I see you. 

I see you buying the 50-pack of ovulation sticks from Amazon, because your cycle is never regular. I see you using those sticks every day, just waiting. Waiting for the rollercoaster to begin. 

I see you. Googling every symptom during the two-week wait. Every month you tell yourself you won’t, but again, you break down. Out of desperation, you start thinking of your symptoms. You’re obsessing over the possibility of “maybe”.

I see you. Loving an imaginary baby, month after month. You calculate the due date, you imagine the gender. You take good care of yourself and cut out everything bad . . . just in case. 

I see you. Taking too many pregnancy tests in hopes of two lines. Month after month. After month. After month. To see stark white. Nothing but white, where there should be pink. 

I see you. I see you angry at yourself, for letting yourself experience hope again, for being crushed again. For not protecting yourself. For spending days not being able to pick yourself up, because your body failed again. Because you loved something made up in your imagination. 

I see you. Mustering strength. Pulling yourself back up. Sharing in genuine happiness for all of your pregnant friends, their ultrasounds, their announcements, their baby showers. 

I see you. But I also see when you cry, when you have to break down, when the jealousy stings your heart, and you hate yourself for it. 

I see you. I see you in the days where you just don’t want to start over again. You are so tired of the rollercoaster. Month after month. Sometimes years. The constant rollercoaster. 

I see you. I see you not wanting to talk about the pain of it, because now it feels like it’s become an old record to everyone. I see you realizing you just have to pick yourself back up. 

I see you. I see you knowing your husband is right there by your side, and he’s been nothing but loving and strong. But sometimes you still feel so alone. 

I see you. I see you being gentle to yourself. I see you letting go, and somehow getting yourself and your strength back. Strength to do it all over again. Another month. Another rollercoaster of high and lows, of hope and grief. 

I see your strength. You’re the strongest of the strong. The fiercest of the fierce. The most resilient. 

I see you not giving up trying, not hopping off the rollercoaster, but instead staying on it because your heart aches for that baby. 

I see you. You are not alone. We’re all right here, on the rollercoaster ride, holding onto hope. Silent tear after silent tear.

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