Let me make one thing clear: it does not matter if your baby grew up and lived a full life, if they only existed a couple years, months, weeks, days or if they never drew their first breath. You are still their mother and they are your child.
Pregnancy is a beautiful process. It takes pieces of yourself, plants seeds in your womb, and grows a garden. The horrible truth of the matter is: not every flower blossoms. Then, all of the sudden, that love turns to loss. You thought your body was supposed to be their home. Statistics show that most accidents occur from a mile away from your house. What about the ones that never walked through the front door? One out of four women miscarry. It hurts when you realize you have become a statistic too.
Years from now, you will see your child in the park, but it is merely the shadow of another kid. You will swear you saw them playing on the swings, but it is just the wind. And all at once, the anger, the sorrow, and the happiness will come and take you. You were supposed to have a baby, but birthed an angel instead. You have to swallow the reality that, instead of laying them in a crib, they were born into a grave.
To be a mother is to offer your body, mind, and soul. It is not some cheap, short-lived relationship like the kind you might have experienced in your youth. It is a life-long connection that stitches itself into your veins. You were never supposed to build a home inside yourself. You are creating a life. You are making a promise to yourself and your child.
And even if you never got to meet them, even if you didn’t say goodbye or apologize, you can still hold that promise to love them with all of your heart.
Dedicated to my grandmother, Erica, and Ashley.