I’m fucking exhausted, but the most exhausting thing by far? The grief that comes with each failed cycle, month after month, and the way I feel every ounce of hope leave my body. Just for me to manage to find a shred of it again the next month, to latch onto the idea of a miracle, battle against that giddy feeling vibrating through my body with each pregnancy test, like this really might be the time I get that extra pink line. Only to have all that hope torn from my grasp all over again.
