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…
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