2015 was a challenging year for me. I can’t pinpoint one particular event that made it challenging, it was just a constant series of outside influences that darkened my spirit. I lost my sense of humor. My anxiety soared over the most insignificant occasions. I stopped running or caring about my health. There was a repetitiveness of watching wonderful people I know, respect and love be tormented by undeserved tragedy and heartache. It’s impossible to not worry for situations out of your control. So I prayed. A lot. It took some time but I am finally at a point where I can look back and say “that was a hard time” and know that that time is not now. Life isn’t always kittens, rainbows and a big block of cheddar cheese. Sometimes it’s hard. I’m not afraid to admit that.

Many moons ago I wrote casually for a women’s blog as an anonymous contributor. There’s a certain therapy in writing. Mostly, I injected humor into the trials and tribulations of motherhood, wifehood, womanhood and once I wrote about the heartbreak of miscarriage and the hope of bringing a third set of ten tiny fingers and toes into our family. Now as a forty year old, I circle back to that last subject.

This fall, I hit my limit. Already on edge from a tumultuous, emotional year, I watched my sweet cat, Oreo, die. That might seem relatively insignificant, but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was only a few weeks after I lost a baby. A baby. The strength that I had pretended to have through the miscarriage finally dissipated, exhaled out of my shell, only to be swept away with the fall leaves. I could no longer pretend to be strong. I imploded and became an unrecognizable version of myself.

Most people were unaware that we were even pregnant. When I found out I was pregnant at 40, I experienced every emotion I have ever felt in first 5 minutes of seeing the two pink lines. Surprise. Anger. Excitement. Fear. Joy. Disbelief. Just to name a few. This wasn’t our first rodeo. I’ve had two miscarriages previously; my first pregnancy and another after my second child was born. We tried for two additional years to have a third child and finally gave up, thankful for the beautiful children that we had.

Seeing those two lines on that warm September morning was a total shock, but I knew my personal statistics and did everything in my power to keep my emotions in check. I knew the possibility of miscarriage was very real. I tried not to think about the future. I tried not to get excited. I tried not to think ahead and come up with baby names. I failed. Noah Drexel and Skylar June.

Our first sonogram revealed a healthy heartbeat. It was such a relief to see that tiny beating heart on the screen. I was overcome with happiness. We were going to have a baby. Charlee was going to be a big sister. We were going to be the family of five that I had always wanted.

The doctor took the standard blood tests to track the development of the baby. They came back normal but on the lower end of normal. The nurse told me to not worry. I was scheduled to go on a three day chaperone trip with my daughter’s 5^th grade class so I asked the doctor if I could do my second sonogram before I left for that trip just for peace of mind. They agreed.

I found out the day before I was to go on that camping trip that my baby wasn’t going to make it. The sonogram revealed virtually no fetal growth and the heartbeat had slowed. According to the statistics, my doctor said that there was a zero percent chance of survival. Zero. There’s no room for hope with zero.

Numbness is the best word to use to describe how I felt the next 24 hours as I wrapped up paperwork and packed bags and prepared to be gone for three days away from my husband and the comfortable cocoon of my own home. Even at that time, I was aware and thankful for the life distraction of being surrounded by giggling girls, nature, friends and special, irreplaceable time with my daughter. The moment my mind drifted to sadness, there was another item that I had to check off the list. There was virtually no time to mope.

The first day we arrived at camp, we had the opportunity to go on a big swing that utilized a pulley by about 20 kids to pull you to the top. I put my trust in the rope and two dozen 11 year olds and took that baby on that swing and we soared together amongst the tall trees under the beautiful sunshine. A few short hours later I started spotting and I knew that our journey together was coming to a close. I am so thankful for that moment with the life in my belly on the swing and for the unknowing support of a few kids, including my own beautiful daughter.

Miscarriage is pretty common. There’s a high likelihood that you or someone you know has experienced one. There’s no funeral or casseroles, there’s just a quiet fluttering away of a person you never met, yet still loved.

I waited to talk openly about it. Mostly because I didn’t want to have to talk about it. I needed to be ok before I opened up about the heartbreak. Being 40, there was a certain “finality” to it that I didn’t experience with the other two miscarriages. I know that sometime in June I will unexpectedly be hit with the reality that I should be fawning over a newborn and it will rock me to my core. I will tackle that moment when it arrives. I have faith that I will be ok. I know that God will provide.

All that being said, 2016 is going to be my year. I know how cliché it is to say “New Year, New Me” but I honestly needed a tangible starting point. I allowed myself to pout until December 31^st, 2015 and then made the conscious decision to truly be happy again. I’ve been happier than I have been in a long time and I am only three weeks in. I finally got my sense of humor back. I got my hair done. I’ve started running again. I am cleaning out my house and negative people. I’m revisiting passions and talents that have long-time simmered, yet never boiled. I’m spending this year working on my happiness. I’m being selfish and for once, I am ok with that.

This swing is on its way up.