1 Year and 175 Posts Later - Happy Blogoversary to me.

I started this journey, a full year ago today, on May 17th of last year, with a single desperate poem.

(Mother's) Day

Where I had imagined breakfast in bed,
I found only tears on my pillow.
Where I had imagined flowers and a card,
I found only flowers on her grave.
Where I had imagined a home of happy chaos and noise,
I found only weeping through silence.
Where I had imagined my child at my chest,
I found only emptiness and aching. 
Where I had imagined Motherhood celebrated,
I found only another painful reminder of loss.

~Kristin Binder

I can still remember how it felt to post that first time. Sitting home, crying, I couldn't help but wonder how the world could be so cruel.



I was seven months into my grief. Seven months into feeling alone, and misunderstood, and like I had no place to go and be heard. I was seven months into hearing platitudes like:

"everything happens for a reason"

"at least you know who your angel is"

"she's in a better place"

"this too shall pass"

"at least she was so young so you didn't really get to know her"

"it is God's will"

"time heals all things"

"God doesn't give you more than you can handle"

I was seven months in, I had the love and support of my family and friends, and yet, I felt so very, very alone. 

That first day my post didn't get any comments. I was this blog's only reader and knew it was quite possible that no one would ever find it, but none of that mattered to me. I had something I felt compelled to document, about what it was to outlive my only child, and this page, with its simple template, allowed an opportunity for that. 

I didn't know what I would say, or that anything I had to say was of any value. I didn't know that my words here would ever be read, but as that poem poured from me, I felt something - relief. It was cathartic. Healing. Freeing. My message was out there, my story was being told, and even if this page never garnered an audience, a hundred years from now, it would still be out there. A living history of that day, my first Mother's Day, without my child.

When I started this blog, I had never really read a blog (beyond the one my sister created to keep family informed of Peyton's health) or knew about this online community. I had no idea that over the course of the next year, I would meet so many women (and a few men too) who, like me, hurt for the children they loved and lost, or for the pain of having parenthood remain unfairly out of reach. 

Writing here brought me into this amazing online forum, a place where reading the pages of others who have walked this road, and posting comments in response to what they have written, opens up a form of dialogue that does as much (if not more) for the healing of my broken heart, than any drugs, or therapies could ever manage. Just as I have shared my daughter, my journey, and my thoughts with you, you have shared yourselves with me.

On that first day last May, I could never have fathomed what this blogging world would come to mean for me, the friends I would make here, or the way your stories would touch my heart and change my life. I couldn't have imagined that such a huge world of babyloss existed outside of my own heartache, or how bittersweet a feeling it would be, to meet some of the incredible writers in this community, to feel truly blessed to have them in my life, and know all the while that it is only through pain and loss, that we have come together.

Over the course of this year I have gone from the darkest depths of grief, to living with my grief. I have gone from never wanting to hold another child, to building up the courage to try again, to battling with unexplained infertility, the discovery of my blocked tubes, and our latest trials and tribulations with IVF. This road has been hard to navigate, and yet, behind each twist and turn, this community has been there, guiding, supportive, and full of compassion, and for this, I am forever grateful.

I guess that's really what this post is about. About saying Thank You. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you. For coming here and reading my words without judgement. For bringing wisdom to some truly impossible situations with your comments, and for never leaving me to travel this road alone. Thank you.