You were supposed to be here.

You grew inside my belly for such a short time. I loved you as fiercely as I could while I had you, fearing that our time together could be cut short. Again.

You were going to be our rainbow baby after our early pregnancy loss last November.

I felt both pure joy and absolute terror when the pregnancy tests confirmed you were there. I was afraid of having another loss, like last time. I knew I had to love you and take it day by day, praying and hoping that you wouldn’t leave. I was nervous, but I never actually thought we’d lose you, too.

Having a pregnancy loss is tremendously difficult on so many levels. It’s impossible to cram an entire lifetime of loving someone into such a short time, only to be left with heartache. There are no memories. No ultrasound photos. Nothing.

You were real to me and your Daddy, but no one else. I’ve felt at times like I’ve had to justify my grieving, because no one else knew you even existed. I was afraid of hearing other people say out loud what that harsh, critical voice in my mind has said to me so many times:

It was just so early.
You’re really so fortunate to already have four healthy kids. Why did you push your luck trying for one more?
You’re selfish.
You’re older and worn out now. What did you think was going to happen?
You are broken.

Deep down, I know that none of those things are true. My heart still had a big open space, waiting to be filled with love for another sweet baby. You were not hoped for out of selfishness, but out of love.

We didn’t have long together, but it was long enough to wonder who you would have been. Which of your sisters would you have looked like? Boy or girl? Brunette or blond? Curly hair or straight? Would you have had the same funny little toe that Kaya and Nella both inherited from me? I wish I could have heard your laugh and seen your smile.

It was long enough to put a note under your Daddy’s pillow and surprise him that we would finally be getting our rainbow baby in September. He was happy and sweet. One day, I know I’ll be able to watch that video again without my heart feeling completely shattered.

I had no idea how hard a miscarriage is on a body, even when it’s early. The abrupt hormonal changes had me feeling weak and exhausted, physically and emotionally. It took two weeks until I had a day where I didn’t feel dizzy or like fainting. The weight of it all can seem crushing, at times.

Through all this, I’ve learned that no matter how downtrodden I feel, no matter how dark it may seem, I have to hold on to hope. Without hope, nothing else seems to matter. As one of the new Frozen songs states, “You are gone, hope is lost, but I must go on, and do the next right thing.”

I’m sorry you didn’t get to stay, but I have hope that I will meet you one day on the other side. You won’t have a whole collection of blog posts and letters from me like your sisters do, but you at least deserved this one.

I love you.