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A raw, honest poetry collection about infertility, faith, and hope that survives heartbreak.
In Hands Still Open, C.L. Cossette writes with unflinching tenderness about the sacred ache of trying to conceive—the waiting, the breaking, and the quiet endurance of love that keeps believing anyway.
For anyone who has ever prayed, hoped, or dreamed for a miracle that didn’t come when expected—these poems are a hand to hold in the waiting.
A raw, honest poetry collection about infertility, faith, and hope that survives heartbreak.
In Hands Still Open, C.L. Cossette writes with unflinching tenderness about the sacred ache of trying to conceive—the waiting, the breaking, and the quiet endurance of love that keeps believing anyway.
For anyone who has ever prayed, hoped, or dreamed for a miracle that didn’t come when expected—these poems are a hand to hold in the waiting.