Sitting on a toilet, in a public restroom, sobbing silently, my hand covering my mouth to try to quiet the sound. Veins popping in my neck, the pressure pushing through the top of my head. I want to take my fists and pound on everything. I want to scream and yell and throw things violently.

I woke up that morning, Mother’s Day, my heart instantly darkened. I sat on the couch and my two oldest sat with me, we snuggled and laughed but inside my heart felt like a million pieces of broken glass.

We landed at a restaurant for lunch, the hostess gave each mother a flower, as we sat and browsed the menu, my mind didn’t care about food or appetizers, I could only focus on one thing, that my babies had died and part of me died, too.

And this Mother’s Day? Was just another reminder of what wasn’t.

Staring down at the menu, hearing muffled voices and laughter from other tables, I fought with everything to remain calm. I prayed for God to give me strength, I felt so weak, surrounded by my family on this beautiful day, unable to control the sadness seeping from within.

Beth, Beth, Beth, Beth…stop stop stop stop STOP. Get your shit together.

I stood up, not saying a word and briskly walked into the bathroom. I walked by tables filled with children, babies, teenagers. Brown hair, blondes, ponytails, boys, girls, laughing, matchbox cars, crying, eating, enjoying.

Breathing.

Living.

I opened the stall, my legs gave out, sitting on the toilet, I slumped over my legs and sobbed. I sobbed to the point where I couldn’t stop. The door opened, over and over again, person after person, waiting for me to leave the stall but I couldn’t.

I eventually left the bathroom and sat down at the table, with my family, everyone understanding my absence. Hands touched me softly. Eyes looked at mine filled with the grief they, too, felt from losing James and Jake.

Eleven years later, my heart still hurts on this day. I know not everyone can understand why a pregnancy loss is so difficult. (or any loss, who are we kidding?) Most of you haven’t experienced one so it makes sense that you don’t understand. I want you to try to understand it by simply looking at your child…

and pretend they aren’t there.

And your memories of their birth or their first steps or starting school, the snuggles, the love, the joy…just pretend…

they never happened.

Imagine your life without those things, those precious, glorious moments, imagine that you weren’t given the chance to be their mom. That the opportunity was ripped from your hands. Because it could just have easily been you.

And maybe it was you, if it was, I pray you find the strength to open that bathroom stall, to walk past the families, I pray you feel *some* peace today. I hope you feel your little one in the breeze, or the sunshine or the sound of the birds because surely they are sending that to you.

For me, I no longer hide in stalls, I no longer divert my eyes from the MOTHER’S DAY AISLES of every store, everywhere. I am surrounded by five amazing children who fill my heart and soul in ways that I never dreamed. I am grateful and I was grateful, even while sitting on that toilet at Applebee’s.

It’s because of my gratitude that I can stand in solidarity with my sisters in sorrow. These Moms who have lost, they are the strongest, the bravest, they are the most hopeful for good days, they truly are the best Mothers of all. My heart, my love, my understanding is with you today and forever.

If this year, you’re sitting in the stall, head in your hands, praying for strength, feeling so very alone, please know you are not. I’m standing outside the door, hand on the cold metal, praying for you.

And I think your little one is, too.