Thank you for showing up.

Thank you.

I’m assuming that you’re here because you are someone or love someone who has lived through a hard thing. Maybe your baby died. Maybe you’re living through infertility. Maybe both. If you are, I’m deeply sorry. I have lived through these things, and I’m here to talk about them.

When I was in the throes of infertility, I didn’t share about it. I watched others who would bravely share about the world of things like baseline scans, Clomid side effects, and the realities of injecting yourself with hormones. I experienced these things silently, with the support of my spouse and my close family and friends, but all behind closed doors. It’s not comfortable to throw around words like “timed intercourse” with acquaintances, let alone strangers on the internet. No one knew the physical and emotional pain I was living with every day.

When I took that first positive pregnancy test, I was in disbelief. I took 5 more over 5 days. All positive. Every step of the way, I was in disbelief, as if I was outside of myself watching it all happen. As I got further along, I started to believe it would stick, that I would have a healthy baby in September.

I felt lucky.

I thought infertility was the hardest thing I would ever go through. I thought I was different, I was special. The weeks passed. We found out we were having a girl. I loved our baby deeper and deeper. I checked the chart that shows you the probability of miscarriage every week and watched the number go down. We started to tell people we were pregnant. I made it to 20 weeks and breathed a sigh of relief.

A doctor told me one day later that my baby would die soon. The next day, she no longer had a heartbeat.

Her death has left a gaping hole in my life. It has shattered me beyond belief. I have wondered almost daily how I’m still functioning. I think about the person that I used to be and I hardly recognize her. I miss Evelyn in a way I can’t even accurately describe in words. The feeling just swallows me up. Yet, every day, I wake up. I get out of bed. I feed myself. I take care of my dogs. My spouse and I hold each other up. We exist. Some days are better than others, and we can never tell which type of day we’ll have. It’s all new and it’s all unfair. There are some things that help me feel just slightly better. Writing is one of them. I hope to share bits and pieces of my life, of loving Evelyn and losing her. I hope some things that I write may resonate with you or may bring you peace. One of my newest and greatest hopes is that I can contribute something to help just one person not feel so alone. Infertility and loss are isolating and terrifying.

So, again, if you’re here, thank you. Thank you for reading and learning. Thank you for showing up–for people you love and for yourself.