When I first found out I was pregnant I initially felt shock, which that slowly faded into horror as the realization dawned on me that I was pregnant with a man I was not in a relationship with, who had no interest in being serious.

Until I sent him the snap chat photos of me sitting on my bathroom floor, waiting those horrible two minutes, a picture of my red toilet seat cover, my generic ocean scene shower curtain, my tooth brush, anything I could send pictures of that would keep my mind busy.

When, on all four of those little sticks, two little pink lines came appeared.

I expected him to send a quick, "Well nice knowing you, bye."

But that's not what I got.

I got a, "I'm on my way. Do you want breakfast?"

I held it together until when he pulled up to my house, he got out with Arms Wide Open by Creed playing. I turned into a hysterical mess, gasping for air, almost falling; running to his truck.

He jumped out and got me to the passenger side door and then we went out for IHOP, where I wouldn't eat anything because it was too unhealthy.

After made him go out and get me prenatal vitamins. He and I called in sick that day and spent the whole day window shopping for baby furniture, baby clothes, talking over names; arguing over names, more like.

We found out when I was 8 weeks pregnant. I spent those 8 weeks in denial, hopeing, praying, trying to start my period by jumping up and down. Not realizing how truely wonderful and great this experience is. How truely blessed I was to be pregnant with a man who would take care of me, who wanted a child and would take care of that child.

I had a month and a half of happiness, love, and feeling complete. Just a month and a half of knowing I had a miracle inside of me, a beautiful baby. A baby that would change my entire life.

I knew I wasn't ready, I knew he wasn't ready. But I knew we would make it work. I changed my entire life for that month. No caffeine. No junk food. No laziness, exercising everyday.

I took better care of myself for that baby, more than I ever did for myself.

And then, it all went wrong.

I noticed some bleeding so I called my Ob, and they said to come in. At fourteen weeks they heard no heartbeat. They saw a detached placenta.

Those next three months were the worst of my life. I couldn't talk about what happened. I couldn't think about it.

Some mornings when I woke I would think I was still pregnant. Those were my happiest moments. The realization that I was no longer pregnant after just waking up sent me into a spiral of of depression that I could barely realize the gravity of how bad it was.

I know we aren't ready. But I want to be pregnant with my rainbow baby. And I feel so guilty.

Loosing that baby broke me in ways I didn't even know possible.

I then started the journey of trying to get pregnant again, certain it was the only way I would survive living with a shattered heart.

I went to the doctor almost daily, took my temperature every morning, I even delayed my family’s Fourth of July party because of an “appointment” with my boyfriend to have sex at an exact time, and, of course, filled a whole drawer in my bathroom with pregnancy tests.

The word, “desperate” didn’t do justice to my state of being during this time. My desire for a new pregnancy was a need so primal and all-consuming that I had difficulty forming sentences when talking with others, because my mind was soaked in the thought of pregnancy.

It is now month 11 of trying to conceive my rainbow baby. I know if I become pregnant I will feel guilty. Like I am betraying my first baby.

After the first 3 months of grieving I threw myself into trying. Like I was trying to take away the pain of my loss by throwing myself into the physical distraction and mental distraction of new hope.

How could anyone understand the crippling sorrow of losing a child unless they’d been there themselves? And even then, we all travel different paths through darkness.

There is a hole in me. But holes can work in two ways, it can let out light, but it can also pull it in. The emptiness left by the departure of my baby created space for my whole being to love my next baby with a sacred appreciation that I don’t think I would fully know if I had not experienced such a loss.

I still have a long way to go, dealing with my authentic emotions, messy fears, secret jealousies, and heart-stopping guilt.

But at the end of every dark tunnel is a light. In this case hopefully a rainbow light.