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When I was 2 years old, my twin sisters were born, rocking my young self out of only-child status, with all the attention and parental focus that comes with it. It was then that I first remember starting to question whether I was “enough.”

In early 2015 I was expecting my first child. We didn’t know yet whether we were having a boy or a girl. It had been a textbook pregnancy, medically speaking, and I was 37 weeks along. I thought all we had to do was put up my swollen feet and wait to go into labor.

“I’m sorry, we cannot find a heartbeat.”

This bomb drop in my lap started a series of events that will define me for the rest of my life. I went to the hospital to be induced and delivered my first daughter, Maeve Evalyn, stillborn.

I had no idea what to do with my life after that. I didn’t know how to survive this crazy thing that we didn’t even know could or would happen to us (“Did this happen to anyone??” Turns out, it did).

I remember thinking, even in the hospital, “This is going to be the thing that makes me or breaks me… and I’m going to choose to let it make me, whatever that looks like.”

So that’s what I did.

I realized that this was the worst possible thing that could happen to me. I personally couldn’t--and still can’t--imagine worse.

Knowing in my heart that nothing worse could happen finally got me over my fear of not being enough, my fear of failure, my fear of leaving my safe, comfortable job.

It took that level of tragedy to break me out of everything comfortable, demolishing my life to rubble. I needed to redefine every relationship in my life because now I was the girl whose baby had died--and plenty of people were way uncomfortable with that and still are.

It was my opportunity to redefine myself and realize that if I could survive this, I could survive anything.

So somehow I must be enough.

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