Everything feels different and yet it also feels the same. My body is bleeding and cramping. It feels like a miscarriage and it also feels like a period. I vacillate between distraught and okay, recalling that I was pregnant just a few days ago and then simultaneously feeling like that pregnancy was only a dream.

I am doing a little better now. Thursday evening was heartbreaking, Friday was sad, and yesterday I began to slowly climb out of that sink hole.

I keep thinking about the time I spilled breastmilk. As non-gestational mother, I had worked very hard to induce lactation. I set myself up to a breast pump and attempted to stimulate my mammary glands for thirty minutes every three hours, including in the middle of the night. I did this for months before Pidge was born, and for nearly a year afterward. It was exhausting. My nipples blistered and my body ached. Every last drop I produced was hard-earned and precious. One evening, as I was transferring my milk into a freezer bag, I let go of the bottle. Milk spilled everywhere. It was an accident, but I was devastated. My frantic hands attempted to scoop up the spilled milk, but the contaminated contents slipped through my fingers. I cried and cried. No matter how much my wife attempted to convince me that all would be okay, it didn’t feel okay. I was crushed.

Turned out, she was right. It was okay. During the entire year that I pumped for my daughter, we never once needed that expressed milk. Our supplies were ample and Pidge was always able to nurse directly from our breasts, something she is still doing today, albeit less frequently. We ended up donating over 6,000 ounces of breastmilk to mothers in need in our community.

I’m thinking about this because I’m thinking about passing this pregnancy, about the spilled blood and about my desperate desire to scoop it back in. Like the milk, it is too late. It is happening, it happened. It is not my fault, and I cannot fix it. But it will be okay. And just as I shared my milk with so many, I now share an experience so many women have endured.

The day before I found out I was pregnant, my wife and I took our daughter to the lake. We had a wonderful day, enjoying the sunshine and the water, the snacks and the sand. I spent hours at the water’s edge with Pidge, digging, scooping, pouring, and building castles. We filled her little purple bucket, packed it down, then turned it over. Pidge squealed with delight. Then the castle came down. Sometimes Pidge stomped on it, sometimes a boat-induced wake washed out its foundation, and sometimes the sand just crumbled. We always built another, and when we did, the delight returned.

My womb is emptying so that it can prepare to be filled again.

The sadness I am feeling is still there. However, unlike the ever-present darkness that enveloped me over the past few days, this sadness comes and goes like waves. And the tide is receding.

I am working with my doctors and midwives to understand this miscarriage. I have requested testing for Rh sensitivity, and the next time I get pregnant, we will monitor my hCG levels closely. If there is anything to be learned, I hope to learn it, even if it just means adjusting my expectations regarding future pregnancies. If nothing can be learned, that is okay, too. Sometimes miscarriages just happen. Sometimes sand castles just crumble. But with effort and hope and support from those who love me, I can build another and our family can delight once again.