2015 has been the toughest year of my entire life.
I am lucky. I have a roof over my head. The sun shines all year round. I have a faithful, loving husband. These are all good things for which I am deeply grateful.
But this has been a desperately sad year. I should be a mother by now. In fact, we should be parents at least two times over.
And yet we are still just us.
Our beautiful home is more empty than I could have possibly imagined.
We started January with a bang and an early pregnancy result that left us both a little stunned, but so excited. We were born to be parents.
A week later, I started to spot, and the spotting turned to bleeding, and the bleeding turned to a trip to the emergency room on a Friday afternoon and that was the end of that.
We weren’t parents to be any more. I had failed.
We grieved as best as we could together, but there’s a certain barrier that comes up when one of you is happy with life as it was, and the other just wants to get on with the next bit – the part she feels she was built to play. The part she desperately wants.
So we carried on along these separate paths, occasionally intersecting as we healed in our own ways.