#MotownMom: I’m More Than My Miscarriages via #blackruby | #mentalhealth #momboss
Women aren’t broken if they can’t have children.
I felt as if someone had raided my body and pummeled my heart until it bled and broke. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think.
Hell, it hurt to live.
I couldn’t fathom what had just happened. Mere hours ago, there had been a living being inside of me. I’d heard her heartbeat. I’d seen her on the ultrasound. I’d even felt her kick as she shuffled within my womb. I’d fantasized about her beautiful bright eyes, her smile, her chortle, the way she’d feel in my arms when I first held her, and the incredible and sacred mission of raising her.
The notion of having a child after trying so hard was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. Every time I traced my hands across my belly, an indescribable wave of compassion, delight, and longing flooded through my body, warming me with the certainty that I’d do everything in my power to ensure a good life for her.
And now? Now there was emptiness. Abysmal loss. Anger. Maddening sadness. Despair.