**Trigger Warning: Miscarriage**

“Is it okay if I go upstairs and rest a little while?” I asked Josh.

“Alright,” he told me.

I was feeling in a funk this morning, and I wasn’t sure why.  I had opened all the blinds before dawn, in anticipation of the sun rising over the houses across the street, and the amazing natural light that our living room gets during the day, but the day turned out to be cloudy.  Maybe it’s the clouds, I told myself.

I was tired, but didn’t feel like sleeping, so I laid in bed and scrolled through my phone.  It wasn’t until I saw a video shared by a friend that it dawned on me.

Today is February 3rd.

The video was a musician husband who had written a song for his wife, and the two babies they had lost to miscarriage.

February 3rd stings every year, because this is the day I began miscarrying our first baby, Ellie Hannah, four years ago.

Four years ago feels like so many lifetimes ago.  It was the time before parenthood as I now know it.  The time when we anticipated this season so hopefully, with such naivity.  I was pregnant, so of course that meant a baby in my arms in the end.

I still remember the way it felt the first time I realized something was wrong.  I was at a friend’s house, celebrating the birthday of another dear friend of ours.  I came out of the bathroom holding back tears.  I was scared to move, scared to do anything that might jeopardize the little life inside of me.  I did not know at the time that there was nothing I could do or not do-she had already passed.

The next few days were ones of grief, physical pain, and the loss of a dream.  For weeks after, I slept with the orange and white elephant blanket that I had chosen for her after I had gotten a positive pregnancy test.  It was all I had left of her.

As time has passed, and my days are filled with caring for Haven and Eisley, Ellie seems farther away.  I don’t know if it’s because my experiences with Haven and Eisley have far exceeded those short weeks with Ellie, or because I have buried many of those memories and emotions deep in my heart in an act of self preservation.  Maybe it’s both.

But, as difficult as it is to admit, I don’t think of her every day.  In fact, sometimes I forget that we went through such a traumatic experience four years ago.  So when memories come flooding back, especially on February 3rd, it is difficult to process.  Reminders of the grief.  Guilt over not always thinking of her.  Joy that she is with Jesus.  Terror upon thinking of it ever happening again.

Grief is so strange.  Sometimes it is all encompassing, and you feel like you can’t breathe for the weight of it.  And sometimes it quietly retreats to the background.  Today it feels like a dull ache.  Not as painful as it once was, but enough to color the day with sadness.

Tomorrow will easier, but for today, I am remembering Ellie.  Her life was short, but it sure changed mine.  Fly high, little one.