Twenty-two years ago this week I lost a child. For 22 consecutive years this has been my own personal Hell Week. As I spend the last couple months reflecting on my 30's, this situation feels more poignant than ever. I remember being 22. In fact, I was pregnant with my 17 year old. All the while thinking about this little one. I was doing the math. How old she would be. What characters she would be obsessed with. Whether she would have liked school. Today she could have very well been in similar circumstances. It's conflicting to think about it all. Watching my children arc into adulthood is nothing short of bittersweet. Knowledge that my first would be old enough to start the journey of where I am today is not. It's painful. But I'm dealing with it. I celebrate the fact that her spirit is present and felt. It is so much better than years spent squelching these emotions. As the day approaches I'll leave myself open to receive any life lessons or revelations meant for me. I have obtained a few over the years. I know her spirit loves me. I know that being the best mother to my children honors her memory. I've learned to shed any shame associated with this situation. I humbly acknowledge that for me her conception was the truest most genuine expression I knew how to offer. It was a spiritually transient experience. I knew what I was doing. I know the moment in which she was conceived. Although I could not imagine the fallout and consequences after the fact. I have decided that THAT was my ONE moment in life. We all get one. That was mine. My enlightenment. A point in which I'll spend the rest of my life gleaning from. So I'm not ashamed. It's a part of my life story. One that at almost 40, I can understand enough to start to share. Twenty-two years ago I'd have never thought I would be able to do so. At 22 years old I wasn't ready. It's a new day. Peace and love friends xoxo.