Sometimes, out of nowhere, it hits me all over again with renewed intensity. Our baby died. She died. And nothing can bring her back to us.

Sometimes, I see photos of other parents who got to keep their babies, and I feel gutted. The first birthday photos. The snuggles. The messy, smiling faces. Shining eyes after a day full of play. The contentment on the mommy and daddy’s faces. Joy. Normalcy. Happiness. None of which my husband and I were allowed to have.

Sometimes, the anger makes me shake. My joy was stolen from me, ripped away with wretched, evil claws. My body tenses up with sorrow and the relentless tearing of my heart makes me want to smash everything that can be broken. Even though it is me that is broken, shattered, shredded.

Sometimes, I wish I were anywhere but here. I want to fly away and never look back. I long for a comfort I can never, ever have. All that’s left are the scattered remains of who I once was, and I’m burdened with the impossible task of trying to piece them back together. It isn’t working, there are too many missing fragments.

Sometimes, I can’t believe this nightmare is my life. Yet I am expected to go on as if nothing ever happened. I’m forced to accept that those wasted dreams, the happy life that was almost within my reach, were never mine to have.

Sometimes, like right now, the pain is just too real.