The approximate length of time by which we typically measure a pregnancy.
The first time I measured a season of my life in a 9 month span it had nothing to do with childbearing. It began the day a man knelt on one knee before me and ended when, with one-sided peace and clarity, he declared our relationship’s end. Our 9 month engagement concluded as a stillborn romance.
The following year of my life was a tedious journey of slow recovery, but I began to regain my eyesight for Hope, Healing, and Goodness in the land of the living, despite the broken and jaded condition of my heart.
A year after my engagement's end I unexpectedly met a man who was uniquely prepared to understand my journey. He was patient with my healing and spoke truth against the lies I believed about myself.
That man is now my husband.
He is the love of my life and the closest of friends. He is hard-working, kind-hearted, always at the ready with a "Dad-joke" or cringe-worthy pun, and the first to track down a misfit in a crowd to make sure they know they are of value.
A year and a half into our marriage we volunteered at a week-long camp for kids in the foster care system. We returned home filled with peace and excitement at the notion of starting a family, whether that be via conception or adoption. In a matter of weeks those miraculous two lines, which forever alter your life, appeared on a little plastic test. We rejoiced in our newfound titles:
"Parent, Father, Mother, Daddy, Momma."
However, I'll never forget the day those titles became disembodied, when I began to miscarry, labor, and deliver our 8 ½ week old firstborn on July 27th, 2019.
The pain of loss is no friend. It can cripple, kill, and transform even the most joyful hearted into deadened cynics. The loss of our first child carried every ounce of momentum to knock us off our feet.
Nevertheless, we stood together.
As we grieved, we each found ourselves oddly grateful for our own journeys through previous losses, as they foretold the existence of Hope, Healing, and Goodness in the land of the living on the other side of our grief. We wept as we buried our firstborn, but not without setting our sights on hope.
Years previous, when I selectively began to share just how shattered I was by my near-marriage experience, I was unexpectedly greeted by a silent community of sufferers. People vulnerably shared their own near-marriage stories and tales of painful, one-sided divorces. In a similar way, as my husband and I allowed others into our pain of losing a child, we learned that a silent community of sufferers existed here, too. People close to us opened up about their own miscarriages, stillbirths, abortions, and losses of young children. I spent the next two years haunted by two questions:
- How many people don't experientially know that Hope, Healing, and Goodness in the land of the living still exist on the other side of their worst nightmares?
- Why do so many people wrap their stories up in silence?
The discovered and undiscovered answers to these questions are the foundation beneath MyJuly27.
Our vision is to shine light on life’s darkest days.
That light encourages cultural space for grieving. That light teaches empathy to those who don’t know the pain of loss. That light stands as a beacon of Hope, Healing, and Goodness in the land of the living on the other side of our worst nightmares.
Our mission is to artistically commemorate your story of loss.
One story at a time, we can cumulatively create a culture where the silent community of sufferers is silent no longer.
That's MyJuly27™ story.
Owner of MyJuly27
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