Something interesting happens to you when you experience a miscarriage. Your brain turns into the Delorean from Back to the Future and you're quickly transported to your past and simultaneously straight into your questionable future.

You obsess over the time you took Plan B in college because you didn't want to end up with a "bastard child" your grandma would look down upon at the family dinner. You question, 'Why didn't I have sex with my high school sweetheart? What were we really afraid of?' You wonder why you never got knocked up before, was there something wrong with you? And then you think about the future, wondering if you will ever be a mother.

Four years ago, I was married. Four years ago, I was pregnant, twice. Four years ago, I was quickly reminded how fragile I was, how fragile my relationships were.

The night of my first miscarriage, I was Googling nurseries with a co-worker at an event. This was something I had not done yet, as I was only 12 weeks along and didn't want to jinx anything. I was expressing my excitement about finally becoming a mother and telling my co-worker how thrilled I was to finally tell everyone that I was expecting. And that's when it happened. I felt something that was not normal. I drove to the hospital to hear the doctor tell me, "you lost the baby, I'm sorry."

During my first miscarriage, it took my body two weeks to naturally release the pieces that remained of my baby. I was devastated but was soon given the green light by my doctor to try again. He convinced me that this thing I was experiencing happened to a lot of first time moms. He promised me that I would 'for sure' get pregnant again and it would result in a healthy baby.

Fourteen weeks into my second pregnancy and after countless doctor visits, I was told that I had lost this baby as well. The day of my emergent DNC, my husband "could not get out of class" to accompany me to the hospital. I was shocked and understandably hurt. It was that night, while lying in bed crying, hearing his laughter while chatting with friends on Facebook, that I realized I was alone.

Two weeks later, I found myself defending my sadness to the people closest to me. I heard things like, "Well, it's not like it was a real baby or anything" or "You really just need to get over it." Instead of acting as a teammate, my husband ignored my grief and decided it was best to not get involved with anything. He kept his mouth shut when his family decided it was their place to say harsh things and I retreated inwards.

Quite quickly, I was questioning all of my relationships. Who was really there for me? Who really loved me, unconditionally? And most importantly, who was going to stay by my side and support me?

Practically overnight my marriage had changed. I didn't feel like I had a supportive partner sticking up for me, standing by my side. I no longer felt comfortable with the person to whom I said "I Do." More importantly, my fear had consumed me. Was I ever going to conceive? Did I marry the right person? If I'm not a wife, or a mother, what am I? What do I want?

As much as we tried to rebuild our marriage, nothing seemed to work. The damage had been done and trust no longer existed between us. I spent many nights crying in the shower, silently in bed, or in my car. I felt more alone in my marriage then I did when I was single.

I saw my relationship clearly but others didn't seem to notice, "You're such a beautiful couple," or "You're so perfect together!" I couldn't understand how no one noticed our sadness, our silence. And despite feeling like our relationship was really over, I was scared of disappointing everyone by "giving up."

Two years later, I finally accepted that my miscarriages were a blessing. Because of them I was able to see how completely incompatible my husband and I were for one another. That didn't make either of us bad people, just not right for one another. I wanted more, both for myself and for my husband. I knew people were going to talk, assume things, or question my decision but I no longer cared. I wanted happiness and I knew it had to exist — for both of us — somewhere beyond what we could see.

My miscarriages ruined my marriage but they also blessed me with a new beginning. I don't know if I will ever be a mother, or if I can be a mother. There are times I can talk about my loss with nothing but gratitude. There are also times, most specifically when my friends become pregnant, that I cry and feel sad and lost all over again.

I am strong, stronger than I could ever imagine, although my strength is not defined by my situation but by my bravery to make a choice to leave a situation that was not right for me. I believe my miscarriages have taught me the biggest lesson of my life so far. It can take a tragedy to not only know what you are made of, but to know who is strong enough to stand by you.

Courtesy of Felicia Sabartinelli

Felicia Sabartinelli I’m Felicia Sabartinelli, Colorado actress, artist and writer.

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