When my first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, that’s when I thought I’d lose my mind. I couldn’t fathom that anyone deserved that kind of agony. I avoided Facebook (aka baby central) and somehow fought off the urge to do physical harm to all the idiots who upon asking if I had kids and hearing my negative response would say “Oh, you’re so lucky. My kids are monsters!”. I had only a small cadre of sympathetic friends who I told (and who I felt tremendous guilt in overburdening with my grief). It was probably the most isolating and lonely time of my life.

I’m now pregnant again (13.5 weeks) and every part of every day is a decision not to live in the fear and anxiety of more sadness and loss. I will say this: if I am lucky enough to bring this baby home, I know I’ll be a better parent for all my experiences. I’ve spent most of my adult life uncertain that I should be a mother, unsure that I wanted it badly enough. Those doubts are gone. I choose to believe that with a greater capacity for grief must come a greater capacity for appreciation. We may not love them more, but we will appreciate our children on a level that people who haven’t experienced this can’t understand.