In the months that followed, we reckoned with what it would mean to undertake pregnancy again and potentially go through 10 months of anxiety. The stress was still palpable when we decided to try. Despite being well-versed in how horribly wrong things could go, we were hopeful that our traumatic experience was an anomaly that wasn’t likely to happen again.

When the lines appeared in the pregnancy test, it had been four months since our loss. The good news left me feeling vulnerable and apprehensive; it all seemed so fragile and surreal. I wondered if this positive pregnancy test might brighten our marital landscape, which was still recovering from disappointment.

My subsequent pregnancy was physically smooth but emotionally tumultuous. Until my daughter was nestled in my arms, I was preoccupied by fear. I searched my underwear for blood on a daily basis and was convinced I wouldn’t have the opportunity to feel my daughter’s beating heart against mine as she suckled my breasts.

My husband tried his best to support me through this pregnancy — he checked in on me constantly, told me how beautiful my growing belly looked, reassured me that things were going well — but my anxiety made it difficult to feel deeply connected to myself, let alone with him. Our closeness waxed and waned, but our grief was a constant. Haggard but hopeful, we somehow made it through. Together.

As my contractions quickened in labour, my worries about this pregnancy not coming to fruition finally dissolved. I felt a sense of return — to myself, to my marriage — as my husband supported me through the birth of our daughter. His nerves transformed as I pushed our baby into the world and he caught her. As he brought her to my chest, we marvelled at what we had gone through to get here.

Now, I watch as our daughter’s blonde ringlets rest on her 2-year-old back as she scribbles with a neon crayon. Mundane moments like these seem extraordinary, having been turned upside down and inside out by my miscarriage. She awes me.

And this actually applies to the feelings I have for my husband as well. I marvel at his steadfastness, his simple care for our children, his devotion to us. After all we endured, I don’t take love for granted. Though our grief flung us apart, it ultimately glued us back together — it was the only way forward.

Our daughter’s birth and the miracle of making it through that terrible time pushed us to be even more compassionate toward one another. We realised just how much a marriage can endure, how strong a union can be — and how much it can teach us about ourselves and one another.