The happiest chapter of my life is suddenly, rapidly coming to a close.

At the end of February, we will move out of the home we have shared as a family for the last three and a half years. The home in which I became a mother of three, the only place my youngest child has ever lived, rooms filled to the brim with memories of some of the very best moments of my life. I have loved living here, with my precious family, in this peculiar and unreliable old house, in this cozy neighborhood, in this vibrant city.

I’ve started to pack, which has never been something at which I’ve excelled. As I sort through our things, deciding which to store, which to sell, which to donate, which to dispose, I’m confronted over and over again with relics of a season that was overflowing with good. I will only remember us as happy here. Even when we struggled, even in the wake of tragedy and in the depths of sorrow, we were happy here. And so in love.

The future is fraught with uncertainty. I am acutely aware of exactly how little control I have over this or any other outcome; I can be responsible only for myself, my thoughts, my deeds. I can also be responsible for my children, acting in their best interest, working on their behalf to continue to preserve the innocence of their youth. Whether three or thirteen, they are still young and impressionable and deserve to know the adults in their lives are striving to protect and support them.

There will come a time when this will be yet another catastrophe I have survived. I will look back and recognize how, in spite of the devastation and heartbreak, I grew into someone even stronger and more flexible than I am today. I am nothing if not resilient. And I will never, ever stop believing in love.

PS: I posted the twentythird piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

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