It is here that I must begin to tell my story.

I tell my students to just write what comes to mind. Keep your pencils moving. Simply put your thoughts on paper. Yet I can't do it myself. I've spent many hours tossing around ideas, pondering where to begin my story. I've constructed several strong leads, only to discover they weren't as powerful as I first believed. I am a tortured writer. Nothing seems to flow easily. My thoughts race faster than I can type or write. I agonize over every word I use/employ/utilize, revising as I write. But I have to start somewhere, and so here I am, fiercely holding onto Eleanor Roosevelt's words, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do."


This May, a good friend gave birth to a healthy baby boy in New York City. Over a year ago we met to have lunch before my husband and I made our move to Denver. I vividly remember that day. Sitting outside, soaking in the early summer rays, and talking about pregnancy. She revealed to me that she had had not one, but six miscarriages in her quest to bring a child into her family. I wondered out loud how how she had the strength to keep moving forward. It was simple, she said. I have to keep going. My desire to have a child is greater than the pain I endure. I couldn't understand this positive outlook, this optimistic view. Until now. Until this reproductive life became my reality.


A missed miscarriage. A late pregnancy loss. Another early miscarriage. All in a little over a year's time. I thought it would end after the first miscarriage. I allowed myself time to heal and renew hope within me. But it didn't. I thought I had endured the worst of the pain upon losing our identical twin boys this May, and forged ahead. But it didn't. It's been a week since the last miscarriage, and while it was an early one, it has been heartbreaking nonetheless. And so, it is here that I must begin to tell my story.