I was supposed to be in labor six years ago today.
Instead I woke up on February 10 in tears, then closed my eyes again wishing the day away.
I was supposed to meet my first child six years ago today.
But instead I spent the day remembering the baby I would never meet, and the two other babies I had lost that year.
In the miscarriage community, we talk about anniversaries and due dates.
The days we found out we were pregnant, the days we lost our babies, and the days those babies should have been here but weren’t. They are sacred days, and painful days, and days that will remain etched in our memories for life. They are important days to talk about.
There is another day I hold sacred though.
February 17, the day I decided to reach out.
While my close friends knew about my miscarriages, I had struggled to really let them in. The pain was too raw, the jealousy too bitter, and the fear of admitting my fear too real.
But I had a choice to make, disconnect or connect. Sit in silence, or reach out.
Finally, I chose reach out.
When I did, five women arrived at my doorstep with muffins and adult coloring books. They sat with me watching Olympic curling and allowed me to laugh when I wanted to laugh and cry when I wanted to cry.
I told them truthfully that after three miscarriages I was beginning to come to terms with the idea I would never give birth to a child, a sentence I hadn’t said out loud before and one that still brings me to tears in this moment.
It was honest. It was vulnerable. It was what I needed.
Though the journey was far from over, the pieces of my heart started getting put back together that day.
Exactly a year later, on February 17, I sat in the OBGYN office to see if my son was ready to be born. It was his due date.
He arrived three days later, on his own special day.
I share this because stories of hope were buoys for me in my darkest days. I share this because the people I love wanted to love me, even when I pushed them away. I share this because February 10 matters, and so do February 17 and February 20.
And your days matter. Your pain matters. You matter.
And when you’re ready to reach out, I’ll be here.
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