy and I turned them into a playground. On paper, Outer Wilds is dark, melancholic, fear-inducing. As a game, it takes on a lighter air as you hop around in zero g. As you play, you get grounded by a planetary mass of grief along the way. Recorded messages before air loss. Corpses floating on the edge of safety. A buried civilization. A comet harboring destruction. And there are just two options: Stay in the loop or end it and brave the unknown.
I feel the same with these miscarriages. I wrote an essay about numbing grief with games the first time. As we move further from these miscarriages and look toward a third attempt with tests and doctors along the way, I recognize my initial, inherent fear. I hear of another friend going through a miscarriage. I see other friends having babies. I can hide in the safety of the loop.
While not the particular example I chose, in the Echoes of the Eye expansion for Outer Wilds the owl creatures invented dream worlds to hide inside and avoid the reality of their situation so far from their home. Heads are buried in dreamy sand as their bodies and world crumble. I get that.
Then this compulsion to write bubbles up inside me. At times I wonder, "Am I turning my grief into a literary playground?" Do I take my grief and bury it? Do its secrets lie frozen at a core for someone to maybe dig up some day in my journal? Do I enter a dreamy loop? Am I coping? Am I ignoring?
I am somewhere new. I am back where I started. Where do I go from here?
There's a moment in Tunic—okay, there are many moments in Isometricorp Games's seminal title—but upon defeating the final boss, you don't get the ending you were expecting.
It's a grueling battle. You've already faced her before and she turned you into a weak little ghost. You followed the Hero's path and got all your powers back. You returned from the brink, stronger than before. You have the knowledge, the strength, and the determination. It's your destiny to win this battle.
After you defeat the giant Fox Lady along and her legally distinct Buster Sword, she fades away. Instead of freeing her and a foxy people, you become the next prisoner, locked away inside this mysterious vault. The credits roll and you are awarded a "Game Over" screen prompting you to "return and seek another path."
That's what it feels like to do the "right things" and not get the ending you anticipated.
There is a war being waged inside me. Even now as I write this paragraph, do I keep on going or just close the document and give up? Just looking back at how this essay evolved, I can see the tide of battle ebb and flow.
1/7/26 - Another miscarriage. While I don't think I need another essay about that, it certainly means this won't be an announcement essay. Not that it can't be someday.
My original idea for this essay was a way to announce my next kid. I wanted to explore legacy and passing knowledge on. I shelved it, but collected nuggets along the way. Ammo, if you will, to chip away at the enemy known as Silence.
"But a writer always tries, I think, to be a part of the solution, to understand a little about life and to pass this on."
or this dead on quote from Lyria in Light Bringer,
“What I learn here will help someone who needs it later.”
I even found some, I kid you not, in Karate Kid: Legends,
“Do you think Kung Fu can help your friend? I think so. Anything that helps others and benefits yourself is a good thing. Sharing your knowledge is a good thing.”
I'd read or hear a line that struck a chord. I'd pull out my phone and add it to the document that kept growing, despite my utter lack of resolve when it came to sitting down at the keyboard and writing.
That "other path" the Game Over screen mentioned is completing the in-game user manual, which includes solving one of the trickiest puzzles. I did not do so and instead looked up the solution after giving up on the last two pages. Take my Metroid-brainia membership card now if you must.
Toward the back of the manual, pages 45 and 46 depict "Clearing the Game or Seeking an End" where you may either "Take Your Rightful Place" in combat or "Share Your Wisdom." Despite being vague as ever, it clicked for me after completing the booklet and returning to the Fox Lady.
She summons her sword, ready to fight as she always has against the previous prisoner and those daring enough to challenge her. Surprised by the lack of slashing, she gazes down to your tiny self holding a book and offering another path...a new ending is forged and the credits roll once more.
Perhaps, it wasn't ammunition I was collecting at all, but bits of knowledge to complete a proverbial instruction manual...
My final pages came from an unexpected place (even more so than Karate Kid Legends)—Matt Damon on the Joe Rogan Experience:
Matt describes a conversation with Dwayne Johnson about a scene in The Smashing Machine, which is a 7/10 movie that I think about far too often. The scene has Dwayne's portrayal of Mark Kerr in the hospital after an overdose. Dwayne dances around and then breaks down. This behemoth of a man with thighs that could crush my skull crumbles and cowers behind a hospital sheet. Dwayne brought this performance to life by fusing his experience with his addicted father and his mother's reaction to a stage three cancer diagnosis.
"Like, so that, right, is two traumatic events from this guy's life, right? From his life experience and the actor in him, right, sees this scene, goes into his memory, pulls these two things out, understands that they're appropriate for this scene, and he can marry them together in the scene and then he goes and performs it that way...That is a completely human – that is an art. That is an artist. That's a piece of art that comes out of a lived human experience."
With that, my manual was complete. I still had to wrestle and wrangle my thoughts, feelings, and emotions into substance, but I knew I could not keep the story a secret and shoulder its weight alone.
2/2/26 - And so maybe I am supposed to share it and share it with the world and others in my life. Maybe I can help just one person
And who am I to stop that?
It seems like I came to the same conclusion as last time. And I have. But if I don’t write and share to try and become a part of the solution, then I am just giving in to the selfish, self-serving fear that has dictated parts of my life for far too long. If I don’t share my wins and my losses, I would trap myself in a prison of my own design. I’d enter the core just to be encased in icy fear. I don't want to climb this mountain alone. I don't want that fate for my wife or my daughter or any other children we may end up having. I don't want that for you.
There's a moment in Journey. You trudge through the snow. Slow. Slower. Done. Frozen. And then, light, air, water. You are restored not just to your state of being before the climb, but more than you ever were. Flight is infinite as you reach the promised peak. You have climbed the mountain and then...it begins again. Go back and help the next travelers.
There's a moment in Outer Wilds. The puzzle is solved. You know what must be done. You take all the knowledge, the memories, and the pain powering the timeloop and pull the core to end the loop. One more shot. You face the known and unknown simultaneously—confidence and fear propel you forward. A new world awaits and your experience is at its heart.
There's a moment in Tunic. You've collected the pages of the world's manual and instead of fighting for power, you share knowledge gained to forge a new path. Instead of slashing, the Fox Lady cries. The pages and your invitation remind her that there is more than one way through pain and imprisonment. You remind her of something once known, but forgotten in the prison pain trapped her in. She transforms back into herself. Renewed and restored.
We are meant to share. Sharing doesn't always have a happy ending. There isn't always an ultrasound at the end of an essay. But in writing and sharing, there is a chance to relearn what you have forgotten over time and through pain.
I remember now.
I write so others may read. I have fallen so others may walk. I have come before, so others may come after.
This is for you and for those that may come after. We continue.
Footnotes
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Abby and I don't have traditional health insurance. We are a part of Samaritan Ministries. We have an initial amount to pay for and then the rest is provided for by other Christians around the country. ↩