I’ve never, ever been good at writing through pain. I’m much better at writing long after the pain has ceased. A fair weather writer, I suppose. When I lost the baby, I made the conscious effort to scribble what I could each day, despite finding myself gutted with grief. At the time, I was convinced it was the worst pain I had ever experienced.

I was wrong.

Looking back at the posts from that time is just so strange, written by a different person, living a much different life that then one in which I am currently inhabiting. I’ve never been more confused, more heartbroken, more lonely, than I am at this moment. I can’t even begin to articulate the details, there are too many of them, and they are complicated and painful and private. The next few weeks are sure to be full of new challenges and obstacles, and I’m being honest when I say I don’t know if I’m strong enough to try to chronicle this kind of journey. It hurts.

I will make an effort, but I’m not making any promises.

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

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