Twenty-One Years Later — and it Still Hurts

I couldn’t sleep again last night.
There’s a heaviness that visits me around this time every year — a silent weight that presses down on my chest and lingers, no matter how many years have passed. Today marks twenty-one years since I lost my baby to an ectopic pregnancy. Just over six weeks along. My second of four miscarriages. And it still hurts like hell.
I know, some might think I should be over it by now. I’ve heard the dismissive comments — “It was barely a pregnancy,” or “At least it was early.” Words meant to comfort, maybe, but they only deepened the silence I locked myself into. I bottled it all up because that’s what seemed expected. Because my grief made others uncomfortable. Because I even blamed myself.
But grief doesn't follow rules or timelines. And there’s no expiration date on love.
I find myself wishing I could just get over it — whatever that means. But the truth is, this loss carved out a space in me that still aches. The memory doesn’t fade. It lives quietly inside me, rising up like a tide I can’t hold back, especially on days like this.
Yes, I’m a mother to two incredible rainbow babies — now 20 and 14 — and I thank God for them every day. They are joy in human form, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But their presence doesn’t erase the ones I never got to hold. Grief and gratitude aren’t enemies. They sit side by side in this heart of mine, each telling a different kind of truth.
So here I am, twenty-one years later, still navigating the waves of loss. Still learning to let myself feel. To not apologise for the tears that come uninvited. To honour the small life that changed mine forever, even if the world never got to see their face.