I wasn't sure how to go about doing that on my own, so I chose October 15th - National Remembrance Day - a day on which thousands of women go out of their way to remember these little ones and come forward to share stories to help support one another in the effort to cut down on the taboo of speaking of miscarriage.
It was time to share mine.
Suddenly, the "1 in 4" statistic that seemed to be mostly faceless came into sharp, unyielding focus.
Friends, family, coworkers and even classmates I haven't spoken to in years started filling my inbox, phone and FB page with their stories. I was expecting the gates to open for some, but I was taken aback by the amount of women close to me who have experienced this loss and struggled - silently - for so long!
I felt terrible, then, for waiting so long to break my own silence. Had I said something sooner, I might've been able to reach out to these women who obviously needed support. I had been selfishly oblivious to the plight of others, content to stew in my own personal misery. Not only did I disenfranchise others from supporting me through my grief, but I disenfranchised myself from helping those I love and care about through theirs.
It was a sobering realization, one that I'm sure Myla facilitated for her struggling mother.
Myla is not my secret; she is my daughter. I wanted to stop treating her memory like something I was ashamed of, afraid of, or even burdened by; I am none of those things. I love my daughter and want others to know that she has blessed me in ways unimaginable. Her life was, is and always will be precious to me.
Society may not be willing to bear witness to such love, but that will no longer stand in the way of me proudly sharing her with them anyway. After all, it's no longer just about me or even Myla; it's about opening the door so other women don't have to feel so alone in this.