January 8th

 

January 8th is always a hard day for me.

No matter how many years pass, my body remembers before my mind does. 

There’s a heaviness that settles in my chest when I wake up, a quiet ache that doesn’t need explaining.

 I know what day it is before I look at the calendar.

Twelve years ago, on this day, I walked into an appointment expecting reassurance. 

I walked out carrying silence.

There’s no heartbeat.

Words like that don’t just land—they echo. They follow you home. 

They sit beside you in the quiet. 

They replay in your head when the world keeps moving but yours suddenly stops.

I was thirteen weeks pregnant. 

Far enough along to have imagined names. Far enough to picture holidays, birthdays, first days of school. 

Far enough to have let myself believe this baby was real and staying.

And just like that, everything I had pictured disappeared.

What surprised me most wasn’t just the grief—it was the guilt.

Heavy, relentless, unforgiving guilt.

I searched myself for reasons. 

I needed something to blame, and the easiest target was me. 

I blamed my body for running that marathon, for being selfish, for pushing forward. 

I blamed my heart for being hesitant at first, for needing time to wrap itself around the idea of another pregnancy.

 I told myself that if I had been more careful, more joyful, more grateful sooner, maybe things would have turned out differently.

Loss has a way of rewriting the past and convincing us that love has to be perfect to be worthy.

I drove to that appointment thinking I would leave with a beautiful ultrasound.

I went alone. Telling Travis I was fine. 

I sat in a room….alone…and called him. 

Numb. 

Not believing it.

They would not let me leave until they felt like it was safe for me to drive. 

47 min is how long it took me to get back to Troy. 

47 minutes with my thoughts. 

In the middle of that darkness, Travis was there—steady in a way only someone who truly loves you can be. He didn’t try to fix my pain or rush me through it. He didn’t offer empty words or explanations. 

He simply stayed.

He held my hand when the weight felt unbearable.

He sat with me in the silence when there was nothing left to say.

He reminded me, gently and consistently, that this wasn’t my fault—even when I couldn’t believe it myself.

He has never said it but I think he’s always harbored guilt of his own for not going with me to that appointment. 

Sometimes support doesn’t look like speeches or answers. 

Sometimes it looks like presence. 

Like showing up day after day, especially when grief makes you hard to be around. Travis carried me through moments when I couldn’t carry myself.

We showed up for one another. 

My dad and Gina also stood beside me, steady and loving. They reminded me—softly, kindly—that I still had two little blessings who needed me. Two children whose lives were unfolding right in front of me.

They weren’t asking me to forget.

They weren’t telling me to move on.

They were reminding me that joy and sorrow can exist in the same breath.

I was thankful. I truly was.

But gratitude doesn’t cancel grief.

You can love the children you have with your whole heart and still mourn the one you lost. You can be present and broken at the same time. 

Those things are not opposites—they are neighbors.

Even now, twelve years later, the wondering hasn’t stopped.

I wonder who that baby would have grown up to be.

I wonder what role they would have played in our family.

I imagine a face I’ve never seen, a voice I’ve never heard.

I picture them at different ages—changing with the years the way my imagination fills in the blanks.

And when those thoughts come, Travis still notices. 

He still reaches for my hand. 

He still knows when January 8th is approaching, even if I don’t say it out loud. 

His support hasn’t faded with time—it’s grown quieter, deeper, more instinctive.

Time has passed. 

Life has grown. 

Joy has returned in many forms.

But this date still asks me to stop.

So today, I stop.

I let myself feel sad without trying to explain it away.

I let myself remember without apologizing for the tears.

I let myself honor a loss that shaped me.

And I’m grateful—not just for the life I lost, but for the love that surrounded me in the aftermath. 

For a husband who stood firm when everything else felt like it was falling apart. For the reminder that I didn’t walk through this alone.

January 8th will probably always be hard.

And that’s okay.

Some days are meant for remembering.

Some losses are meant to be carried, not cured.

And some loves—no matter how brief—stay with us forever. 🤍