Easter weekend was incredibly emotional for me–not only is Easter the most sacred of celebrations in the Christian faith, it also holds a special place in my life.

One year ago, Easter was one of the hardest days of my life. It happened to be the first holiday that came after our failed IUI. For those who have endured a failed IUI, you know that it’s impossible to explain the feeling of finding out it didn’t work. I think IUI’s, because they are less well known than IVF or perhaps because they cost less or have a lower success rate, are sometimes discounted. But the day that my period started after my IUI, I thought I would literally die of heartbreak–I’d never been so broken in my life. Our decision to move to IVF truly came about because I didn’t believe I could survive another round of IUI failing. And those who have tried to conceive and failed know how hard any holiday is.

Easter has always been one my favorite holidays. I, naturally, loved a good Easter egg hunt–foraging around our vast backyard that was the scene of so many of my make-believe worlds. And I particularly enjoyed the “resurrection eggs,” where my Dad would walk us through each of a dozen eggs representing the Easter story.

I suppose, maybe most of all, when I was a kid, I loved dying eggs. I was always the last to finish out of my siblings–and my father would sit patiently with me, nodding as I explained my vision for my dozen and a half eggs. I looked at each white, hard-boiled egg as an incredible opportunity for a masterpiece. Unlike my brothers, I didn’t want to waste a single egg dunking and re-dunking them haphazardly into different colors that would result in a puke brown color. I carefully planned and determined what each should look like. 18 eggs later, I would admire each little canvas carefully–noting imperfections, but enjoying the journey none the less.

These memories had so often flooded me when thinking about my own children. Hoping for the day where I would watch them stain their hands more than their eggs, watch them experiment and create–even if they never loved it as much as I did.

So, when Easter came to pass last year, I fell apart. My nieces were big enough now to engage in their own, mini egg hunt and all I could think about was not having little ones of my own to seek out those eggs with–to hold and guide to each neon colored, sugar filled egg. To make memories with. To pass traditions to.

I remember that feeling so well. I fell apart in my husband’s arms, then in my mother’s, then by myself. There is such loneliness in missing someone you’ve never had, never known, yet loved so fiercely. A feeling only a mother without a child could feel.

This year, we had so many unexpected blessings. First, of course, my pregnancy with our two boys. Second, my little brother’s baptism at Easter service.

This Easter was a celebration of life, while the last, a reminder of death.

I shed a fair few tears, but they were all tears of joy–tears from being grateful and hopeful and full. I thought back to all of the moments I stopped believing I’d have this–this bump and these little kicks and punches. As we sang out in worship, I choked on the words. I placed my hands on my stomach and was greeted with a little jab from both of my boys.

Don’t give up, dear ones–the heartbreak of holidays will come to a close–your family is on its way, I promise.