One year ago today, I was sitting on my bathroom floor, crying. I missed Nelle so badly and was in so much emotional pain. I was 14 weeks, 1 day pregnant with Iris, with no idea that I had only two weeks left.

Today, I sat in my bathroom again. 11 weeks, 3 days pregnant this time. I let the water of my bathtub swirl around me, hoping that it would alleviate my headache. Impossible to ignore my increasing pregnancy shape. But I didn’t cry. At times it feels like this surreal, out-of-body experience, where I am going through the motions, reliving a past experience where I already know how it ends. Counting down the days until the next appointment, where I feel sure that I’ll be told there is no heartbeat.

I used to be a runner. In 2014, I ran in a dozen 5k races. Pregnant in early 2015, I gave up on regular running, but still participated in a 5k one warm summer morning in July – the only race I’ve ever done while pregnant. After losing Nelle, I walked. Long, solitary walks where I would just cry. I stopped walking after becoming pregnant again. After losing Iris, my soul was too heavy to even walk. I found hot yoga, and that became my outlet. Now, pregnant again, unable to do hot yoga, I have nothing.

I had a dream last night where I was running. I had the lean, toned body of a runner, in my favorite running pants and zip-up. A friend was running beside me and we were talking about my losses. Then, in my dream, she announced “Oh yeah, by the way, I’m pregnant.” Like it was nothing. I started crying and screaming, saying “Why did you say that to me? Why would you say that to me?” The dream shook me so much that I woke up. I thought of the running. Running alongside someone, as their lives keep moving, while mine is standing still, even when the context of the dream was only a dream.

Now, after thinking through all of this, I’m crying.