Everything was going according to plan. Baby #1 was almost 10 months old which meant a second would be close enough in age that we'd only go through diapers once. They'd be best friends. Conceiving Baby #2 was effortless, much like the first time around. I thought to myself, "been there, done that"- I knew all there was to know about being pregnant. I nonchalantly spread the news to close friends and family because we were too excited to keep it a secret. I researched for hours on Pinterest birth announcements incorporating "big brother". I called my car dealership to appraise my car and exchange it for a pimped-out van. We bought a convertible carseat so both babies would have one. Life was moving just how I had pictured, until it suddenly stopped.

The doctor was running over an hour behind for our 8 week ultrasound and we were beyond annoyed. When she finally came in, she made some small talk and then began the ultrasound. We were relaxed, excited, curious and optimistic, but something wasn't right. The baby was so small. "Looks like we brought you in a bit early, I'm only measuring 6 weeks" she said. My mind was racing almost as fast as my heart. That wasn't possible. "Let's work through your last period" she says. I fumble through my phone apps trying to find the period calculator. I had already downloaded three different pregnancy ones. My heart sank further- it had been 8 full weeks.

She tries to find a heartbeat again. "Sometimes at 6 weeks the heart has just developed so it will be difficult to hear anything". My face falls, and I hand her my phone. It was impossible for me to be only 6 weeks. She places her hands in her lap and drops her chin, staring at the ground. "I'm so sorry" she begins, "but I believe you have miscarried".

Nobody will know how much I cried that day. Nobody will know how I went through every step of the past two weeks desperately searching for a cause. Maybe it was the workout. Maybe it was because I forgot to take my prenatal vitamin. Maybe I didn't eat enough greens. I couldn't function. I went on to play the blame-game for the next 24 hours. They tell you it was nothing you did, but it's impossible not to feel that way when your only job is to keep that baby safe. And I had failed. I have never felt so alone. I can count the number of women I know that had miscarriages on one hand, yet the Dr. tells me 30-40% of pregnancies end this way. How is that possible? I was so naive to think that one successful pregnancy meant I was exempt from this torture. How could I have been walking around for two weeks and not know my baby was dying?

When I was done trying to blame the miscarriage on something the actual mourning began. I mourned the loss of a sibling for my child. I mourned the loss of never being able to hold my baby. Questions like "Well, how far along were you?" should never be asked. It doesn't matter if it was one week or thirty five. If this is so common, why did I feel so exiled? When I started to open up and share the terrible news, it seemed like everyone I told had been through something similar. Do I regret telling people about the pregnancy so early? Am I embarrassed to have to go through the list in my head of who I told and now tell them there's no baby? Not one bit. I had a friend come visit me and sit with me as we both cried for our lost babies. It was emotional and heartbreaking and beautiful.

Nothing is going according to plan. My heart aches, I cry every other minute, and I'm increasingly cautious of hope. I know there is good in this somewhere, a silver lining- but right now it's a little too cloudy to see.