It’s been 7 years. 7 incredibly long years. It feels longer and shorter than that to me– I can still remember trying really hard to pretend I wasn’t worried, talking to my mom about how beautiful the building we were waiting in was, talking about literally anything but the fact that I was waiting to hear what I already knew– I was having a miscarriage.

I remember bouncing between agony and feeling numb, like it was surreal. I remember for the first few days, I just wanted to sleep. I remember going home to stay with my family, taking a break from my apartment for a few days because I had never felt more alone in my life.

I remember how, during the beginning of my pregnancy, I ate egg sandwiches for almost every meal. It was all that sounded good, so I ate them again and again and again. I just knew this child was going to be the biggest fan of eggs, because it was literally all that baby would let me eat.

The one thing that I really remember is how angry I was after I had my miscarriage. I was angry at my body, for not doing something it should have been capable of doing, for not carrying this child to full term, to taking away my baby. I was angry that my body, which was built to sustain life and to be a mother, was somehow failing me. I worried… would I ever have a child?

I was angry at myself… had I done something wrong to cause this? Too much stress? Only eating eggs? I was trying to finish school, dealing with the fact that my new husband was deployed, struggling financially, and feeling the strain of life on my shoulders.

I was even angry at God. Why would he bless me with this baby, this pregnancy, only for it to end? Why would I feel this baby growing inside of me, only to have it ripped away?

My heart ached. I cried. I finished school and then stopped leaving my apartment for awhile. I laid on the couch, crying, sleeping, watching old movies, begging for any sort of hope to mask the pain I was feeling so deeply.

There were no easy words for people to tell me. That it was God’s plan somehow, that it would feel better and stop hurting someday, that it was going to be okay. I didn’t believe it to be God’s plan, but instead, just part of a bigger picture I couldn’t understand. I didn’t think it would stop hurting someday, and honestly, in many ways, it hasn’t. I didn’t believe it would be okay.

I flash forward 7 years now, and… I still feel the heartache. I still feel like I was punched in the gut every single time I think about my angel baby. But what I can tell others now, 7 years after the fact, is that you won’t stop feeling that ache, but you will start seeing the beauty in life again. You won’t stop hurting, not entirely, but you will be able to feel the depth of love again. I was blessed with a baby not long after that, my sweet little boy who is now 5 years old.

So often I’ll look at him playing quietly by himself, and I’ll wonder. Would he have gotten along with his older sister? Would they have fought like cats and dogs? Would they have still loved each other despite sibling rivalries we all know run true? Would this baby have looked at all like he does, all big grin and messy hair?

I have to realize that it’s something I’ll never fully recover from. Parts of my heart will still hurt every December 16. Parts of my heart will still wonder why this had to happen. And, becasue my son was born on the due date of my first child, a little part of me will feel some deep sorrow in the great, magnificent joy that is my son’s birthday. I hold onto hope that I’ll meet this child again someday… I have to hold onto that hope, cling tight to it.

Because somehow, there IS a plan in this. I just don’t know what it is. Seven long years after the fact, and I still don’t know. And I know I never will.

Note: This post is not one of my more coherent ones, I’m sure. It’s a raw, unedited look at my feelings 7 years later. If you’re going through it, please know you’re in my prayers. I’m not going to say it’ll get better or easier, but I will say you’ll get stronger. Prayers and love. <3