I first felt it when I was a junior in high school. In the middle of our routine at half-time, I would glance in the stands, searching for both parents to be there, cheering me on. Only to be disappointed.
Then again, early in our marriage, when we were trying so desperately to communicate with one another. We would leave our conversation both feeling misunderstood.
A few years later, I found myself sitting in a room full of women with happy faces, holding up tiny outfits and talking about their pregnancy stories. I sat with a plaster smile on my face, praying they wouldn’t ask me, holding it together until I made it to the car.