From the moment my spouse and I decided to start a family, it felt like a countdown. We wanted our family to grow, we wanted little feet pattering, little voices chattering. And we wanted it to happen…soon.

But my first son died after thirty-three days on the outside. Our house was silent.

As soon as we were cleared to, we started trying again. We were fortunate to get pregnant quickly, but it was hard to have any real expectations that we’d get to raise this baby. Despite excellent medical care, minimizing risks, and staying as healthy as I could, no one could tell me for sure that this time things would be different. Or even if I accepted that every pregnancy is different, every story is different – that didn’t mean different would be a living, healthy child.

It feels like too much pressure to say, “this time it will be OK” or “this baby will live.” What if that didn’t turn out to be true? Would I feel even MORE guilty? Like I’d tempted fate or jinxed it?

We had the difficult discussions – what if we never have a living biological child? We decided that we would do everything we could to have a family and provide for children – whether biological, adopted, or foster. Once we made that decision, I could trust that one day we would have a child to care for.

So instead, I said “one day closer.”

Every day, even a horrible, grief-stricken, painful day, is one day closer. Every time I made it to sunset, I made it through another day. And the next morning, I would wake up one day closer.

One day closer to having a child to hold.

One day closer to hearing the word “Mom.”

One day closer to putting the kids to bed.

One day closer to little feet pattering, and little voices chattering.

No matter how long the journey will be, each day is one day closer.

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