"Your day will go the way the corners of your mouth turn." I can't remember where I first saw this quote, but it stuck with me. Lately, it's been on my mind a lot.
Today, I'm sitting here with the sun streaming through the blinds, casting those familiar slanted lines across the room. The kids are napping, and I've got this strange mix of emotions swirling around. I don't usually like to bare my soul online, but today feels different. Maybe it's because I need to get this out, or maybe it's because I believe sharing our lives—our highs and lows—is how we connect. Recipes, clothes, stories, losses—they're all part of the same tapestry, right?
So here goes nothing. I'm not even sure what I'll say, but I know it'll be honest. Life feels raw right now, and honesty seems like the best way forward.
(End of a long intro.)Two weeks ago, I found myself staring at a pregnancy test, two pink lines glowing back at me. Two lines. I cried, I laughed, I touched my belly, and I whispered, "Hello, little one." I'd been exhausted lately, and now I finally had an explanation. Car rides made me nauseous, but suddenly, I embraced it. Pregnancy, for all its challenges, felt like magic. Plans began forming—last Christmas with our two kids and a growing belly, a Florida winter baby, apps counting down to January 28, 2013. Deep down, though, I think I always suspected something wasn't quite right.
Then came Saturday night. My water broke, and minutes later, we said goodbye to our tiny one-and-a-half-inch miracle. It was surreal, heartbreaking, and yet... peaceful. In the hours that followed, I clung to my husband, prayed, and tried to make sense of it all. Loss is such a heavy word, but it doesn't define us. Not completely.
One week later, tears still come easily. Writing this hurts, but it helps too. There's comfort in knowing that this happened early, that I didn't feel movement yet. Still, my heart aches for those who've lost later, whose grief runs deeper. But even in pain, there's hope. Disappointments happen, yes, but so do second chances. So many second chances.
Yesterday, I joined a group of incredible women who've walked similar paths. Some have lost babies, some are hoping to conceive again, some are celebrating new arrivals. Together, we look toward the future—not just with longing, but with determination. My body might not carry a baby this year, but I'm hopeful it will soon. For now, I focus on healing, on gratitude, and on finding joy in the small things.
Like yesterday, when my daughter handed me a crumpled piece of paper she'd drawn on. She said, "This is for you, Mommy," and I held back tears. Or when my son asked me to read him the same book for the hundredth time. These moments remind me that life isn't just about big milestones; it's about the everyday moments, too.
Some days are harder than others. Some days, the corners of my mouth droop despite my best efforts. But then I think about that quote again. A small smile, a deep breath, a single step forward—it doesn't take much to shift things. And when it works, it feels like magic.
We're okay. We're healing. And while this chapter has closed, a new one is opening. With every tear shed, every prayer spoken, every hug received, we're building something beautiful. Something strong. Something resilient.
Thank you to everyone who's reached out. Your messages, flowers, and kind words mean the world to me. They remind me that I'm not alone in this journey, and that's incredibly comforting.
I believe in beginnings. Even after endings. Especially after endings. Because endings often pave the way for new starts, for brighter futures, for stronger hearts.
So here I am, sitting here, trying to figure out what comes next. One thing I do know: I won't let sadness define me. I'll keep searching for joy, for laughter, for light. And maybe, just maybe, I'll help someone else along the way.
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