The worst day of my life was December 12, 2011, when I held my 2-day-old daughter as her last breath left her body.
The doctor prepared us at her anatomy scan at 20-weeks gestation that she would likely not survive, but I held fast to hope over the next 10 weeks until she was born, that there would be a miracle. But she could not be saved.
For the last almost 8 years, I have worked hard on healing and recovering. I have written books and blogged and even started a nonprofit to support grieving mothers. I have gone to healing retreats and hosted healing retreats and done the hard work to be okay with being okay.
I think of her every day, but every day is not defined by her.
For the most part, I am happy.
And then a few weeks ago, I had a really bad day. I was just angry at the world, utterly sad, and just couldn’t stop the tears. I missed my baby so much and pain I hadn’t felt in a long time came surging back. I had no idea why. Grief is like that. It rears its head in unexpected places and times. But when I took a step back and started thinking about the events of that weekend, I was able to pinpoint exactly why I’d fallen down that tunnel of grief…
The above is an intro to my post on Columbia Mom for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Hop on over to read the rest here.
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