I remember constantly rubbing my hands on my belly, envisioning that my belly was going to get bigger as the pregnancy went on. Sometimes it was subconscious, where I wouldn’t notice I was doing it until I’d already been doing it for a while. That motion became associated with reassurance, with calm. Whenever I felt worried about anything, pregnancy related or not, a gentle rub on my belly seemed to put everything in perspective.

I caught myself doing it a few days ago, and when I realized I was doing it, I burst into tears. My belly isn’t bigger, it’s smaller. I never got to rub my hands over my huge pregnant belly. Where it held life and hope just weeks ago, it’s now empty. An apt, physical representation of my emotional state, hey? No amount of soothing, ritualized rubbing of my hands over my belly changes the fact that instead of a way to feel close to my baby, the motion is now just a gassy lady rubbing her midsection.

The reminder that there is nothing in my belly right now can hit pretty hard. Sometimes a deep breath gets me through it, but other times it’s tears. I suspect this is normal and it will ease over time. But boy, it sucks.

Since I noticed myself doing this, I’ve tried to change what goes through my mind when I do. Instead of focusing just on the emptiness, I try to tell myself that I at least got to enjoy being pregnant for a little while, that my belly did hold someone precious and wanted and already loved. That my belly will again hold someone precious and wanted and loved when we are ready, but that doesn’t mean that this baby would ever be forgotten.

I try to remind myself that my belly may be empty but my heart is not. The grief I feel? That’s not emptiness, that’s love. I remember telling Blake earlier this year, well before the pregnancy, that I was happy and content, which is actually how I decided I was ready to try for a baby.

One day when I was 6 weeks pregnant, I was sitting on the couch next to Blake, reading one of my pregnancy books. I remember stopping and saying something along the lines of “No matter what happens next, I just want to make sure we remember how happy I am in this moment right now. I have you and Bodhi, we’re married, we have fulfilling careers, and we made it through some tough financial times together and it made us stronger as a couple. Now we are expecting a kid and right this minute, my life is pretty fucking perfect.”

I remember saying those things because we were still in that first trimester “danger zone” where the risks of miscarriage were higher. I was preparing myself mentally for possibly losing the baby during those early stages, and it helped to remember that even if we did lose the baby then, that I was happy to just enjoy the excitement of expecting. I’m aware, always, that things can change on a dime - my parents taught me to never take anything for granted. So right then, as I said what I said in that snapshot of my life, I was genuinely happy. Plenty of people don’t get those moments, and it felt important to me to take a beat and pay attention when I noticed it. As they say, every minute you spend waiting on the next thing is a minute spent missing the here and now.

Thanks, past Viv, for doing that and for taking care of me now. That mindful moment has turned out to be a bit of a talisman when I find myself in dark places these days. It reminds me that I was a full and whole person before I fell pregnant, and that I am still a full and whole person today. The love I had for this baby isn’t gone, it’s just playing out as grief right now. I am neither broken nor empty.

I was raised to be grateful and appreciative of what I have, rather than measure my value based on what I don’t. Even with this loss comes the knowledge that I will be okay. I am many things other than a woman who has lost her baby. This tragedy may become a part of me, but it doesn’t come close to being the thing that defines me.

For fuck’s sake, I can’t even respond to the question “where are you from?” with a single answer.

No one thing defines me.