This is an adaptation of a message sent to a friend following a miscarriage while being homeless.

I have forgotten what it feels like: home. For months I have felt adrift in uncertainty and listlessly tormented by the universe.

I don’t think I have really figured out what to say. This is not what I wanted. None of this. But I don’t regret it. I don’t regret taking the risks that put me here. I don’t regret trying. I don’t regret following my heart. I don’t regret doing the right thing even when it’s been the hardest thing in the world. I don’t regret trusting or being true to myself. I don’t regret very many things in my life anymore.

And I’m not angry. I know there’s nothing to be angry about. I know that I’m just sad and I am healthy enough to understand that sad can look like anger, but only weakness let’s us believe we are truly angry.

I am strong. I will survive, even in the moments I wish I didn’t have to. Because I don’t believe there’s anything for me when I die and I refuse to waste my life if it’s the only one I get. I refuse to let my whole life be swallowed up by my moments of sadness and fear.

But it still hurts. And I’m still afraid. But what way is there but forward, you know? We can sit at the base of the mountain being afraid of the sky, or we can take the risk and climb even though we know we could come crashing down over and over again. I want to touch the sky. I don’t care what it costs me or how tired I feel.

I know that when I reach the end of my journey here I will lie on my death bed knowing I lived my best life. Knowing that all my broken pieces and all my shattered dreams will have passed on long before me. And I’ll give up my life in peace. But until that moment I keep getting back up. Because that moment, to reach the end of my life having done the best I could, is worth every price I can pay.