I opened my old journal in preparation for working on my memoir this morning. I read dozens of entries. The person who wrote those words is separate from me. Who is this woman? I don’t like her. When I read her words, I hear her voice in my head, and it sickens me. I hate her life — a slow burn. I hate her memories.

I can see it clearly, how it happened—the deterioration of me over time. Sometimes, I feel strong enough to read through my old journal and use the entries to fuel my memoir. Other times, like today, I read it and feel an ache so deep that I can’t stand being present in my body. Unfortunately, I never know which way it will hit me. Every time I dive in, I assume that risk.

The trauma of pregnancy loss and infertility has penetrated my life so that I can’t see an end to the pain. The perpetual strain of this burden has worn my internal brakes to the point that simple reminders can trigger severe internal distress. Of course, my journal is more than a simple reminder. It is alive, rings on my tree trunk that I would like to carve from my experience.

I live two lives, one here with my wife and daughter. And the other with that woman who is burning. That time is not cataloged in the past, where memories belong. Instead, I am still there with her, trying to put out the flames, but they’re never fully extinguished. Just when I think I can step away and leave the past in the past, an ember sparks a tiny flame that grows until I am right back there, holding her until the flame dies out. It will never die out. Maybe I don’t want to stop burning me.

I try to see the mechanisms for what they are – avoidance, anger, shut down, etc. – designed by my body and mind as ways to protect me from a threat. When it comes to pregnancy loss and infertility, daily life bakes in those threats. You don’t have to look hard or go far to find reminders of what you lost.

In writing this memoir, I shine a light on my darkest corners. I expose my rawness and hope that my honesty will resonate with those who need to feel connected in their grief. It took far too long for me to start healing properly and with self-awareness. I want others to benefit from my experience, to see that the cost of living without mental health support is too great. I paid with years from my life.

So this morning, I choose not to write another chapter for my book. Instead, I write this entry to feel alive with who I am in the present. I opened that journal knowing the risk. Still, I can’t simply table this weight for another time by closing my laptop. The heaviness will follow me, making me feel like gravity has increased its force on my body. I will have to work hard to acknowledge the warm sun on my skin as I walk today. But I can persist because I have the right support for the ebbs and flows. Supports that allow me to open my journal, let it hit me, and accept my reaction as valid. I used to hear the echoes and try to drown them. Now, I hear the echoes and listen to what they are trying to tell me as I heal.