The Journal I Didn’t Mean to Keep

I didn’t plan to write about the loss.

I just opened my notes app one night and typed: “I miss you.”

That turned into a sentence. Then a paragraph. Then pages.

I didn’t know what I was trying to say.

Or who I was saying it to.

But the words kept coming, quietly, stubbornly.

Like grief was whispering itself back to me, one line at a time.

I had an abortion.

But I call it an assisted miscarriage.

Because that’s what it felt like.

A life beginning on its own.

A life ending by decision.

A decision made with love.

And grief.

And the quietest kind of courage.

I found out I was pregnant on March 16.

It started as a joke between cousins.

“Your boobs look big, you sure you’re not pregnant?”

We laughed. Then I took a test.

Two faint lines.

So faint, I almost didn’t believe them.

I tested again. And again.

Fifteen tests in total.

Ten I lined up on the dresser, my proof, my panic, my beginning.

Then came the ultrasounds.

One at six weeks. One at nine.

Her heart beating at 145 bpm.

Tiny limbs. A flicker of a soul.

I knew I loved her.

Even while I was terrified.

I wanted to be the kind of mother who could give her everything.

A fridge full of groceries.

A car seat already waiting.

A life I hadn’t built yet.

But I wasn’t there.

Not yet. Not even close.

So on April 22, I made the decision.

The kind that breaks your heart even when you know it’s right.

The kind that doesn’t feel like a choice at all.

But a quiet kind of survival.

May 1st.

Nine weeks, six days.

At 7:28 p.m., I placed four pills in my cheeks.

At 8:25, the cramping started.

At 9:30, the bleeding.

And by 10:00, I was holding her.

The part of me that could have been her.

My daughter, in the palm of my shaking hands.

Not just blood.

Not just a clot.

Her.

The bathroom became a grave.

And I became a mother with empty arms.

I started journaling in pieces.

Not to create anything.

Just to keep breathing.

Some entries were dates.

Others were letters.

Some were just this:

I’m sorry. I miss you. Please forgive me.

You would’ve been 10 weeks today.

I love you.

I gave her a name: Everleigh.

Because I needed her to be known.

Even if no one else ever saw her, I did.

On July 11, I stepped into that bathroom again.

The first time since.

I would’ve been 20 weeks pregnant.

And everything came back.

Not just memory.

Not just bleeding.

Her.

Not just blood.

Not just a clot.

Her.

The part of me that could have been her.

My daughter, in the palm of my shaking hands.

Today is July 19.

I would have been 21 weeks and 1 day.

Instead, I’m counting grief instead of kicks.

Measuring time in silence.

Marking Friday's not by growth, but by absence.

Every Friday, I remember how far along I would’ve been.

Every night, I carry her.

Not in my body.

But in my pages.

In my memory.

In my healing.

People want stories like this to be black and white.

But mine lives in the grey.

I made a choice.

And I still grieve that choice.

And I still love her.

All of those things can be true.

Grief, I’ve learned, is love with nowhere to go.

So I give it a place.

Here.

In this journal I didn’t mean to keep.

______

Author’s Note

For Everleigh.

Born in love. Let go in love.

If you’ve lived through this kind of loss, by choice, by chance, or by something in between, you are not alone.

Thank you for holding my story with care.