It has been six months since I miscarried in November last year.
Content warning: This post contains details of miscarriage some readers may find triggering.
I was irritated at the lack of knowledge, and angry, because this shouldn’t have happened to me.
Five years ago, if I saw the words “family friendly hotel” I would have thrown up in my mouth.
There’s a message on Facebook from my ex, my daughter’s father whom we haven’t seen in 15 years.
Broken sleep will become your new norm.
Leaving my boys with their father was the hardest thing I’d ever do in my life.
As a parent, I’ve always hoped to raise kids who are better than me.
I find a measure of compassion for her that I’ve never been able to apply to myself.
I just tell my daughter the truth.
Our world is filled with so much more than a list of possible outcomes handed to us at diagnosis.
I can tell her what’s happened, but I can’t tell her why, because I don’t understand why.
This birthday party reminds me that someone is missing. She would have been seven today too.
My anxiety doesn’t mean I can’t be a good parent. In fact, it makes me a better one.
Maybe it’s time we all came clean.