This is A LOT for X. I know. But if sharing my story makes even one grieving mother feel less alone today, it’s worth it… October 15 is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day. And today marks exactly five weeks since we lost our baby girl. 💔 They tell you not to talk about losing a baby. Don’t overshare. Don’t get too personal. Don’t make people uncomfortable. Don’t give anyone the power to hurt you. But I have chosen not to live with this secret. Fear has never stopped me before. I want the world to know that she existed, that she was loved, and that her short life mattered. These have been the hardest five weeks of my life. On September 10, we lost our baby girl, and I was rushed into emergency surgery to save my own life. We were so excited. We had family pictures scheduled and were preparing to announce that we were expecting baby #4. One moment, I was happily pregnant. Planning, preparing, dreaming of our future, telling my mom we were naming the baby after her… Suddenly, she was gone. My life was spared, but my daughter's was not. And I was left physically, emotionally, and spiritually broken. To anyone who has experienced this loss, I am so sorry. The grief is unbearable. Moms are so often expected to keep this secret—as if sharing makes us a burden or makes us fragile. We're expected to just carry on, holding immense love for a baby the world will never know. That's exactly what I've been trying to do. Most days, I probably appear fine. I smile. I laugh. I work. I carry on. But the truth is, I cry every single day. My heart physically aches. A piece of it was ripped away, and nothing anyone says or does can fix it. First, I was surviving minute by minute. Then hour by hour. Now day by day. I'm learning that grief isn't something you get over. It's something you learn to carry while the world keeps spinning. Going through this while leading the most intense stretch of a years-long political campaign has been... a lot. The death threats. The hit pieces. The lawsuits. The relentless ugliness. But these things that once might have hurt me now pale in comparison to losing my daughter. It's all just noise. Grief has a way of putting everything into perspective... My love for this baby girl began a year ago with the most vivid dreams of a daughter named Ruth. She had dark hair like her dad. I could feel what it was like to hold her. Then the positive tests and "gender reveal" only affirmed what my heart already knew. She was Ruth. My husband wasn't sold on the name, and neither was I. But I realize now that it was her God-given, heavenly name. At first, I was mad at God. Why bring me down this path? Why give me those dreams? Why take her on the anniversary of Charlie's death? Why almost take my life, too? I understand now that those dreams were a gift. God knew how this story would unfold. He spared my life and blessed me with sweet memories of my daughter before taking her home. And God is still good. Even when I don't understand. Even when my prayers weren't answered the way I desperately wanted. Even when my heart is shattered. His faithfulness hasn't changed. To everyone who has prayed, checked in, or remembered Ruth—thank you. Please don't feel like you have to stop. I don't mind if the prayers and check-ins never end. I lost my daughter. Nothing will ever make that okay. But I've also been given an opportunity to fight for and protect thousands of other children. And I intend to keep going. Not because I'm strong. Not because I'm healed. But because there are children worth fighting for. I'll never be the same. But I'll survive. I'll keep moving forward. This kind of grief doesn't go away. It's something I'll carry for the rest of my life. Ruth’s brief life has only deepened my resolve to fight for children who need someone to stand up for them. Her memory will always be part of my mission. 🌼