I sat in my living room, surrounded by my family. My husband, Ben, sat next to me, holding my hand tightly, while our two-year-old son, Gabi, played with his toys on the rug. And in my arms, I held our baby girl, Rafi, short for Raphaelle, meaning "Healing." It had been a little while since we lost our second child, and while the pain of that loss would always stay with me, I had learned to find joy in the moments we had together. Rafi was a reminder of that joy, of the love that Ben and I had created.

After we lost our second child, we were devastated. Gabi had been our first child, and we had been overjoyed when he was born. But the loss of our second child hit us hard. We had been so hopeful during the pregnancy, and the news that we had lost the baby was a shock. It was a difficult time for our family. We were grieving, and we were struggling to find a way forward. But through it all, Ben was my rock. He held me when I cried, he listened when I needed to talk, and he never once lost hope that we would have another child. Some people told me it was still "early," as if that meant it didn't matter as much. But to me, it didn't matter when the loss happened. I had already begun to imagine my life as a mother, and the loss of that future was heartbreaking.

In the midst of my grief, I leaned into the support of my closest friends and family. I started to open up to them about what had happened, and found comfort in their understanding and love. My husband was a rock throughout the entire experience, supporting me every step of the way. I also found comfort in my faith in God. I prayed for healing and peace, and felt a sense of comfort knowing that my child was with Him in heaven. I tried to focus on the moments of joy in my life - my loving husband, my first-born child, and the knowledge that someday, we would try again for another child.

It felt like the world had stopped turning. I struggled with feelings of guilt and wondered if I could have done something differently to prevent the loss. The thought of trying again was terrifying. What if we lost another child? Could I handle going through that pain again? It took me some time to come to terms with the loss and to find the strength to try again.It was a long road, but we finally mustered the courage to try again. Every milestone of the pregnancy felt like a triumph, from the first ultrasound to feeling the baby move for the first time. But the fear of losing another child never left us.

When I found out I was pregnant with Rafi, we were both overjoyed. But we were also scared. The fear of losing another child was always at the back of our minds. Throughout the pregnancy, we leaned on each other for support. We went to every appointment together, holding hands as we listened to our baby's heartbeat. We prayed every day for a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby. Every moment of the pregnancy after the loss of our second child was filled with anxiety and fear. We were overjoyed to be pregnant again, but every milestone felt like a fragile victory. The first ultrasound was nerve-wracking, and we held our breath as we waited for the doctor to confirm that the baby was healthy. Feeling the baby move for the first time was both exhilarating and terrifying. It was a reminder that this was a real, living being inside of me, but it also brought up memories of the loss of our second child. As the pregnancy progressed, we tried to stay positive and focus on the joy of having another child. But the fear of losing another child never truly went away. We worried about every little thing, and every ache or pain felt like a sign that something was wrong. It was a constant battle to stay positive and hopeful, but we persevered. And when Rafi was born, she was perfect. She had a head full of dark hair and the sweetest little cry. As I held her in my arms, I couldn't believe that she was really here, that she was ours.

Every rainbow is a gift. Watching Gabi play with his toys, listening to Ben talk about his day at work, holding Rafi in my arms - these were the moments that I cherished, the moments that made life worth living. And while the pain of our loss would always be a part of me, I knew that there was healing in the love we had created, in the family that we had built together…

I have grown to despise the term "miscarriage". It feels clinical and impersonal, like my loss is being reduced to a medical term. The truth is, my experience was anything but clinical. It was an emotional rollercoaster of hope and despair, a deep sense of loss that still lingers. The word "miscarriage" fails to capture the depth of what I went through and what so many others continue to go through.

To me, the term "miscarriage" feels like a way to downplay the significance of the loss. It's a way to avoid the uncomfortable emotions that come with discussing pregnancy loss. But for those of us who have experienced it, the pain and sadness are very real. It can imply that something was wrong with me or that I did something to cause the loss. It assigns blame where there should be none. The truth is, most pregnancy losses are caused by chromosomal abnormalities or other medical factors that are beyond our control. It's not something that can be prevented or fixed. Using a term like "miscarriage" can make the person who experienced the loss feel like they did something wrong or that they're to blame. That's why it's important to use more compassionate language when discussing pregnancy loss, to avoid any unnecessary guilt or shame.

I still think about him…I wonder what he would have looked like, what his laugh would have sounded like, and what kind of person he would have become. I imagine him running through the house with his siblings, playing in the park, and experiencing all the joys and sorrows that life has to offer. I love my baby deeply, even though he is no longer with me. He was a part of me, a tiny life that I nourished and protected for a brief moment in time. His loss has left an indelible mark on my heart, and I know that I will carry that love with me forever.

Sometimes, it feels like I'm the only one who remembers my baby and the world keeps turning. But for me, the loss of my child is a constant presence in my life. I've learned to live with it, to carry it with me as a reminder of the love that was lost.

In my heart, my baby will always be a part of me. I cherish the memories that we had just existing - together, no matter how brief. And even though I miss him terribly, I know that he is at peace, and that one day we will be reunited in a place where there is no more pain or sadness. Until then, I will carry him with me, loving him always.