Lee and I like to say that we fell in love in the Colorado mountains. Our first road trip together was to Colorado Springs where I had a business meeting with a freelance client. We drove from the Springs through the mountains, looping through Denver and then all the way back to Dallas (where we were both raised). There is nothing better than the feeling of Colorado highway driving, watching the mountains rise and fall along the horizon.

I’m pretty sure it’s generally understood that a good majority of Texans want to move to Colorado at some point in their lives. And Lee was no exception. Up until our first road trip, he had only ever seen Denver when he was in town with his touring crew. So, he had seen the mountains from afar, but never up close.

Luckily for him, I had lived in the Springs from 2012 – 2014, and I knew a handful of places to show him. It’s pretty much impossible not to fall in love with Colorado, in some measure. Even if you aren’t a fan of cold weather, Colorado has a season for you. It’s just magical like that.

Leading up to the day we said goodbye to our little girl, I had everything organized *just so.*

You see, I’ve had this façade for a long time and I wanted to be seen as a person who could get married, move across country, create an at-home career for herself and be a mom—all without a hiccup or hitch. What I didn’t know then is that you don’t just “bounce back” after losing a child.

The weeks after losing our baby filled me a surprising emotion. I was angry, pissed off, rageful even. I was angry I had wasted so much time pretending that I liked my job. I was furious I had been giving away my voice as a ghostwriter for close to a decade. Instead of being a “bounce back” kind of person, I sank deeper and deeper. And I hated everyone and everything for a while. What could compare to my darling girl? What could be as good as bringing her home and watching her grow?

Healing took more from me than I could’ve imagined. And I did what a lot of women do—I opened my heart again; we got pregnant again; and then nine months later, on Dec. 24, 2019, we said goodbye to another little girl.

By this point, I knew there was no going back.

Hazel June was born on March 11, 2019.

I know Hazel because her mother and I met through my cousin. We met through a text message thread when we were both frustrated single ladies with big dreams and tender hearts. We bonded through the written word. We both knew when we’d met our (now) husbands and swooned via text message for hours about the feeling of falling in real, true love with your person. She and I are heart-deep even though we’ve always lived a few thousand miles apart.

There’s a soft gray sweatshirt I wear at least once a week with the words “Stay Tender” printed across. Katie and her husband Jon created and sold these as part of a fundraiser for IVF. Not long after their friends and family came through for them in a big (several thousand dollars) way, the stars aligned and the angels cheered because soon they would be stepping into a path they hadn’t foreseen: they would be chosen to adopt a beautiful baby girl in Wisconsin. This baby’s biological parents were taking the utterly courageous step to place this little girl for adoption. And Katie, Jon and all of us, we knew this was our girl.

After spending months looking for a way to memorialize the daughter we lost in March last year, I finally found a small gold bracelet linked together by six aquamarine stones. It arrived this week, along with another item: a small gray and white blanket with rabbits printed on it.

I was eager to show the bracelet to my husband, but the blanket made me pause.

I was ashamed to admit that I needed something to hold closely when I’m missing both my girls: the one we lost in March and the other we lost in December. When I miss them, my chest tightens and sometimes I cry with a groaning sound that—I’m embarrassed to admit—sounds like a whale coming up from my stomach.

These days things aren’t quite so consistently difficult, but they were for so very long.

For most people, the end of March is somewhat inconsequential. We’ve celebrated New Year’s, MLK Day and Valentine’s, and our seasons are transitioning. In Colorado we’re ready for it to stop snowing, while my friends in Texas are holding their breath, hoping that summer will wait longer than usual to show up.

March 28, however, is a mile marker for me. In 2019, it was the day I woke up in a hospital bed next to my husband. The nurse on the night shift had tucked us into a birthing suite with a queen-sized bed and a bathroom with an oversized tub. We were grateful to be together during such a difficult time. We ordered Lee breakfast while I stuck with a typical pre-surgery fast: no liquids, no food; just medications.

That afternoon, we said goodbye to our first child, a baby girl we lovingly called Bunny. It was a long, complicated pregnancy, but one that took a painful turn unexpectedly two days before. Not only had I struggled with a placental abruption since week 9, but now our baby Bunny had stopped growing around week 20 and had lost all amniotic fluid. To top it all off, I was admitted for “immediate” surgery because I was showing signs of an infection (tests later confirmed one in the placenta).